Blue

The dress was blue.

That was the only thing about it Hawke could say for certain. The shade was somewhere between pastel and bright, that tentative in-between quality where the colour shifted with the light. It was frillier than she would ever have chosen herself, with beaded decorations along a lacey neckline that would certainly catch and reflect the light beautifully.

It would have looked beautiful on Bethany, if only Bethany had been allowed to attend.

But when Hawke looked at her reflection, it looked… Wrong. Not bad, exactly, just not her. She wasn't sure how, but the dress transformed her. It rounded out the edges, smoothing sharp lines into something that had never been soft before. Her mother had always said she looked approachable in blue, that it lifted her countenance.

If Hawke stared in the mirror long enough, she thought she could almost see it. But it didn't feel real.

It wasn't her. But tonight wasn't about her.

This was for her mother, because she had always wanted to see her in this dress.

This was for Saemus, who had always worn his shade.

Hawke pulled on the bodice, making it slightly more comfortable. Perhaps she could pretend the stiffness of the fabric was like armour.

As she exited her bedroom, the low murmur of voices from the foyer fell silent. The heels of her shoes clicked against the stairs as two pairs of eyes looked up.

Varric shot Isabela a look.

Isabela shot one back.

At the exact same time, they opened their mouth to speak.

"Wow!" Isabela exclaimed too quickly. "That's a… look." She cleared her throat. "Not bad! Just… new. Very new."

"So… blue," Varric added helpfully.

Hawke reached the bottom step and crossed her arms. "You both think I look ridiculous, don't you?"

They exchanged another glance.

"No!" Isabella said, a little too forcefully. "Absolutely not! I think you look adorable."

Hawke blinked, unimpressed. "I don't think anyone has used that word to describe me in the last fifteen years."

"But you do," Isabela insisted, nudging Varric. "Adorable. Right, Varric?"

He looked alarmed at being addressed. "Oh, yes. Your mother would have loved it, you know."

Something twisted inside Hawke's chest.

But as she looked at her friends, and exhaled slowly, the knot undid itself again before it fully tightened. She managed a soft smile.

"I appreciate what you're trying to do," she said in a lighter tone. "But I've seen my reflection. I know how I look."

Before either of them could argue, or worse, say anything consoling, Hawke hooked her arms through theirs and turned towards the door. "Lucky for me, you two look stunning enough for the three of us."

They did. At first glance, Isabela's gown was almost modest. Until she moved, that was, and slits at the side of her skirts revealed her legs to her thighs. Varric was simply wearing his newest shirt, golden details glimmering, the top buttons still undone.

For once, both of them were officially invited.

Out of respect for the Viscount's mourning, this ball was moved to a different location. Some nobleman had offered their estate, likely an excuse for showing off as much as they claimed it was out of respect for the Viscount.

And since Hawke and her friends had helped them before, their names were added to the guest list. Fenris and Anders wouldn't approach an event like this unless they were forced, but Varric and Isabela happily agreed.

And so, here they were.

The colours of dusk still lingered in the overcast sky as they approached the front door.

Hawke felt something, a certain shift in the air, eyes in her direction and lingering gazes as she passed. Something sharp twisted in her chest. She wasn't sure what it was. Did they know about her mother? Was it sympathy? Or fascination, knowing what she'd done with the Qunari? Or did she just look so damn different?

She exhaled and shook the feeling away. At least the straps around her thigh and the weight of her toolkit were familiar. The one normal thing to feel real in this haze of unfamiliarity.

Isabela flashed a wide smile and a wink to the two servants at the door. Varric gave them both a casual nod.

"Let's see what the fuss is about," he said.

The atmosphere here was different than at the Keep. Less cold, more indulgent. Their host clearly wanted to flaunt their wealth. Magical illumination bathed in the ceiling in a soft golden glow. Dwarven craft, Varric whispered to them. Numerous vases carried fresh flowers, roses and lilies, but Hawke tried not to think of that. The drinks table was stocked with a large array of drinks. Finally, no more punch.

As they walked through the halls, Hawke found herself searching for Saemus. Not consciously or intentionally, but out of habit. Black hair, pale skin, blue eyes, wearing that specific shade of blue.

The crowd shifted, and for a split second, she saw him –

Only to realise it was just her own reflection in a gilded mirror.

A hollow feeling settled in her chest. Of course he wasn't here. She knew that.

She swallowed and turned away, back to the comfort of her friends. Varric and Isabela had already helped themselves to drinks just as Aveline approached, wearing a simple but pretty enough dress. Despite it, she looked unmistakably herself.

Isabela grinned. "Well, well. I never thought I'd see the day. Guard Captain, you have a waist under all that armour."

Aveline sighed. "I am still armed, Rivaini. Want to keep talking?"

"We're all armed," Isabela replied in a sultry voice after leaning in close.

Hawke laughed and accepted the glass Varric handed her. Red wine, but she only noticed it after her second sip. The night blurred around her. Banter, laughter, polite condolences from her mother's friends and acquaintances. She played along, smiling when she ought to and looking sincere when needed. Her friends helped, joking and lifting some pressure off her shoulders.

But it didn't change what this night should have been.

Eventually, the walls started closing in. The heat of bodies, suffocating perfumes, clicking of heels, and heavy stares… Too much.

"I need a moment," she muttered to Isabela.

"Want me to come?" Isabela offered.

Hawke shook her head, conjuring a tired but convincing smile. "I'll be fine. Promise."

Varric lifted an eyebrow, but didn't argue. Neither did Aveline. She appreciated them for it. Without another word, Hawke slipped away.

The house was large enough that it wasn't hard to find an empty room.

She pushed the first door open in an empty hallway and stepped into an abandoned atelier. The air was cooler here, free of perfume and candle smoke. Canvases leaned against the walls, their surfaces collecting dust. An easel stood at the centre of the room, displaying a half-finished painting of a woman. Supplies scattered around it, brushes and boxes and pots.

Hawke exhaled.

No music. No murmured condolences. No expectations.

She pressed her fingers against her temples, and just… breathed.

She didn't want to think about Saemus.

She didn't want to think about her mother.

She didn't want to think how out of place she felt.

For a few minutes, she just wanted to exist.

And breathe.

The sudden sound of footsteps made her perch up. The sound of the door handle. She turned just as a shadow filled the doorway.

"Ah," came a voice. "I didn't realise this room was occupied."

Hawke knew that voice. Recognised the silhouette.

But he didn't realise it was her.

He exhaled, already halfway through turning away. "Apologies. I was–"

"Seneschal," she said.

Recognition flashed over his face, and he doubled back. "Hawke."

She took a step closer. "Disappointed?"

"Surprised." He hesitated, glancing towards the door as if he considered leaving. But instead, he took a step inside.

Hawke forced a grin. "I had enough of the crowd. The atmosphere here is much better, don't you think? Brooding. Private. Full of artistic despair."

He glanced around the room, but attention landed on her. He studied her, eyes lowering to take in her dress. His eyebrows shot up, a seemingly involuntary reaction.

"What, you don't like my dress?" Hawke asked. "I'm finally wearing something appropriate, and it still isn't good."

His eyes snapped back to hers. "You look different. I hadn't recognised you."

"The consensus seems to be adorable."

Maker, why did she say that?

He just stared at her, his expression fully neutral. "Not the word I would have chosen."

Hawke rolled her eyes. "I'd be very cross if you had."

Uncomfortable, she turned around to look out of the window. The last signs of dusk were chased out of the skies by thick, gathering clouds. A storm was brewing.

"My mother always wanted me to wear this," she admitted, quieter now.

She could already anticipate a reply, just because she had heard it so often tonight. And she didn't want the be reminded of the ghosts that loomed over this evening. It's why she wanted solitude. So no one would –

"Please don't ask if I'm okay," she said as she turned around, stepping back until the cold windowpane pressed against her back.

Bran lifted his brows slightly. "I wasn't going to," he said. His voice wasn't dry or condescending, but steady. Almost dignified.

It should have helped. And yet it didn't.

She swallowed. "And don't use that tone either. You know. That tone everybody uses when someone dies. Like they're walking on glass. As if I'd shatter if you spoke too loudly. I'm so damn sick of it." She took a step forward. "I just want you to act normal, Bran. I don't know, berate me, tell me I look ridiculous, that I'm a walking disaster, that I'm a pain, that I–"

The words tangled, catching in her throat.

Her breath was heavy, her chest too tight. It felt as if she'd been crying or running, but neither was true. And yet it was hard to breathe, and the air here was too heavy, too dusty, too suffocating.

And all the time Bran just stood there. Straight-backed, unmoving, watching her.

That should have been all. It was what he did. Watch her with that cool, unreadable expression, like he only tolerated her but little else. But now…

Now his gaze had layers. Something soft. Patient, maybe.

She felt it against her skin. Warm and solid and waiting. And it made her chest tighten for an entirely different reason. Something in her stomach lurched. It wasn't like the grief that was so familiar by now. That was a dull, common ache. This was else, more present and immediate. But it wasn't enjoyable.

Nor was it welcome.

"Do you want me to leave?" Bran asked.

He said it evenly, without judgment. A simple question.

"No," she said, too sudden and too loud. "I just want things to be normal. But they haven't been normal for so long, I don't even know what that means anymore. I just want... Don't want..."

She faltered.

Her pulse was loud in her ears.

And all the while he just stood there, with that layered expression. Strangely considerate, and consistent, and there.

"I don't want you to leave," she admitted, uncertain if it was to herself or to him. "I want you to stay. I want you to–"

She couldn't stop it. Her breath caught. A tremble in her shoulder. A burning tightness in her throat. A small, pitiable sound.

Something shifted.

She wasn't sure if she moved first, or if he did. Perhaps both.

But all she knew was that he was there, suddenly. Close enough that she felt his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest. Her arms around him as if she needed him, as if he was the only thing keeping her from spiralling further.

She didn't know how long they stood like that.

Eventually, she felt him shift, and a tentative hand found its way to her back. A second later, the other one. They just rested there, not pulling her in or pushing her away. Just letting her stay.

Bran was grounding. Solid. Safe in a way she didn't know what to do with.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

He smelled nice.

She knew that already.

All Bran had wanted was a moment of quietude.

If the ball had been held at the Keep, he could have retreated to his office. But tonight, he had no such luxury. His presence was expected, as good as mandatory. The Viscount rarely attended these functions, and Bran was the public face of the Office in his stead.

He could pretend like none of the latest events had affected him. But that would be a lie.

He'd known Saemus. He'd seen the boy grow up. And to have his life taken before he could truly settle into himself as an adult… Of course, Bran felt something.

And to see the Viscount mourning… He would not call him friend. That would be inaccurate. But they worked closely together for sixteen years. He respected the man. And now he had to watch him endure a grief greater than any parent should bear.

But the Viscount wasn't just a parent. He was a ruler.

And Kirkwall was falling into chaos. It had for years, of course, but in these last few months, the tension was rising to the tipping point. The Qunari grew bolder just as the nobles grew restless. Balance was shifting.

The Viscount could no longer take it.

Bran had tried. In his way, he had done everything he could. But in the end, he was just Seneschal. He had no true authority. And words meant little to a crowd on the verge of riot.

It wasn't there yet. But he saw it coming. And he had no power to stop it. Heard it on the dance floor, near the refreshments. A murmur of dissatisfaction. Complaints about everything, from the Viscount to the Guard to the Qunari.

Bran was sick of it. And so, he had needed a moment. Catch a breath and clear his head. Collect himself before returning with the only thing he could offer. A steady, calm presence.

But when he found a room, she was already there. Of course she was.

Hawke.

He was prepared for many things when she was involved. Insolence, baiting, arguments.

He had not prepared himself for this.

But he should have known. A month might have passed, but grief didn't follow a schedule. This was the first public event since Leandra's death. He'd known Hawke's mother had always pushed her to attend these events. He'd known she always spoke with Saemus. Of course, their absence was heavy on her tonight.

But knowing was one thing.

Feeling her shake against him was another. Her muffled sobs echoed like a splintering ache in his own chest. It was unfamiliar terrain. He wasn't even certain if he understood himself.

He wasn't good at this. Providing comfort. And yet his hands found their way towards her back and settled there. It was something.

She was warm. Warmer than he remembered. The uneven rise and fall of her chest against him. She clung to him like he was all that stopped her from breaking down.

Maker help him, but he should have pulled away. Said something. Offered advice, perhaps.

She pulled away first.

"Fuck," she managed as she wiped her eyes. "I should go."

Bran inclined his head to her. "Alright." It seemed like the most sensible thing to say.

She turned towards the door, took a step, and paused. Hesitating, she turned back to him.

"You didn't push me away," she stated.

He just looked at her. Her eyes were still misted, but her expression was strangely unreadable. "You seemed to need it."

"Yes," she agreed.

An unexpected glimmer in her eyes was all the signs he got of what she was thinking. She shifted, but not towards the door. Her skirts rustled around her legs in rhythm to her quick, hurried steps.

She was too fast. And before he saw it coming, she was back in his arms.

For a heartbeat, instinct won.

But this time, she wasn't here to weep. This time, she pressed her entire body against him. Perhaps he should have braced against it, but the surprise made him accept her. Her arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, a hand threading into his hair, pulling him close.

He saw a flash of her bright blue eyes before she shut hers. Or perhaps he had shut his eyes.

Lips crashed against his.

His grip tightened on her back before he realised his hands were there.

Her mouth was all heat and desperation and urgency, and before he could stop himself, he leaned into it.

Maker help him, he kissed her back.

For one agonising second, he wanted this. Wanted her.

Her fingers in his hair, the way she pressed against him, the taste of red wine on her tongue –

It had been instinct, to accept her kiss. Natural, the way she fit against her. But in that second, he recognised it as active, deliberate desire.

And that was why he had to stop. The next second, he tore his mouth away.

"Hawke," he gasped.

She pressed two fingers against his lips, shushing him. "I need this, Bran," she murmured. Her breath was hot against his skin. "I need you."

Her hand moved and flattened against his jaw, caressing in slow, absentminded strokes. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the blood rushing in his ears. Low in his stomach.

Before she could pull him closer again, he leaned back.

"Hawke," he tried again.

She pulled him closer. He told himself it was because of her strength. "Call me Rose," she whispered, in a delicate tone that didn't sound like her at all. "Just tonight. Please."

His grip stiffened, his fingers pressing against her waist.

He shouldn't. He knew that. And yet –

"…Rose."

The moment the name left his lips, she was on him again, all demanding and passionate. Her mouth took away his breath to say what he needed to say.

"Yes," she mumbled between kisses. "For you, Bran, I'm Rose."

He could feel her breasts pressed against his chest. Her fingers behind his ear, in his hair. It spread something through him he didn't want released. She arched deliberately against him.

His breeches were uncomfortably tight.

He wanted this. Her. Or at least his body did.

But his mind knew that everything about this was wrong. That she wasn't here for him.

And he knew that this time, he would have to be the one to pull away.

He tore himself back, gripping her elbows too hard, holding her back. She didn't fight. His lips felt hot from kissing. Her body was still close enough that her absence left him all the more wanting.

It took all his strength not to pull her back.

"Not like this," he said with a voice like iron.

Her lips parted, and for a moment, he thought she might say something.

Instead, she just stared at him.

The faint light caught her cheekbones, her dark lashes, the flush of colour still present on her cheeks. Something in her expression looked demure. Her eyes were cast slightly downward, her mouth soft, unreadable.

But it wasn't a performance. He was certain it wasn't even intentional.

Bran knew what allure looked like when it was used like power, and this wasn't it. It lacked something essential, something Hawke. Grief blinded her so much that this was the only way she could drown it out.

She glanced up. The smirk that crossed her lips was only a shadow of her normal grin.

"Is it the dress?" she murmured, her fingers gliding over the fabric of her bodice, and pulling the neckline down. "I can take it off."

Maker.

"No," he replied. His voice might be steady, but his hands that slid from her arms were not.

She looked up with a lazy tilt of her head.

"You've had me before, Bran," she said, her voice smooth like silk. "But you haven't seen me naked. Not fully. Only bits of me."

His heartbeat throbbed in his ears. He searched for words to say, but his wits betrayed him. "No."

She laughed, stepping closer. Her hands were back on his chest, and he didn't stop her.

"But you've thought about me. You've said so. In your bedroom," she whispered in his ear, her lips brushing his skin. "Your house isn't far from here. You can have me however you'd like." She trailed kisses along his jaw, her hand snaking up his chest. "However you've fantasised about me."

A shudder spread over his spine.

Perhaps it was want, but only the last ember of it.

He had fantasised about her, more so after having had her once. He knew how her moans sounded. How her breath hitched when he touched different parts of her just right.

The image came unbidden. He was on his back. Her thigs pressed against his hips, her naked body above him, her hands pressing his wrist to the sheets. It wasn't forceful, not truly, but it had a kind of teasing certainty.

Her laughter rang in her ears, low, wicked. She murmured reckless vulgarities against his mouth before her lips swallowed his response whole. But then neither of them was laughing anymore. Only moans remained –

The thought splintered apart as quickly as it had come.

It didn't belong here. Just as she didn't belong here, not like this.

He shoved the fantasy into the furthest corner of his mind, as deep as it would go. Out of reach in a way he could pretend it had never existed.

The woman in front of him wasn't the Hawke he knew. She wasn't the thorn in his side with her sharp tongue and defiance. She wasn't the one who challenged his very existence, and fought with him. She wasn't the one who laughed too loud and grinned in that insufferable, unbearable, irresistible way.

This was a fragment.

His desire cooled.

"No," he managed. His voice was rough. "I don't want… this."

She only paused for a heartbeat before her mouth smiled again, just as hollow and empty as before. "No?" she murmured. "Maybe you'd prefer something else, then."

Her fingers trailed down his chest in an unhurried way, reaching for the top of his breeches. "You wouldn't have to do a thing," she breathed. "You know what I can do with my mouth. You liked that last time, didn't you?" Her fingers found the closure. "The way I–"

He caught her wrist again. Just in time, before the memory could awaken something in him that would make him surrender.

"Hawke," he said sternly.

She made a disapproving noise against his mouth.

"Rose, then."

She murmured appreciatively, and leaned in again.

His grip shifted. His hands slid to her shoulders. He had to choose. Stop her lips from kissing him, or stop her hands from touching him.

He chose her mouth. He had to talk to her.

"Stop."

Her sigh was the last breath against his lips.

She leaned back, impassive now, and just looked at him. But she still wasn't there, not really.

"I'd be good for you," she coaxed softly. "I can be good for you, Bran. Seneschal."

His back turned rigid. That word sent a shiver through him. Not the good kind.

"No, you wouldn't."

Her mouth parted, and the gleam in her eyes sharpened. He was glad. This was the Hawke he knew. That heat and defiance. She returned suddenly, as if flipping a switch.

"You bastard," she snapped. "I let you fuck me once, and now you think you know me?"

He had expected this from her. This, he knew how to deal with. "I know what you're doing."

"Oh?" her voice rose, but it wavered. She pushed against his grip, wanting to press forward and provoke him. "And what's that?"

"You're grieving."

Their heavy breath filled the silence.

She stopped resisting his hold, and just kept looking at him with those big blue eyes. But as her movement stilled, her voice shook with fury.

"I should have known, with you. Always good at taking the fun out of things." She tore herself away spitefully. "Even if I am grieving… You don't get to judge how."

He had no response to that. Nothing to say that wouldn't make things worse.

"Balls," she cursed, detached. "I'll find someone else then."

She turned sharply, tossing her skirts behind her so the hem brushed his legs.

He clenched his fist. His breath was unsteady.

He should say something, a final word to try and console her. He shouldn't let her storm out like this. He should –

"Hawke."

It left him before he even knew what he was going to say.

She whirled around, eyes blazing and voice like a whip.

"No. Fuck you, Seneschal."

And with that, she was gone.

The door slammed.

Bran exhaled slowly, watching the empty space where she'd stood. Her absence was like a cloud passing before the sun.

Her last words echoed through his mind.

He sighed again.

It was nearly silent here, away from the festivities. Just the artistic despair of the atelier, as Hawke had called it. Forgotten paintings, half of them finished, half of them discarded midway. He didn't know how long he stood there, staring at the canvasses with unseen eyes.

A low rumble in the distance made him move.

He turned to the window. The skies were dark grey, and the trees in the inner courtyard whipped in the wind. A flash of light tore through the sky, turning the atelier sharp and blinding.

The crash followed like a hammer blow.

Bran wasn't afraid of thunderstorms. He found a certain beauty in them. But he remembered Hawke, in his bedroom after he'd offered her shelter from the rain. Eyes big. Jolting up with each strike.

It had stormed when she fled Ferelden by boat, she'd said.

She had been scared.

And he had no idea where she was now.

He took a deep breath, and suddenly, he was moving. Out the door, his shoes tapping against the marble hallway. Perhaps he should search the ballroom first. Perhaps someone had seen her.

He was in luck. One of the first people he spotted was Aveline.

"Guard-Captain," he greeted her, wasting no time. "Have you seen Hawke?"

Aveline turned, her brows raised. "Does Kirkwall need saving again?"

Bran pressed his lips together. Aveline was just protecting her friend. "She's afraid of thunder," he said, aware how ridiculous it might sound. "I just… Want to make sure she's all right."

A slow smile spread on Aveline's face. "Well," she said dryly. "You can ask her yourself."

She stepped aside, and Bran stiffened.

He wasn't sure how he could have missed them. But just behind Aveline stood Hawke, standing right between Varric and Isabela.

She was curled inward, her posture ripped of its usual bravado. But when she lifted her gaze to Bran, there was none of the embarrassment or fury he might have expected after their encounter. She just looked tired. Subdued.

"You remembered?" she asked, and for a moment, her face lit up with wonder.

Then another thunder strike hit, and she flinched.

Bran swallowed.

Varric's arm tightened around her. "Relax, Bran. We've got her. We'll bring her home."

Isabela grinned. "Aww, look at you, Seneschal. Almost like you care."

Bran said nothing.

He should have felt relief that she was safe. And yet, it left a bitter aftertaste.

She turned away and let Varric guide her through the crowd. He fooled himself into believing she gave him a small, fleeting smile before she disappeared.

Her friends had said something to him, but the storm swallowed the words.

His fingers twitched at his side.

Hawke was fine. She didn't need him. She never had.

And yet for some inexplicable, unbearable, infuriating reason, he had wanted to be the one she turned to. He had wanted to be the one to guide her to the comfort of home.

Selfish. Foolish.

He stood there, watching the place where she'd been, listening to the thunder roll over the city.

She had them. People who were there for her.

And for the first time in years, Bran allowed himself to acknowledge a truth that he hadn't considered relevant. Not for his job, and who was he besides Seneschal?

But the truth was, he had no one.

He had spent his life constructing walls, mistaking solitude for strength. He had told himself he was comfortable in his own presence, had convinced himself that duty was enough. That it was better this way. Safer.

Less pain.

But now, standing alone in a crowd of people, the ache in his chest was impossible to ignore.

Loneliness had been his steady companion. He had welcomed it and let it shape him. But for the first time, he wished he were someone else. Someone Hawke might have turned to, not out of desperation, but because she wanted to.

Instead, she had walked away. First, because he denied her what she wanted. And now, when others gave her what she needed.

The storm raged on. Hawke was gone.

And Bran, as always, remained alone.

Note: Poor Hawke. Poor Bran. Anyway, next chapter's called "Champion". Let's get the main plot of the game moving forward!