Chapter Text
It took time to hit her, but Hawke’s stay in the Fade left her in more pain than she’d realized. She had made it through Orlais without incident (thanks to the Inquisition’s efforts to stop the civil war), but the guilt ate away at her as she pushed on.
She shouldn’t have made it back. She should have been the one to take down the Nightmare, not Stroud. The fight cycled endlessly in her mind, Stroud’s fate sealed in the Inquisitor’s split-second decision over and over again. Each time, Hawke wondered why, but it never got any clearer. It stole her sleep and dulled the edges of her blades.
In that state of mind and body, she barely made it through a scrape with some Venatori. She’d been careless, and only the daggers on her back survived the encounter.
It took a close call to shock her out of her own head. She would be no help to the Wardens if she couldn’t make it to Weisshaupt, and that was what finally convinced her to stop for supplies and medical attention in a small outpost on the outskirts of Nevarra. Maybe it was Imperium territory, Hawke wasn’t sure. Either way, it was her last chance, since there wasn’t much between there and the Anderfels. She had no idea if her “fame” spread this far, but at least she was unlikely to be pegged for the Champion of Kirkwall in her ragged state.
Drowsy in the outpost’s makeshift clinic, Hawke’s mind finally drifted away from the Fade and toward her friends. Varric would have been angry. The worry in his eyes was as plain as daylight when she left.
“Don’t do anything stupid, at least not until I’m there to document it,” he had said. Thinking better of it, he'd added, “Actually, don’t do anything stupid at all. I’d rather not have a fist in my ribcage.”
And there was another source of guilt, one that she had buried deep down below Corypheus and the Grey Wardens.
Fenris wasn’t going to be pleased when he got that letter from Varric. Sister Nightingale’s word travelled much faster than her own weary legs, so he probably already had it.
If she didn’t die at Weisshaupt, the look of betrayal in Fenris’s eyes would surely finish her.
Hawke wasn’t sure what end she sought. There was no question that she would give anything to atone for her mistakes. It put her on the edge of recklessness, and she could only imagine the pain that knowledge would cause Fenris. Still, he was strong and he would live. That was all that mattered.
She and Fenris were past the days of needing to spend every waking moment together; naturally, he preferred to fight at her side, but it wasn’t always practical.
It was only supposed to be for a few weeks apart, she had told him – not an outright lie, but she imagined the outcome of that conversation would have been different had he known it was probably their last goodbye. Fenris had been even more reluctant than usual to part ways, but he hadn’t pushed the issue.
Hawke was glad. She didn’t need anyone else throwing down their life in her name, least of all him.
“You awake?” asked a rough voice. The accent sounded vaguely like Fenris’s, so Tevinter it was. Shit.
Hawke mumbled a reply, rubbing her temples. She opened her eyes to see the vaguely familiar outline of a mage, the one who had healed her.
“Get out of here – might need your bed,” the mage grunted. “Some crazed knife-ear is tearing up the camp looking for someone called Hawke.”
Hawke froze. There was no way. But then again, there were only so many places she could have stopped on her way. Hadn’t part of her wanted him to find her?
“Probably looking for revenge on his master,” the mage mused. “Shame to lose a prized slave like that.”
Hawke could hear no more. She shot up in the cot, blacking out in the process. The instant her vision started to return, she grabbed the neck of the mage’s robes and yanked.
“Say that to his face and your spirit magic won’t save you,” she growled.
“Hey, back off!” the healer stammered. Hawke did not let up. Glowering, she summoned all the ferocity she could muster in her dazed state.
“Where is he?” she demanded through gritted teeth. The mage was lucky not to receive a dagger to the gut for those slurs, but there were more important things at hand.
“P-Pavel’s shop. Just down the hill.”
Hawke shoved the healer back roughly and stood. The rush of adrenaline drowned the last of her magic-induced haze and she bolted from the clinic without another word.
Fenris was already approaching, tattoos blazing, with one hand on the hilt of his greatsword. Perhaps he had chased the healer. He stopped abruptly when he saw her, glow fading as if it had never been there at all, but he didn’t look happy. She checked his armor for blood and was relieved to find none. What she did see was almost worse: her band, her family’s crest.
Several emotions flashed across his face: pain, betrayal, confusion, anger. Anger, Hawke could deal with. She could slide into it like a comfortable pair of boots, and she could drag him down with her.
“How many villages did you raze to find me?” she asked, her tone artificially light.
He closed his eyes and let out a stream of Tevene curses. The familiarity of it all would have warmed her heart had she not been so on edge. When he opened his eyes again, his gaze was cold and hard.
“This is what you say to me?”
“Business before pleasure, Fenris, you know me. I just want to know how many bodies we’re dealing with before our joyous reunion.”
“What is this, your holiday?” he snarled, only too eager to take the bait. “Rounding out your tour of the Fade with a jolly romp through the Imperium on your way to scenic Weisshaupt?”
Hawke had to fight the desire to laugh, deciding it better to keep the mood caustic. He pulled a letter from his armor, brandishing it in her direction. She could recognize Varric’s handwriting even from a distance.
“Ah, you got my message,” she said. “Thought you might show me where you grew up.” Fenris’s eyes narrowed and she knew she had gone too far. Quite a feat, considering the depth of the hole she had already dug.
“Is this a joke to you?” he demanded.
Hawke folded her arms across her chest, strongly reminded of the less-than-cordial beginnings of their relationship. However, what was once surreptitious flirting and stress relief (maybe even a turn on) was now a wall; an ineffective mask for pain. They had moved past their rivalry, and Hawke was disgusted with herself for hiding behind it now.
Still, she couldn’t stop herself from biting. “Whereas you are the portrait of civility.”
“Merely following your illustrious example,” he fired back, voice laden with sarcasm.
“Just like old times.”
Fenris took a deep breath, easing some of the tension in his shoulders. The hurt was returning to his face and it was a painful reminder of what she had put him through. Anger was so much easier to handle.
“I did not come here to fight with you.” His voice was raw, rage giving way to concern, and Hawke didn't like it.
She was tempted to inquire if he came to rough up more mages, but given her recent actions at the clinic, she had no room to talk. Besides, he had taken great strides to overcome his prejudice against mages and it wasn’t fair to dredge up the past. If he was trying to make nice, she could, too.
“Well, here you are,” she said, keeping her voice even.
“I wish to speak with you.” He glanced at the cowering merchants and shoppers to his left and right. “Perhaps somewhere less crowded.”
“As you wish,” Hawke replied, leading the way to her camp in the woods on the other side of the hill. They made the trek in silence, and Hawke could feel his eyes on her. She was grateful the healing had been effective; she hated to imagine how Fenris would react if she was still sporting deep gashes and limping on her fractured ankle.
Once they reached the camp, Fenris followed Hawke into her tent. They seated themselves on opposite ends of the space and she finally met his gaze, finding that look of betrayal she so dreaded. It twisted her stomach in knots but she would not look away.
You will look at him, she told herself. Face the consequences of your actions.
“I’m sorry, Fenris,” she said softly.
“Why?” he asked. Not as in “why are you sorry?” but “why did you lie to me?”
Hawke exhaled, trying to put the reasons into words. With him there, nothing seemed sufficient. “I had to do something. Corypheus was my responsibility. These tears in the sky, all of this is my fault. And I will do anything to fix it.” She closed her eyes, gripping her knees tightly. “But the one thing I will not sacrifice is your life. That’s why I couldn’t tell you where I was going.”
Fenris sat in silence for a moment, and she cracked her eyes open to look at him, expecting to find a wounded expression.
He was smiling. It was just the ghost of a smile, and she was certainly not forgiven, but there was nothing quite like Fenris’s smile. She felt a rush of warmth, suddenly immeasurably thankful that she got to see it again.
“That time in Kirkwall has gone to your head, Champion. Are you really so conceited that you would believe you are the sole cause of the rifts?”
Hawke sighed. “It is not conceit, Fenris. You can’t deny that I had a hand in it.”
“As did I, as did all of Thedas. This conflict is as old as the Imperium itself.”
Maker help her, when had Fenris become the voice of reason?
“I didn’t say my decision was rational,” she finally replied. “But I couldn’t drag you down with me.”
Fenris looked at her as if she was the only person in his world. The intensity of his stare always had a way of making her feel simultaneously powerful and vulnerable.
“I would gladly follow you to the depths of the abyss, with no promise of return.” His words were so earnest and steady that Hawke felt something shatter inside of her. Maybe it was her anger.
“Then you understand why I couldn’t let you come,” she said, rising to her knees to get a bit closer.
Frustration crossed Fenris’s features, but he calmed himself quickly. “Marian,” he said, his voice as soft as she had ever heard it. “You are stronger than anyone I have ever met. I have no delusion that you need my protection.”
There was no resisting him when he spoke like this, and Hawke fought the temptation to fall into his arms. Seeing this side of him was a reward for years of patient longing, and she felt a stab of regret at testing his hard-earned trust.
“I couldn’t live with myself if you died for me,” she whispered, giving words to the fear she had been burying since her time in Kirkwall.
“And what sort of life would I live without you?” he asked. “I would never cease wondering if there was something that I could have done had I been there.”
This was the best case scenario; when she first decided to leave, she had been plagued by nightmares of Fenris spiraling into a homicidal rage (or worse) upon learning of her death. Now, she realized that she had underestimated him, but she remained silent.
He sighed. “I apologize, I did not intend to make you feel guilty.” He seemed to consider his words carefully before he continued. “Your intentions are noble, and I would never ask you to be less than you are, but please”—on this word, his voice broke—“do not deny me the privilege of fighting by your side. We are better together, Hawke. Do you not feel the same?”
“Of course I do,” she said without hesitation. The weight of his words hung in the air between them for a time, almost holding them in place.
“I know I have little right to ask this of you, but please, do not push me away.” He drew closer, almost close enough to touch. Hawke’s brow knitted, the last vestiges of her stubbornness failing her.
“But if I can’t fix this—”
“Then we will both die anyhow. But only a fool would bet against you.” Tentatively, he reached out to her. “Let me be at your side.”
She whispered his name and he pulled her into his arms, holding her against his armored chest. It was an unusually intimate, unguarded gesture for them; they had slept together mere moments after their first kiss, but this was different, and Hawke marveled at just how far they had come.
The guilt was still there; Fenris couldn’t fix it or remove it. But he was not wrong – they were better together.