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The Veil is thin here.
Hawke had long stopped counting the number of times she’d heard this repeated refrain tumble from the lips of the apostate who inhabited the Inquisitor’s inner circle. Who cared if the Veil was thin? She couldn’t see it. She couldn’t touch it. She couldn’t fight it. But then all together, they had crossed it, the fragile barrier between worlds, and walked into the Fade itself.
Loghain had remained behind to cover their escape, obstinate old fool that he was, and Hawke… well, Hawke couldn’t accept that. Couldn’t accept another person gone due to her mistakes, her errors in judgement.
So instead of sleeping ahead of the long journey to Weisshaupt, fulfilling her final promise to Loghain, Hawke set out alone, daggers heavy against her back as she retraced her steps to that place where everything had changed: the place where she’d realised she’d never be the same again; the place she’d only ever experienced in her dreams; the point of no return.
The air itself smelt electric, like she was strolling through a thunderstorm. The tug of that other world vibrated over her skin, raising prickles of gooseflesh anywhere she dared expose herself to the elements, the chill in her bones refusing to abate even when she pulled her furs around herself as tightly as she could. If she could feel this, with her resounding lack of magical talent, then what would someone like Solas have made of it?
What would Bethany make of it?
Thinking of her sister made Hawke’s heart twinge. Perhaps once she was done with her final act of desperation here and had embarked upon her inevitable march to the Anderfels, she’d be able to get in contact with Bethany once more. Now the Venatori threat to the Grey Wardens had been eliminated, Bethany would be in less danger than she’d once been.
Maybe the two of them could travel side-by-side again. It had been so long since they’d gone anywhere together. Not since the Deep Roads.
Not since Hawke had almost lost her.
Hawke’s vision blurred as she stumbled in what she thought was exhaustion, but when she wiped her face with a hand, she instead realised that her cheeks were wet, even though it wasn’t raining.
Maker, when was the last time she’d cried? Hawke hadn’t cried even after everything that had happened to her mother. She’d probably not let herself weep since that very first year in Kirkwall, that first year where the four of them had been crammed into that tiny house in Lowtown, Bethany and Mother and Uncle Gamlen all brushing up against each other, stepping on toes more out of forced proximity than anything else.
And then there’d been Hawke, who’d lacked the ability to keep her head down, let alone the ability to keep her thoughts and feelings on the inside. Spending too much time at Gamlen’s had made her feel like she was on the brink of spiralling, of exploding, nothing more than a tornado of rage and fear and grief and rage. But she’d kept herself out of worse trouble by sticking her nose in smaller problems on purpose with Varric’s assistance, at least in that first year. Not only had it kept her hands busy, but also her head.
It was absurd, in comparison, how much smaller her old problems seemed in hindsight: all she’d needed to do was avoid her family so they wouldn’t feed and nurture each other’s grief; get some money to improve their lot in their new-slash-old shithole of a home; make a name for herself in a way she’d never been able to before, when there had always been the threat of leaving on the horizon. She hadn’t given herself any space to think, hadn’t wanted to, and maybe that was where everything had gone wrong.
Maker, maybe everything could be pinned upon Hawke’s lack of planning. Not only had she taken Bethany on that expedition, but Hawke also hadn’t spent enough time with her mother while she’d had the chance, and in turn, perhaps if she’d been around more, then Mother –
It hurt to breathe, like her ribs were twisting inwards, threatening to pierce her lungs. She swayed on the spot, unable to move any further, overwhelmed by a decade’s worth of repressed emotion.
She couldn’t lose another one.
She wasn’t sure when she’d stumbled to her knees, like she’d taken an unexpected blow to the back of the legs.
She didn’t know how long she spent on the ground, shaking.
She didn’t know how many times she heard her name repeated in the wind, until she finally managed to turn her head to look at the source, expecting to see nothing but a trick of the breeze.
But then, in the distance, a person, and he – no, it couldn’t possibly be, but it was. It was!
Somehow, most likely through the sheer force of will, Loghain Mac Tir had stumbled out of the Fade itself and returned to Thedas.
Returned to her.
Even though her legs still felt sluggish, like they were sinking in quicksand, Hawke forced herself to move, dragging herself in his direction. They moved at the same pace, Loghain with a hand held to his stomach, clearly injured, but somehow, thank the Maker, miraculously alive.
A laugh erupted from the back of her throat before there was any chance of stopping it. Truly ridiculous, to be thanking the Maker at all: after everything that had happened to her, she’d had little time nor reason for gratitude.
If this were one of Varric’s books, their pain would be overcome with the euphoria of reunion, of a tragic fate averted. They’d tear off each other’s clothes and make love right there in full view of the stray straggling demons, underneath the stars and moons. They wouldn’t have to discuss what they meant to each other, even though they’d never put it into words before. It would be simple, unspoken, obvious.
But this was no novel. Instead, they staggered towards one another, impeded by their injuries, and burdened by buried feelings. Even if Hawke were capable of closing the final distance separating them, she wasn’t the type to share her affections freely, and Loghain was certainly even less inclined towards such actions. There had been nothing in her personal interactions with the man, nor in any of the tales of his heroism on which she’d been raised, that would lead her to believe he was an emotionally demonstrative man in the slightest.
Maybe that was why they got along so well. Too well, perhaps. They both knew the heavy cost that came with being a guiding light, a saviour, a protector. There was no room for missteps, mistakes, errors in judgement. They were only human, and yet everyone treated them as though they were as free from sin and folly as Andraste herself. The pressure was impossible to withstand forever, but there was never any other choice but to let the current crash against the walls of their defenses until they crumbled and broke, defeated.
They had both made so may mistakes. That, too, was part of the problem. Every time they fought, trading verbal blows, they treaded over and over the same familiar territory. Who had committed more crimes? Who had succumbed more to paranoia?
Whose hands were more deeply stained by the blood of innocents?
It was not a competition worth winning, and yet neither of them had wanted to concede defeat.
Even as a couple of the first mortals to walk in the Fade itself since the magisters of old, Hawke and Loghain hadn’t been able to resist the lure of repeating their old arguments even in the eye of the storm. Once again, Hawke had made her distrust of the Wardens known, given her prior experiences with Anders, with magic she didn’t understand, and Loghain was always quick to remind her that Anders hadn’t been a Warden, not truly, not like Loghain was. And besides, he’d often elaborated, but not this time, didn’t this apostate of yours save your sister’s life?
Nothing rankled Hawke more than the reminder of Bethany’s fate. Bethany should never had needed to join the Wardens, and even though it was impossible to tell what would have happened had Bethany remained in Kirkwall, Hawke couldn’t help but think it would have been better; anything had to be better than how her little sister had twisted up in grief and bitterness but buried it deep beneath the same veneer of passive politeness with which she covered everything else.
Of course, Loghain must have known how it made Hawke’s blood boil. How it always made her take a step towards him, made her want to grip him by the shoulders, push him against the nearest surface and then, and then – she had always stopped herself from imagining what might come next, because she knew it couldn’t happen. Mostly because Loghain was too sensible for all that, because Maker knew Hawke wasn’t.
They’d shared a tent on the way to Adamant, which Loghain had probably regretted the very first time they’d slept on the journey, because it was only then he’d truly understood the extent of Hawke’s nightmares.
But instead of insisting on swapping with another person, or kicking her out of the tent, or even moving his bedroll outside to sleep in a makeshift shelter, better exposed to the elements than Hawke’s flailing limbs, Loghain had stayed by her side. He’d kept her safe.
He’d held her, and all at once she had been reassured, secured, in a way she hadn’t felt since before the Blight.
Hawke was not a slight woman, but Loghain was enormous in comparison. The breadth of his chest, his shoulders, had kept her pinned into place. The first night, he’d asked her if it would help as he’d touched her cautiously, not wanting to hurt her more than she had been already.
The next nights, and the nights that followed, she allowed him to hold her as tightly as he could, wanting to feel nothing more than the warmth of another’s body against her own, nothing more the simple pleasure of being alive.
But of course, before long, her traitorous mind had started wondering whether the man was enormous everywhere. She tried not to let it show through her words or her actions, finally practicing the skill of keeping some of her thoughts to herself. Just because she considered it, considered him, didn’t mean she had to investigate it, right? Their paths would diverge soon enough. She didn’t want to ruin what they had already: the mutual trust and understanding that came from being the only two people alive who could truly understand each other, the intimate knowledge that came with going from nobody, to hero, to pariah.
But Hawke had almost lost him. Thought she had lost him. And, well, that had given her incentive to reassess the risks she was willing take.
“Hawke,” Loghain croaked as he finally closed the distance, “you’re alive.” He shook his head in disbelief, like she’d been the one to crawl back out of the sky when she’d been left behind to die, like she hadn’t survived solely due to his bone-headed obstinance.
In the books, there would have been more action, more heat, more lingering gazes. But Varric’s stories had been right on one count, at least: there weren’t any words that needed to be shared between them. Loghain stretched out the arm on his good side and wrapped it around Hawke’s waist. In return, she burrowed her head into his shoulder, and inhaled deeply. He smelled like dirt and blood and sweat and Ferelden. The thought was so ridiculous, she couldn’t help but laugh; Loghain, of all men, would be flattered by the comparison.
He held her more tightly as she chuckled against him, chest reverberating, his lips ghosting against the top of her head as though he, too, was afraid of breaching the accord that had grown between them.
Enough was enough: although Hawke might have to live with all of her past mistakes, that didn’t mean she needed to make new ones.
Unwilling to let this opportunity pass by her again, Hawke stood on her toes, craned her neck, cupped Loghain’s face in her hands, and kissed him.