Do Not Let Go

A/N: The Hawke in this story is one of my most-used character archetypes. She is shy, meek and lacks confidence (I like thrusting characters like this into tough, problem-besieged fantasy surroundings, because that's fun) - but though she herself does not realize it, there is great strength and bravery lying dormant inside her heart, awakening only when she is pushed over the edge.

She had been blindly following her father's guidance all her life - so his death, and the sudden realization that she had to think and act for herself now, came as a real blow. But she is trying to cope - somehow; and is actually better at it than she gives herself credit for.

In terms of in-game world status, she has managed to win over her entire party (it came as a little bit of a surprise when I was somehow able to max out Fenris' friendship early on - but hey, it gave me an opportunity to drag him on all mage-rescue missions and come out unscathed by rivalry points!).

I am sorry to say that I have given in to my usual habit of starting a story in the middle, and the character overview is more than sketchy - but I hope the readers discover something to their liking nonetheless.

I also inserted a bunch of Frozen references just for fun.

And one last thing: the 'despair demon' Hawke mentions is a totally legit type of demon, which has been introduced in Inquisition. These buggers look kind of like Dementors from Harry Potter, or like ice-spewing banshees, and are frustratingly hard to kill at my current measly level. I do believe that Hawke might be possessed by one, having been greatly weakened after dealing with her mother's death - and it is up to her friends to travel the Fade and kill the thing... Which I plan to write about, if this puppy draws enough interest.

And finally, for the story!



It takes him three tries to leave behind the abandoned mansion and set out towards Hawke's home. Three tries, the first two of which ended with him hovering about on the threshold and then slinking back beneath the veil of shadows and cobwebs - almost as if the accursed magister was back and was pulling at his leash.

And even after he takes a deep breath and musters enough strength to rip the invisible tethers and stride out into the open - he is still not certain whether he should be doing this.

He doubts it will do Hawke much good - after all, she is the one who has always been able to find the right words to soothe him while he was seething and gnashing his teeth in rage and pain.

She is the one that would draw him away from the battlefield, while the hot, heady blood was still streaming down the front of his armour, and the palm of his hand was still sticky with a cracking, caked imprint of a slaver's heart - and her thin arms would hold him tighter than any chains Danarius might try to bind him with.

She is the one that would gently slide her hand along the outline of his tightening jaw, making him look up into her eyes from beneath his fiercely knit eyebrows, and forget, for a moment, that she, too, was a mage, like those who warped his body and shattered his life - and see only a woman with enough warmth in her embrace and her heart to shield him from the bitter, icy winds that ravage his world.

She is the one that would brush the tangled strands of hair off his sweating forehead and sweep away the shards of his broken wine glass, and whisper softly, 'Hush now, hush - it is all over. Get some rest' - and let him drift off, blissfully drunk and drained after a day of lashing at the shadows of his past, with his head on her knees.

And he... He is the one that walked away.

He is the one that grew terrified of the bright, jumbled visions that filled his mind, while his fingers were leaving dark, bruised imprints on Hawke's wrists, and his body was grinding violently against hers; visions of a time long gone, wiped away by the shattering agony that the lyrium left in its wake when it coursed through his screaming veins.

He is the one that turned out to be unable to handle the strange feeling that keeps rising from the pit of his stomach and gripping his heart whenever he meets Hawke's eyes - the feeling that, no matter how persistently he tells himself that the damn woman is a mage, inevitably makes his lips part in a smile that the little Dalish demon worshipper for some reason finds very funny.

He is the one that, unless forced to cross paths with Hawke on a shared adventure, has been avoiding her all this time, starting from the evening of the day that followed that feverish night - when he skulked about in the corner of the Hanged Man, silently watching Isabela treat Hawke to drink after drink at the bar and teach her a song that went something along the lines of,

‘My lover's gone,
his boots no longer by my door.
He left at dawn,
and as I slept I felt him go.
Returns no more…
I will not watch the ocean.
My lover's gone,
No earthly ships will ever bring
him home again,
bring him home again'

He is the one that walked away.

And yet, futile though it is, he cannot help but feel drawn to that tall, imposing house, marked by a red crest - as though some savage creature had hurled itself against the wall and left an elaborate, bleeding claw mark.

Once upon a time, an eternity ago, the place was alive with the sound of voices, talking, laughing, bickering: Varric spinning yet another yarn, Aveline forcing Isabela to erase her man-part drawings from the walls, Mistress Leandra trying to convince the ungrateful little maleficar to start wearing shoes, Sandal and the blithering Darktown mage exploding things together; and finally, in the days before the encounter with Hadriana - Hawke and himself, sitting in a dark corner, heads bent over some thick, dog-eared volume, her fingers just barely touching his as he moved his hand along the snaking dark lines.

'Why do we keep reading fairytales and those over-the-top adventure novels?' he would ask her sometimes, frowning in irritation. 'I am not a child!'

And she would gaze at him, the corners of her mouth sliding apart till tiny dimples appeared on her cheeks, and reply,

'But you do not remember being one, do you? I was hoping that this way, you could catch a glimpse of that world where the days are bright and the nights are peaceful, and every story has a happy ending'.

'I doubt that I ever saw much peace or brightness, even as a boy,' he would say, with just a tinge of bitterness in his voice, which always made her hover her hand over the markings on his arm, as though desperately wanting to touch him but not daring to do so.

And then, seeing her face cloud over, he would add, after a small pause,

'But the thought of a happy ending does sound... cheering'.

Yes, there used to be a time when the Hawke manor was filled with light and warmth and hopes for a happy ending - but now it is almost more desolate that Danarius' abandoned chambers; cold and dark and sombre, with all the windows and mirrors draped in heavy folds of black. And, locked somewhere deep within the bleak, dreary house's heart, is Hawke; he can almost see her, lying face up on her bed, motionless, her pallor almost glowing in the murk... she must be staring at the ceiling with raw, red eyes, her heart aching dully for her lost mother. And he feels that he has to be there, by her side - even though, as he keeps telling himself, there is hardly any point in trying to comfort her; she might not even let him in, and even if she does, no words he can possibly come up with will ever bring back Mistress Leandra... Just like those ships Isabela sang about.

But then again - this is not as much about helping Hawke come to terms with her mother's death, as about something she said, when the distorted, pale flicker of unlife finally faded away from Mistress Leandra's grey-filmed eyes, and her limp form sagged in her daughter's arms, like a discarded puppet whose strings had been cut off. The moment the mad mage's abhorrent enchantment released its hold, Hawke glanced over her shoulder and said, her voice hollow and hoarse and her face almost as lifeless as her mother's,

'You were right, Fenris. You were right all along'.

Under any other circumstances, he would have sneered condescendingly, and perhaps would even have  secretly savoured the sight of Hawke finally admitting her defeat, after she had dragged him so many times on one fool's errand (or, as that insufferable blonde human put it, 'mission to defend mages' rights') after another, bent on proving to him that not all of her kind are doomed to turn to evil. He must say, at times, when he looked into Hawke's eyes, he almost ended up believing her... And somehow, despite all of their disagreements, he had managed to forge a fragile friendship with her - which, on that disaster of a night, suddenly erupted into something completely different, when he pinned Hawke to the wall, the markings on his arms blazing with a blue flame that blinded him and wiped his mind blank, and tore into her lips with the hunger of the beast he had been named after...

But he digresses. He always ends up digressing when he remembers the bittersweet taste of her blood in his mouth, and the inebriating twangs of pain as her nails skidded involuntarily across the lyrium that is burned into his back, and... Damn it, that is not the point! The point is - he should have gloated in triumph when Hawke, crushed by witnessing her mother's end, finally realized that magic is evil. But he did not.

On the contrary, the recollection of those words of hers made him feel worried - and it still does. And this - this is the main reason why he steps out of the shadows of his makeshift home and walks hastily across Hightown. The main reason why he suddenly feels an invisible hand, imbued with power not unlike his own (imbued, eh? It appears all those books have rubbed off on him, after all), tearing through his flesh and closing its icy fingers around his heart. The closer he approaches Hawke's house, the tighter the grip grows - till finally, he finds himself barely able to breathe.

He has to linger on the threshold, his armoured glove clawing at his chest. He does not like this - he has never given in to weakness so much before. And why on earth his heart would contract so forcefully anyway? Could it be... foreboding?

The front door is unlocked, and as he pushes it with his fingertips, it swings inward with a mournful creak, opening the way into bottomless darkness, a dead abyss from where not a breath escapes. Even Danarius' mansion did not seem so ominous, so eerily quiet, when he and Hawke first walked inside, shoulder to shoulder - and she instinctively lit up a tiny spark of flame in the palm of her hand, making a sharp pang shoot through his heart, as he realized that this helpful stranger, whose skills in dealing with those street thugs he was just going to compliment, had been touched by magic... But again, he digresses.

He starts making his way cautiously down the empty entrance hall - but before long, he freezes in his tracks, his ears twitching at the sound of a squeaky, animal-like whimper that is coming from somewhere high above. Throwing back his head, he moves across the floor in a slow circle - until he manages to locate the sound's source.

Sandal, the 'special dwarven boy', as Hawke calls him, is sitting perched on his favourite chandelier, hugging the heavy metal chain that, by some miracle, keeps it attached to the ceiling. He swings from side to side - not in mindless, puppy-like glee as he usually does, but slowly, with a grave sort of rhythm, as if the chandelier were a pendulum that is somberly counting out the minutes left till some hapless prisoner loses his head at the block. In tune with his swinging, he keeps wailing monotonously,

'Gone... Gone... Mistress... Gone...'

Leaving over the upper floor's railing, with his short arms whipping helplessly through thin air, completely out of the boy's reach, is his father, fussy old Bodahn. His elaborately braided beard is ruffled like the tail of some startled fowl, and there appears to be a slip of parchment tucked away beneath his belt.

'Yes, yes, my boy,' he says anxiously. 'We all miss Lady Leandra - but climbing onto that infernal thing won't do her any good, now will it?'

'No,' the younger dwarf replies thickly, through the glistening, gooey stream that is running down from his reddened nose. 'No Leandra... Mistress Hawke... Misress Hawke... Gone...'

At the sound of those words, a faint, rippling flash runs along the twisting lyrium lines that crisscross Fenris' flesh. His eyes flaring up, he races upstairs and thunders, his lanky form towering over the self-appointed butler,

'Gone?! What does he mean, gone?! Where is Hawke?!'

Bodahn whirls around and lets out a spluttering nervous giggle at the sight of a mask-like, enraged elven face looming out of the darkness.

'Oh, ah... Serah Fenris... I did not hear you come in,' he says, beads of sweat swelling up on his forehead. 'I am afraid Mistress Hawke is out. She told me she had personal business to attend to'.

Personal business. It could be anything, couldn't it? Maybe she is making another attempt to make peace with her uncle, who is blaming her for his sister's death, and refuses to talk to her? Or maybe she has to resolve those tedious legal matters? Or maybe Isabela has invited her for another one of her 'comforting drinks'?.. He tells himself stubbornly that there is nothing, nothing at all, to be so mortally terrified of - but this does not stop the unseen lyrium hand from crushing his heart.

'What kind of business?' he persists, his glare little short of singing the hairs of the dwarf's beard.

'She really did not say, Serah,' Bodahn blurts out, gulping and casting a suspicious glance at the elf's clenched fists. 'She - she did give me a message,' he pats his hand on the parchment sheet Fenris spotted before. 'I am to pass it along to Master Anders three hours from now'.

With an ear-splitting whoosh, a lyrium-coated arm shoots forward, and long, bony fingers close in round the dwarf's throat. The elf bends in two, his nose almost pressing against Bodahn's, and for a few moments, stands frozen in tense, almost physically painful silence, which is broken only by his rattling intakes of breath.

His pupils have shrunk to pinpoints at the realization that he has, once again, succumbed to the same broiling rage that made him kill Hadriana. Once, Hawke used to come to his aid to help him remain in control - but she is not here. Damn it, she is not here! She has sneaked off - after writing a letter to... to Anders?! What does she want with that insane abomination?! What does he want with her?!

So that - that is who she turns to now. That is who she wants to comfort her. That is who she's chosen...

Sinking the sharpened tips of his glove's fingers deep into the soft, lardy flesh of the dwarf's neck, till the first droplets of blood roll along them like tiny rubies, Fenris says, in a voice so husky that it could have seemed that he was the one being strangled,

'Show. Me. The. Letter'.

'As you say, Serah,' Bodahn wheezes. 'Just - let me go...'

Panting loudly, the elf unlocks his fingers and falls back, allowing the dwarf to fish out the parchment and hand it over. The wretch is barely able to retain his balance, as Fenris tears the rustling sheet out of his grasp.

'Please do not tell Mistress Hawke that this came from me,' Bodahn says tentatively, hovering behind Fenris's back on tiptoe and massaging his throat. 'I think she might get a little upset if she learns that I, uh, disclosed her private correspondence'.

But the elf ignores him. His nostrils widening and quivering slightly, he lifts the parchment to his eyes and, squinting with the effort, begins to decipher the hasty, slanting handwriting, with elongated black letters, which are blurred in places by large, vaguely star-like tear drops, and are racing towards the sheet's rim, as though in a rush to hurl themselves off the edge of a precipice.

Dear Anders,

If Bodahn follows my instructions (and I do hope he does), it will all be over by the time you receive this. I can picture your reaction to hearing the news - your face growing pallid with shock and pain, and a cold, unrelenting flame lighting up in your eyes as Justice takes control. I know how you are going to feel. I know what you are going to think. I know that you will want to avenge me, like you did Karl. And this is precisely the reason why I felt obliged to write to you.

Don't. Please - for the sake of our friendship. Don't. You have done so much to protect other mages, and I am confident you are destined to do much, much more - it will be so foolish to throw it all away in an attempt to punish the Templars for what they are going to do. Because - and I want to make sure you understand this - because they will do it per my request. This is my conscious choice.

I still believe, just as you do, that it is wrong to strip mages of their power against their will, in order to subdue and control them, in order to punish those that speak out. But I am not one of those mages, Anders. I WANT my magic gone.

When Beth and I were little girls, Father used to tell us that we were special - but I guess being special requires certain strength, which I do not have. All these years, I have been pretending otherwise - after all, what other choice did I have? First, after Father's passing, I found the role of the family's protector suddenly thrust upon me; and then the Blight destroyed our home, and I was hurled into a new land, a new city, rife with problems that refused to solve themselves until someone stepped in. And I have been stepping in - for the sake of my siblings, my mother, my newfound friends, and all those poor souls whose suffering I could not watch idly. I have been playing the part of the hero, the last resort of the downtrodden, the dashing protagonist of Varric's bestseller-in-the-making.

For years, it has been the same exhausting routine. Conceal. Don't feel. Be a champion for everyone. But in my heart of hearts, I am still the same little girl who would run crying for her daddy when a Templar's shadow stretched across the grass.

And I am tired. So very, very tired. This is not who I am. The brave, strong, invincible Hawke is a set of armour that has been forged for me by rumours and our favourite dwarf's stories. And I can't blame him for embellishing the truth - after all, who would want to hear the tale of Hawke the sap, Hawke the wallflower, Hawke the worthless whiny wretch? But the fact still remains: I am too weak for this - too timid, too soft. I was not made for running around and saving the day - or for being a mage.

Day after day, year after year, I have seen my kind succumb to the force that is brewing within them. All those apostates, losing their mind with desperation and allowing demons to claim them; poor, sweet, precious Merrill, getting more and more entangled in a web of wrong choices; and even you...

And now, look what magic did to my mother! Look how it irrevocably shattered what still remained of my family!

You might hate me for my choice, Anders - you might despise me; but I beg you: at least try to understand what I am going through. How much I hate myself. For not being there when I should have been. For being so unlike the infallible hero everyone sees me as. For failing Mother - and for having the same power that maimed and destroyed her, flowing inside my own veins.

I cannot help but imagine how different things might have been if there had not been so much magic in our family. Perhaps Mother would never have become an outcast because she chose Father; perhaps my siblings and I would have had a happier childhood, untainted by the fear that lived in my heart and Beth's, and the bitterness that simmered in Carver's. And perhaps what we talked about in the clinic that night would not have happened, either.

Yes, I know what you think of Fenris - and at times, I even agree with you. But that does not stop me from loving him. And to know that he rejected me because I am a mage (he has given me snatches of different explanations, but I am almost certain this is the real one) - it is torture. You will probably blame him for what is going to happen - and lash out at him like you always do. I am not certain if what I say here is going to stop you - but I will say it nonetheless. It is NOT his fault, Anders; it is mine. There is no one else to blame for me having magic, and being too weak to handle the pain that it brings me.

If I were like that staunch champion of a Hawke that Varric likes to spin yarns about - I would have somehow learned to grin and bear it. I would have gotten over the disaster that swallowed up my family, over the suffering of my friends - over Fenris. I would have continued to stand by your side, helping you fight your battle. But the ache in my heart is too strong - I just cannot stand it any longer. So many wounds, each of them bleeding. So many losses, each of them my fault. I detest the face that looks at me out of the mirror, and the glow of magic around my fingertips. This feeling is tearing me apart from the inside - and I cannot live like this.

I have screamed enough, and cried enough, and hated myself enough to last a lifetime; I am completely worn out. All I want is for the suffering to go away. I want to stop and rest; I want peace. Tranquility.


The letter does not bear a signature - or maybe it does, and he just cannot see it through the quivering dark spots that have suddenly surfaced before his eyes... It does not matter. Nor does the fact that Hawke chose to reveal her feelings to that hateful mage, and not to him, to Fenris.

Nothing matters, except for that last word. Even after he releases his hold of the parchment, his fingers suddenly losing all feeling, and the rustling sheet slithers down to the floor, out of his reach - even after that, he can still see that word, slashing across the parchment like a dark blade. It cuts inside his mind, making his skull splinter, and sending waves of scorching pain from his head to his chest.

And in the wake of that pain, comes a vision - a mental image that sends him reeling, while somewhere in what must be some distant, vague plane of the Fade, a tiny voice squeaks,

'Oh my! Are you quite all right, Serah?'

He is not sure what this is - some of that accursed magic (the place must be soaked in it from the roof down), or the lyrium in his flesh responding to a surge of emotions and making him hallucinate, or just his feverish mind acting up. All that he knows is that he can see Hawke - standing in front of him, with her back stiffly erect, her arms pressed against her sides, and her toes perfectly in line. Her wispy, fluffy hair, which has always been hastily twisted into some remote semblance of a braid, is now carefully combed back, not a strand out of place, leaving her forehead open - just so he can see the small red mark burned into her forehead.

He gazes at her, out of breath, silently pleading for this not to be true - and she looks back at him; or rather, through him, for her expression remains completely blank, wiped clear of everything that used to make her Hawke. Her eyes, which once were filled with tender, encouraging warmth, are now cold and glassy; and their blue is not the deep, living blue of the sea, the blue that used to caress him in soft, gentle waves - it is the hard, steely blue of an ice crust over a winter lake. Flawlessly smooth. Impenetrable. And dimmed over by barely noticeable swirls of frost.

'You look surprised, Fenris,' she says.

Yes again, he is not quite certain if this is really the apparition speaking to him, or her voice is merely resounding inside his head. In any case, she barely moves her lips; her facial muscles remain rigid, without as much as a hint at her radiant, sincere smile, which, time and again, would make him utterly forget himself in the middle of an anti-mage rant.

'It is most illogical,' Hawke goes on, her voice almost terrifyingly hollow and even. 'You should be happy. I no longer have my magic. Is that not what made you abandon me? Now I am the way you always wanted me to be...'

'No!' Fenris chokes, thrusting his arm forward to make the blighted vision dissolve. 'No! I never wanted you to be... like this!'

The words burst out like the roar of a wounded animal - and leave Fenris completely stupefied. His tall, lanky figure looms darkly in the middle of the upper-floor gallery, with Bodahn struggling to drag his boy down from the chandelier in the background - while his benumbed mind throbs with a sudden revelation.

He has always thought that Tranquility is a reliable, and sometimes necessary, tool for subduing unruly mages; now, however, everything has changed. After looking straight unto the mask-like, immovably calm face of his vision, he has realized, in a staggering flash, that he would never wish this fate upon Hawke. He never would have thought he'd start thinking this way - but, dammit, he is sorry the bloody cat lover! Now he knows how it must have felt for him that night at the Chantry. He knows (or at the very least, is able to imagine with painful clarity) what it is like - to face... someone who once cared for you, and to find no trace of the person they used to be. And to know that, at least in part, this is your fault.

Though luckily, this blank-faced, frozen Hawke is nothing but a figment of his imagination. When he reaches forward to push her away, his fingers touch nothing but thin air; he blinks dazedly, and the Tranquil's figure vanishes into thin air, leaving behind his disoriented self and the two dwarves. Absent-mindedly, his gaze unfocused and his forehead creased in thought, the elf helps Bodahn finally pull Sandal back to firm ground - and does not even cringe when the boy uses his glove as a spiky metal handkerchief; then, he turns away and leaves the manor, his gait swift, sometimes even breaking into a run, and his shoulders hunched forward, as though he were a beast sniffing out a trail.

If Hawke left home not that long ago - there may be still time to fix this. There has to be. Otherwise he will never forgive this stupid human - or himself.


***


She lingers for a short while at the entrance to the Gallows, in front of a giant slave statue with an expression that has always seemed to her to be filled with particular suffering. She greets him with a smile, like one greets an old friend, and says, reaching out to gently pat the twisting knot of strained muscles in his forearm,

'Hang in there, Tobias. I am going to set myself free today - perhaps one day, you will be free as well, and your pain will end'.

It was Merrill that first took to calling him 'Tobias' - 'because it is kind of a nice name, and the poor darling needs to have at least something nice in his life, right?'.

The two young women would always take a moment to pause in front of this writhing figure, sometimes placing their hands on his gnarled, bulging knuckles, which were warm to touch because Tobias stood bathed in sunlight most of the day, his withered limbs burning like bursts of flame.

As, one day, they were waiting for a meeting with Ser Thrask , idleness spurred on their imagination, and they came up with a full-fledged tale of Tobias and his misfortunes, providing him with a serene, content life on a small farm before he was captured by evil Tevinters and sold to slavery, and with a favourite Mabari hound who waited for him to the last, gazing wistfully at the horizon and howling a sad, sad song about how he missed his owner. Of course, at this point, Varric had to cut in, saying that Tobias' wife must have escaped from the slavers and hooked up with a local bandit warlord, soon becoming his second-in-command.

Merrill pouted a little at this - but presently, her face lighting up with a sudden idea, suggested that the wife was only pretending to be interested in the bandit lord, and her main goal was to gather an army to march on the magisters' fortress and free her husband... And then, Varric began to weave this flowery, elaborate description of the force marching on Tevinter just to save one man (inserting a joke here and there) - but was cut short by Fenris, who came up to the three of them, making their giggles fade away the moment his shadow fell on them, and said, scowling,

'You are a bunch of fools. I have lived this life,' he pointed emphatically at poor Tobias, 'And you are turning it into a fairytale!'

Her heart skips a beat as she recollects that angry snarl of his - which gradually smoothed over (by Fenris standards) as she showered him in gulping 'I am sorry!'s and 'We were just passing the time!'s... And as the elf's face lingers before her mind's eye, she sways forward, avoiding a fall only by wrapping her arms around Tobias' skeletal back, and clings on to the bronze slave, whimpering quietly.

The thought of Fenris, once again, wakes the turmoil of feelings that raged within her as she was writing that confession letter, which good Bodahn will hopefully send to Anders as instructed. She finds herself overcome with searing self-loathing and rage at her own weakness.

She is worthless. A piece of trash washed over from Ferelden. Sweet Bethany was so much stronger than her, so much braver, and a greater mage by far - and yet, she was the one that died, because her so-called big sister, her supposed protector, had not stopped her in time.

Mother should not have taken those words back. It really was her fault, just like Mother screamed that day, when she passed her hand over her darling little girl's eyes to shut them forever. And Mother herself... Her death, too, is her fault... that is without question.

And even Carver - poor, naive, hot-headed Carver... He is dead because of her. He tossed himself into the heart of the Deep Roads, to be claimed by corruption, because he wanted to prove to the world that he, too, was worth something. That he, too, could be a hero. Oh Andraste, her little brother would have made a much, much better champion! He had the valour for it, and the fire burning in his heart. But instead, the voice of rumours chose to cast him into shadow, pushing forward the eldest Hawke child. The one who was most unworthy. The one who had never managed to make magic properly serve her.

As these bitter thoughts eat through her mind like acid, she suddenly feels the skin of her hands sticking to Tobias' grotesquely sculpted ribs. Starting in bewilderment, she draws back, wincing at the pain that pierces her palms when she has to forcefully tear them away from the slave's statue. She soon discovers that Tobias' entire cowering figure has crusted over with a fine layer of rime, made out of countless twisting silvery tendrils, which intertwine with one another and slither off, down the sloping bronze and across the pavement, sprouting see-through spiky thorns as they crawl along the stone surface, with a barely audible rustle.

Frost magic. Of all the types of offensive spell-casting, it has always been her most preferred choice. It affects enemies gradually, almost gently - first, it slows them down, giving the adventuring party a chance to resolve the conflict peacefully; and then, if the adversaries refuse to back off, it lulls them to deep, peaceful sleep, from which they will likely never wake up. She has always tried to be merciful, even to those who wronged her - but this has not stopped magic from hurting her, or those she holds dear.

And now, as though sensing that its mortal vessel wishes to be rid of it, her magic is coming alive, slipping out of her control, and spreading all over the Gallows in a rippling white cloak. It is no longer just rime; the walls and stone steps around her begin sprouting long, sharp, blade-like crystals of ice, and the air grows dense with a soft flurry of snowflakes.

Her heart plummeting in terror, she waves her hands frantically to try and undo the freezing spell that she has unwittingly cast. But the magic refuses to obey her - the crushing heartbreak of the past few days must have made it spin out of control. The more she whirls around, flapping her arms like the famous Redcliffe windmill, the thicker the snow falls all around her. If the Templars notice what is going on, and they are bound to, before long - they may attack her on sight, aiming to kill. And she does not want to die - she is horrified of returning to the Fade and its nightmares. She is not ready - not ready to meet all those that died because of her, and to hear them pass their judgment. Not ready to come face to face with Father's spirit, and hear him say, in that usual manner of his when you first think that he is joking but then suddenly realize that all this time, he has been serious,

'You know what, little birdie? I am mighty disappointed in you. Mighty disappointed'.

No - she cannot die. Not yet. When the Templars start arriving, she is going to hurl herself on her knees in front of them, imploring them to make her Tranquil.

And the opportunity does not take too long to present itself. As the snowy whirlwind whips against Tobias and his fellow bronze sufferers, making them drown in a heaving sea of wet white murk, Hawke spots several blurred, armoured silhouettes, slowly approaching her with swords drawn. A voice calls out, hoarse and apprehensive,

'Hold right there! What do you think you are doing, you damn mage?!'

Staggering forward, Hawke raises her arms into the air to show that she means no harm - but the movement only makes a jagged wall of ice shoot out of the pavement right at the Templars' feet, blocking their path and making them lose balance. A violent shiver rushing underneath her skin like a cavalcade of tiny unseen bugs, she lifts her hands to her face and gapes dully at her fingers. Their upper phalanxes have grown completely blue, and are pulsing with a faint, eerie glow, which refuses to go out no matter how many times she clenches and unclenches her fists. This magic is no longer hers - it may swell and lap inside of her like an angry sea, but it does not obey her commands. It has a mind of its own now - and this mind dictates it to crush everything, and anything, that stands in its past.

'Maker...' Hawke whispers hoarsely, lowering her hands listlessly and sinking to her knees. 'This... This isn't me...'

This isn't her - and she dreads to think what other entity now commands her magic. She has heard tales of powerful ice blasts made by one of the strongest varieties of demons. Demons of despair.

Could it be that she has fallen prey to one? That the treacherous creature snaked its way into her uneasy, restless dreams, which have lately been filled with visions of her family dying and her Fenris turning away from her? That it took advantage of her heartbreak - and possessed her? That she is turning into... into an abomination?..

With a soft whooshing sound, the blinding pall of snow dissolves to a see-through, hazy veil - one of the Templars must have used the special ability to dispel magic. Blinking and squinting as the bright sun rays peek through  the clouds once more, Hawke slides her glance along the thawing ice crystals, and the dark silhouettes of the menacing men and women in armour, who reassemble their ranks and start closing in on her once again. Then, she casts her eyes back down at her treacherous hands, and grasps her left wrist tightly. Not that it is likely to be of any help - but she is at an utter loss what else to do to push back the destructive force within her.

Sitting this way, her hooded head inclined meekly, her clasped hand resting on her knees, she waits patiently for the Templars to approach and exact their justice. Whether it will be Tranquility or death, she no longer cares. She is not only a worthless weakling - she is a danger to others. And she must be done away with.

She does not dare look up - but after a few moments, she hears a deafening rattle, as though an entire cupboardful of silverware has come toppling down to the ground. A muffled voice spits out a curse - and then another one exclaims,

'Look! The bleedin' apostate is doing it again!'

This makes her tear her eyes away from her hands and look around tentatively.

It appears that the ice crust has begun to spread around her again; one of the Templars has slipped on it, landing (probably very painfully) on his metal-clad rear. A couple of others are leaning over him, helping him to his feet - and the rest are looming over Hawke, ready to strike her down.

She does not want to fight back - as Andraste is her witness, she does not. There is nothing she wishes more than to get this over with, once and for all. But the rebellious magic (or the demon nestling inside her) has other plans. As the Templar closest to her raises his sword, long, jagged silver threads shoot out from beneath Hawke's fingertips, trailing across the ground, and then wrap themselves around the knight's metal boots, chaining him to one spot.

The Templar huffs angrily, attempting to break free of his icy shackles - and his comrades flash their eyes through the slits of their helmets in an almost amusingly simultaneous way; one of them, a woman, steps behind the cowering mage, holding her sword pommel forward, in order to knock her target out.

Hawke shrinks her head into her shoulders, bracing herself for the blow - and the blow does come, abrupt and forceful and precise, making the world around her plummet into blackness. But before all is consumed by oblivion, she thinks she can see a bright flash of blue light, and hear a strange croaking sound, coming (so she vaguely assumes, at least) from the Templar woman. And it seems to her that the sound and the flash are also accompanied by a warm drizzle that splatters down on her shoulders from above and fills the air with the heady, metallic smell of blood...


***


Varric shakes his head and gives Anders a scolding look over the edge of his mug.

'I know you feel obliged to be a badass, Blondie - but that was really pushing it. There are people who worry about you, dontcha know. Next time you decide to pull of a stunt like that, at least tell me. I will have my people arrange an escape route if things go south'.

'Sfunf? Waff sfunf?' the human asks through a mouthful of mashed potato.

'Oh, come on!' the dwarf cries out dramatically, raising his hands into the air and then bringing them down onto his knees with a loud 'Slap!'. 'It's all over town! Some hooded apostate lady marches into the Gallows, summons a huge-ass snowstorm, the Templars corner her - and then, out comes running a glowing blue fella who tears them to shreds!'

Anders swallows his helping with a prolonged gulp, and then says, a little stiffly,

'I have no idea what you are talking about. I was in my clinic all day; there are half a dozen witnesses who can confirm it. I only came to the Hanged Man just now, because I haven't had a proper meal since the day before yesterday, and Merrill kept pestering me by poking her head inside to see if I had died of starvation yet'.

Varric snorts.

'Right. And you seriously expect me to believe that? Look, Blondie - how many other people in Kirkwall we know who hang around all blue and glowing and prone to random violence and...'

He pauses in mid-sentence, his eyes rounding, and then breathes out,

'Andraste's knickers... Whodathought the guy would actually save an apostate! That wine he keeps drinking must have a real kick to it!'


***

When Hawke finally comes to her senses, the dark spots before her eyes slowly shape themselves into the familiar outlines of her room. The edge of her bed. The tall, ornate dresser. The chest, where she still keeps her siblings' belongings. The long-suffering chair, which Merrill once wanted to take apart to provide Isabela with a proper peg leg. And someone sitting in that chair, awkwardly perching himself on its very edge. Someone tall and white-haired and... elven.

She lifts herself on her elbow and peers blankly ahead.

'Fen... Fenris?' she asks thickly, inhaling shakily as she feels her head swim - though whether it because of the recent blow or the uncontrollable, giddy burst of happiness, she cannot tell.

He coughs into his fist.

'I... I don't know what to say...' he mutters.

These are the only words he manages to get out of himself - and they soon sink into the bottomless bog of tense silence.

Hawke bites into her lips and looks away. She does not know what to say either. She does not know how to ask him why he came, or what happened while she was unconscious. She does not know how to tell him that she has been waiting for this moment far longer than she cares to remember - not daring to hope that he would ever return... to a mage like her.

And then, driven by some unexpected, inexplicable impulse, he gets up from his chair and lowers himself onto the edge of her bed - and, before she can process what is going on, sweeps her up into his arms and presses her face, gently, against his neck, so she can feel the warmth of the blood pulsing underneath his lyrium-streaked skin.

'I don't know what to say,' he repeats, weaving her hair around his fingers. 'But I am here'.