In which Hawke’s mother dies, and Fenris finds out the story behind Hawke’s extensive back tattoo. For @dadrunkwriting Friday.

Can someone explain to me why this game is so bleak? Like excuse me what am I supposed to do with all these feelings.

Read on AO3 instead. (~5700 words). 

********************

Fenris saw his lyrium tattoos as scars.

It was an odd characterization, perhaps; the marks had been a murderous boon since he’d left Danarius’s side, and he used them so seamlessly now that the ripple of pain that accompanied their activation was second nature to him. But no matter their utility, no matter their use, Fenris still saw them as scars.

They were a terrible and constant reminder of the worst injury he could remember. They seemed to weigh down his skin sometimes, making his body feel heavier than it was, and there was never a day where he completely forgot the marks were there. If that wasn’t the definition of a scar, then Fenris didn’t know what was.

Naturally, Hawke had to put a sunny spin on his suffering. He still remembered the matter-of-fact tone to her voice when she’d told him it was a good way to see his tattoos.

Fenris frowned. “How can you think it’s good to be covered from head to toe in scars?”

She gave a short bark of laughter. “Well, not when you put it like that. But, well, scars heal, right? They’re literal proof that your wounds have healed. They’re not all bad.”

“I’ve known slaves whose scars never stopped hurting,” he said sharply. “Knotted skin that’s stiff from years of whippings. Scars from magical wounds that continue to feel like fire for years after the injury. A scar is proof that the flesh hasn’t healed.”

She twisted her lips ruefully. “All right, you have a point,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t seem to be the case with you. You look quite whole and healthy to me, my friend.” She slid a heated look over his body from head to toe.

Fenris gave her an exasperated look. “I am being serious.”

“So am I!” she defended. Her coppery eyes traced the curving white lines that ran from his chin to the base of his throat, then she returned her gaze to face.

“Only survivors have scars, Fenris,” she said in an unusually serious tone. “So if that’s how you want to see your tattoos, then yes, I’d consider that a good thing.”

He studied her thoughtfully as she sipped from her tumbler of brandy. Her perspective was maddeningly optimistic, as usual. But… Fenris supposed he could see her point.

Fenris had always seen his tattoos as scars, but Hawke had made him consider them in a way that he hadn’t before.

It took him far too long to realize that he’d never asked if she saw her tattoos in the same way.

*********************

“You’ve always made me so proud,” Leandra whispered. Seconds later, she was gone.

The ensuing silence was horrible. It crawled over Fenris’s shoulders like a malicious shadow, competing with the cacophony of the fight that was still pounding in his ears.

He dropped his greatsword, making Isabela jump with the ensuing clang, then slowly approached Hawke and knelt beside her. Leandra was cradled in her arms, as limp and relaxed as a straw-stuffed doll. Hawke was just as still and silent as her mother, her face hidden by the curtain of her long dark hair.

Fenris sadly studied Leandra’s bloodless face. This atrocity was no worse than some of the more nefarious feats he’d seen in the Imperium, but it never got easier to see the remains that such horrendous blood magic left behind. And for the victim to be Hawke’s mother…

Leandra had always been wary of him, but she’d seemed mostly harmless. A gentle and defenseless woman. And Hawke had adored her.

Fenris reached over and gently closed Leandra’s eyelids. “Leandrakost. Ataash varin kata,” he murmured. It wasn’t much, but it was all he could think of to say.

Hawke drew in a slow, tremulous breath, and Fenris leaned toward her slightly. “Hawke?” he said quietly.

Slowly, very slowly, she turned her head to look at him. Her cheeks were pale with shock, almost as pale as her mother’s, and her amber eyes were huge in the pallor of her face.

She looked absolutely haunted. Fenris stared at her wordlessly, paralyzed by a sudden rush of tenderness as he took in her expression.

Then Aveline was kneeling at Hawke’s side as well. “Hawke, I am… so sorry,” she whispered.

Hawke looked over at Aveline, then returned her gaze to Leandra’s face without speaking.

A painful moment later, Aveline spoke again. “What can we do?”

Sebastian crouched beside them. “We should take her to the Chantry,” he suggested quietly. “Grand Cleric Elthina will bless her. Cleanse her of the corruption of this place.”

“That’s a good idea,” Aveline agreed. “Right, Hawke?” She was stroking the mage’s back gently as she spoke.

Hawke nodded silently, her gaze still on her mother’s face, and Sebastian began to rise to his feet. “I can carry her to the Chantry, with your permission. The sisters can start preparing her for the burial-”

“No,” Hawke said suddenly. Her voice was raspy, and she cleared her throat before speaking again. “No burial. This body isn’t…” She trailed off, and Fenris watched as she swallowed hard before speaking again. “No burial,” she insisted. “Blessings, yes – she’d… she’d want that. But no burial. Cremate her.”

Sebastian nodded graciously. “Of course.” He gestured delicately toward Leandra’s body. “Hawke, may I…?”

Hawke’s arms tightened around her mother’s body for a moment, and then she nodded. Sebastian carefully lifted the body, then gazed down at Hawke.

“I will take good care of her. I promise,” he said, then strode off toward the exit.

Hawke gave a tiny rueful huff and smirked at Fenris. “He’ll do better than I was able to, I’m sure. Should have hired him to guard my house. Sebastian the Holy Sentry: it’s like the makings of a romance serial.”

Her voice was still thick with unshed tears, but her tone was distinctly playful, and Fenris felt a small jolt of trepidation. Most of the time, Hawke’s jokes were just that: jokes. But when she was upset…

That was the thing with Hawke. The jokes didn’t stop when she was upset. If anything, she just joked even more.

The hint of humour seemed to be exactly what Isabela needed to step in, however. “Worst romance serial ever,” she drawled. “What’s a romance story without sex? No thank you.”

Hawke laughed and wiped her nose on her sleeve, and Aveline ignored them. “Come on, Hawke,” she said solicitously. “Let’s get you home.” She helped Hawke to her feet, then looked at Fenris. “Fenris, will you go and fetch the others? Varric and Merrill and Anders, they’ll want to-”

Suddenly Hawke’s hand was on Fenris’s arm, her cold fingers biting into his bicep. “No,” she blurted. “Fenris stays – I mean – I can’t deal with more… company. Not right now. I just want you three.” She looked up at him, her face crumpling slightly as though she was expecting to be rejected. “Unless you…”

A cold bolt of regret kicked him in the belly. He knew he’d been distant with her since their night together, but for her to think he would leave her side at a moment like this…

He shook his head. “I am with you,” he assured her, and her fingers relaxed slightly on his arm. Aveline nodded in acquiescence, and together they headed for the passage that would take them out of the Foundry and back to Lowtown.

The walk from Lowtown to Hawke’s mansion was excruciating. Aveline and Isabela filled any potential awkward silence with a back-and-forth of lewd comments and scolding, and eventually Hawke joined in with their banter. Fenris, in contrast, was silent as he listened to their idle talk. He trailed just behind Hawke, feeling strangely worried that she would collapse at any moment. She wasn’t injured, and she didn’t seem shaky on her feet, but Fenris just had this odd and ominous feeling.

As though the situation wasn’t already terrible enough, Gamlen accosted them the moment they walked through the door. “What happened?” he demanded. “Did you find her?”

Hawke pulled off her boots and tossed them on the mat, then pushed her hair back and faced him. “I’m sorry, Uncle,” she said. “She’s… she’s dead.”

Gamlen’s haggard face crumpled with distress. “Why Leandra? Why did they have to take her?”

Fenris heard Hawke’s quiet but deep inhale. “She… looked like someone. Like the killer’s dead wife. He, um… used Mother to reconstruct his dead wife.” She shivered slightly, and Fenris shifted a step closer to her.

Gamlen exhaled heavily as though he’d been punched in the gut. “What?” he said faintly. Fenris watched with growing unease as his face began to turn red. “What sort of… of nightmarish magic is that?” Gamlen snapped, then began pacing. “Maybe the Templars are right. Lock the mages up! Throw away the key!”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. He didn’t disagree with Gamlen, but even he had the sense not to bring this up now of all times.

Hawke’s hand rose to her forehead, and Isabela folded her arms. “Really? That’s what you have to say about this shitshow?” she complained.

Aveline stepped forward as though to block Hawke from her uncle’s rhetoric. “That’s enough,” she said firmly. “Gamlen-”

“No, it’s all right,” Hawke interrupted. “He has the right to… he has the right.” She dropped her hand and gazed at Gamlen steadily. “The killer was insane, Uncle. If he hadn’t used magic, it would have been a knife. Or a needle. Or a… wet sock, for fuck’s sakes. This was one determined asshole.”

“You said she was… used!” Gamlen shouted. “This goes beyond just murder. It’s… it’s desecration!”

He broke off with a dry sob, his voice ringing through the dark foyer. Then he took a step closer to Hawke, and Fenris tensed.

Gamlen’s eyes darted to Fenris’s face, and whatever he saw there made him stop. He glared at Hawke instead. “I wish you’d never told me what that twisted son of a bitch did to her,” he snarled. “I wish I hadn’t asked.”

“That makes two of us,” Hawke drawled. “This hasn’t been the most pleasant conversation I’ve had today, I can tell you that.”

Gamlen’s lip curled. “I hope you killed him.”

Hawke nodded silently, and Gamlen took a step back. “Good,” he said viciously. “I hope it hurt.” He turned and headed for the door. “Someone will need to tell Carver,” he said. “I’ll… I will deal with it.”

“I appreciate that,” Hawke said faintly, but the door was already closing behind him.

There was a brief silence, then Hawke released a loud sigh. “Well, that could have gone worse,” she said lightly. “He was almost pleasant at the end there.” She turned to Aveline. “Av, I hate to ask, but can you talk to Varric and the others? Tell them…” She shivered again, more violently this time, then folded her arms tightly as though to ward off a chill. “Just let them know what happened. I can’t…”

Aveline squeezed Hawke’s arms. “Say no more, Hawke. I’ll speak to them.” Then she took her leave.

Fenris studied Hawke worriedly. Her whole posture was stiff, almost as though she’d shatter if she was touched.

He opened his mouth to say – something, he wasn’t sure what – but before he could speak, Hawke turned to Isabela. “Bels, can you get the-”

“I’m two steps ahead of you, sweet thing,” Isabela said, then made a beeline for the desk in Hawke’s study.

Fenris frowned. “What is happening?”

Hawke turned to him, and to his mild alarm, she smiled. “You’re in for a treat,” she said. “A late night impromptu art show!” Without another word of explanation, she began to strip.

Fenris gaped at her as she dropped her belt and coat on the floor, then headed for the stairs while untucking her shirt from her trousers. She pulled the shirt over her head, then glanced over her shoulder at him. “Come on, hang out with me.”

He tore his eyes away from the coiling black tattoo that spilled from her left shoulder to her left-side ribs. Her mostly-bared back triggered an instantaneous bloom of uncomfortable longing in his belly, but he followed her up the stairs nonetheless.  

Cautiously and slowly, he followed her into her bedroom, and the roiling discomfort in his gut writhed more strongly still when she briskly removed her brassiere and lay facedown on the bed, naked from the waist up.

He stood awkwardly at the door and forced himself not to look at the golden canvas of her back. “Hawke, what-”

“Relax,” she said soothingly. “Isabela will be here in a moment. And no, we’re not having a threesome.” She propped herself up on her elbows and tossed him a cheeky grin over her shoulder. “Keep it in your pants for once, all right?”

Fenris tilted her a chiding look, and she chuckled as she settled back down on her belly and rested her chin on her folded arms. “Come on,” she said. “Come closer, all right? I’m not going to bite.”

He stepped slowly into the room, then prowled uncomfortably at the foot of her bed for a moment. The vibrating worry in his chest was stained now with an inappropriate tint of longing. He didn’t want to stare, but her naked back was like a lure, drawing his attention more surely than a moth was drawn to flame. This room was rife with memories both seductive and agonizing, and Fenris felt sickeningly guilty for even thinking about that night given the current circumstances.

Finally he took the chair from the desk in the corner and pulled it over to the left side of the bed where Hawke lay, then slumped into the chair and folded his arms. There, he thought. She was still naked, still alluring, but now he could focus on her face instead of her back.

She rested her cheek on her arms and gave him a tiny smile. “Hey,” she said softly.

He gazed back at her with a slight frown. Her face was calm and no longer haunted-looking, and it was somehow more worrying than her distress.

He should say something about Leandra. See if Hawke wanted to talk about it. That’s why he was here, was it not? That’s what people did when someone they cared about died?

He swallowed hard. “Hawke-”

“Ready?” Isabela said cheerfully. She strode into the room, then hopped onto the bed and settled herself on her knees beside Hawke’s torso.

Fenris broke off, guiltily relieved at her interruption. Then he was distracted by the armful of items she’d brought with her: a pot of ink, a handful of cloths, a bottle of clear spirits, and an odd item that looked like a slim wooden wand tipped with a needle.

Isabela arranged the items carefully on a large hardcover book that she’d also brought along, and Fenris raised one eyebrow. “What…”

Then he realized what was happening. His gaze slid from Isabela’s odd array to the twisting spikes and lines on Hawke’s back. “You’re having Isabela work on your tattoo?” he asked incredulously.

“That’s rude. You don’t have to sound so disbelieving,” Isabela drawled. She unscrewed the bottle of liquor and wet a cloth with its contents, then tilted her head at Hawke. “Where do you want it?”

“Lower ribs,” Hawke replied. “Just keep on where you left off last time.”

Last time? Fenris wondered, feeling utterly nonplussed. He watched as Isabela straddled Hawke’s hips and seated herself comfortably on the dark-haired mage’s bottom, then wiped Hawke’s back with the alcohol-soaked cloth.

“Fenris, stick this needle in the fire for a few seconds,” Isabela said. She handed him the needle implement.

Still feeling as though he was two steps behind somehow, he rose from his seat and did as he was told, then silently handed the implement back to Isabela. She took it with a nod, then picked up the bottle of spirits.

“Cheers, darlings,” she said, then took a swig and handed the bottle to Hawke.

Hawke lifted herself slightly onto her elbows and drank from the bottle, then hissed through her teeth. “Nasty,” she complained, then offered it to Fenris.

He took a tentative sip and grimaced as the harsh liquor burned its way down his throat. Hawke smirked at him as he placed the bottle on the floor. “You can go get yourself some wine if you like,” she teased.

He shook his head. “And miss out on this… what did you call it? An impromptu art show?”

Isabela smirked as she dipped her needle into the pot of ink. “You just don’t want to miss out on this girl-on-girl action. Admit it,” she said.

He raised one eyebrow at the cheeky pirate. “Oh, yes. Watching one woman repeatedly stabbing another with a needle is my particular fetish. How did you guess?”

Hawke laughed merrily. “Oh, Fenris. Such a dark horse,” she purred.

“Ready?” Isabela said, and Hawke nodded. Isabela placed one hand on Hawke’s side to hold the skin taut, then carefully pressed the needle into her skin.

Hawke closed her eyes and settled her cheek on her arms again, her expression placid as Isabela pressed the ink into her skin with quick, sharp pokes.

Fenris watched in silence as Isabela’s hand traced the outline of another winding black tendril on Hawke’s skin. With a slow-growing sense of shame, he realized that he’d never asked Hawke about this tattoo. It was extensive and detailed, and it seemed somewhat unusual for a woman of her upbringing; she might have been raised in a relatively humble home in Lothering, but her mother was upper-class. There had to be a story behind the art on her back, but he’d never asked.

“When did you first start… cultivating this tattoo?” he asked.

“When my father… Shortly after he died,” she said, without opening her eyes.

Her tone was pleasant and calm, but Fenris frowned. Her answer triggered a strange jolt at the back of his mind, like a hint of light at the crack beneath a door. Something about her answer gave him an odd feeling of foreboding.

He leaned back in the chair and watched Isabela work for a while longer. Then he tilted his head at her. “When did you start working on it?”

“When did it start getting really good, you mean?” Isabela said, and Hawke snorted into her arms. “A few years back. After you lot came back from the Deep Roads.”

After the Deep Roads. After Carver left to join the Templars, Fenris thought. The knowledge was creeping over him, as revealing as sunrise but so much uglier.

“Fenris?” He snapped back to attention at the sound of Hawke’s voice.

Her eyes were open and fixed on his face. “Tell us a story,” she said.

“A story?” he said blankly. He was distracted by the troubling picture that he was piecing together about her tattoo. Only now was he starting to understand how apt the writhing black lines were. He’d always thought the patterns were interesting, chaotic but beautiful like the woman who bore them, but now that he was seeing the darkness that underlay their origins…

“Yes,” Hawke said. “You know, ‘once upon a time, there was a handsome brooding elf with rippling abs and moss-green eyes that shone like the forest,’ that kind of thing.” She closed her eyes and smiled. “Come on, entertain us. We’ve got all night.”

He swallowed hard. Her jokes, her calm tone and her cheeky smile, the constant piercing of Isabela’s needle on her skin…

Fenris had a bad feeling about this.

“Fine,” he said, finally giving in to Hawke’s demand. What else could he do? “Once upon a time, there was a broody elf-”

“Ooh, I like this story already,” Isabela piped up.

He shot her a sardonic look. “… a broody elf minding his own business. Then he met a beautiful mage and a beautiful pirate, and they hounded him relentlessly until he died of aggravation. The end.”

Both women cackled, and Fenris smiled reluctantly. Hawke sighed happily as she nestled her cheek more comfortably into her forearms. “That was the worst story I’ve ever heard,” she informed him.

He shrugged and folded his hands in his lap. “You want a story, you should call on Varric.” He jerked his chin at Isabela. “Or ask this one. She is filled with sordid tales. Remind us again of that time you broke a man’s-”

Isabela burst into laughter. “Oh, that story was the least of it. I’ll do you one better. There was one time when we were raiding this little Antivan ship…”

Isabela’s cheerful voice filled the room, interrupted now and then with Hawke’s crude commentary, and Fenris sank into a pensive silence as their banter washed over him. He was still preoccupied with thoughts of Hawke’s tattoo.

Her mother had just died, and in an undeniably horrific way. And here she lay with a smile on her face and a wisecrack at the tip of her tongue, getting jabbed her over and over in the ribs with a sharp needle.

She’d been jabbed over and over after her father had died, and after Carver had left. Fenris wondered if she’d added to the tattoo after her sister had died. Maybe he could ask Aveline…?

But no. That would be intrusive. Hawke’s past was her own. It wasn’t his place to pry.

She laughed at some crack Isabela had made, and Fenris surreptitiously studied her with an aching heart. Her laughter was bright and sunny and indescribably sad.

The hours slid by in an unhurried flow, and the topic of Leandra’s demise didn’t come up. Fenris forced himself to join in with Hawke and Isabela’s banter, but it felt exactly that: forced. He could practically see Hawke’s facade crumbling with her every quip and snicker. Perhaps he was being overly sensitive, but he could almost feel the tension ratcheting higher in the room as the skin over her ribs grew redder and more inflamed.

Eventually a lull fell over their little trio, and Fenris continued to watch Isabela’s work in silence. Hawke’s forehead was resting on her forearms, her back rising and falling with slow and relaxed breaths as Isabela finalized the outline of another sharp and curling tendril, and Fenris wondered if the dark-haired mage had fallen asleep.

Isabela wiped away the excess ink, then leaned back and inspected her work. “Another one’s done. Should I keep going?”

“Uh, no. You can start filling them in now,” Hawke said, then sniffed.

Fenris stopped breathing. Hawke’s face was buried in her arms, but her voice was distinctly thick with tears.

Isabela’s gaze darted to his face. She looked slightly panicked, and they stared at each other for a long and loaded second.

Fenris nodded silently, and Isabela released a slow breath. She set the needle down, then leaned low over Hawke’s back. “Listen, babe, I’m going to call it quits for tonight,” she murmured. “My hand is cramping up. Don’t want to fuck up my masterpiece.”

“Oh,” Hawke said. Fenris pretended not to notice as she wiped her face hastily on her arms. “Okay. Thanks, Bels. Can you do more tomorrow? Can’t leave this work of art unfinished.”

“You know it,” Isabela said. She slid off of Hawke’s back and moved the tattoo materials from the bed onto Hawke’s desk, then approached the bed and dropped a kiss on Hawke’s temple. “Bye, sweet thing.”

“Bye,” Hawke murmured, and Isabela strode toward the door, but not before jerking her head for Fenris to follow.

He stood from his chair and joined Isabela by the stairs, and she handed him a small pot of salve from her pouch belt. “Embrium. For the tattoo,” she said quietly. “If you think you can handle that.”

“I can apply salve. I’m not a complete fool,” Fenris muttered. Then he frowned. “Why doesn’t she just use a healing spell…?”

The answer hit him before he could fully articulate the question. The pain was part of it. Pain during the process, pain that lingered for days afterward, a punishment and a distraction all at once.

Isabela shrugged unconcernedly. “Different people deal with their shit in different ways,” she said airily. “I like to fuck and fight, you like to smash things, Hawke likes to do this.” She nodded her head toward the bedroom.

I don’t think it has anything to do with liking it, Fenris thought, but he didn’t say so. He simply nodded a silent thanks, then returned to Hawke’s room.

She was curled in a fetal position on the bed, and Fenris slowly crouched at the side of the bed. Her eyes were tightly shut, her expression unequivocally distressed, and now was the time. He should say something. Something… kind and comforting.

His mind was blank. He couldn’t think of a single thing. Should he say he was sorry, like Aveline had done? Make a joke like Isabela was wont to do?

He hesitated for a long, painful moment before speaking. “Hawke, I… don’t know what to say,” he murmured.

She sniffled. “You can say anything. I don’t mind. I just like to hear your voice.” She opened her eyes and smiled weakly.

He gazed back at her seriously. “To be honest, I don’t think there is much point in filling these moments with empty talk.”

Her smile twisted with a hint of humour. “You’re not very good at this, you know.”

“I am well aware,” he said ruefully. He seated himself on the floor and wracked his brain, trying to think of some way to wipe away the growing awkwardness.

Then Hawke spoke. “Do you know she blamed me for Bethany’s death?” she said. “At least, she did at first. But I think she regretted saying it afterwards.”

She was silent for a moment. “She didn’t mean it,” she said quietly, as though to herself. “I know that.”

Fenris frowned slightly. “This…wasn’t your fault either.” He trailed off uncertainly. Hawke wasn’t to blame for her mother’s death, not really, but… Fenris could see only too clearly why she was blaming herself. If they’d wrapped up their errands for the day a bit sooner, and Hawke had caught her mother before she’d left the house… Or if this blasted city wasn’t crawling with apostates and blood mages…  

If Hawke had supported the Templars more- The half-formed thought pushed its way up from the most uncompromising corner of his mind, and he shoved it away before it could get anywhere near his mouth.

“I know, I know,” Hawke said lightly. “Nothing is my fault, right? Not this. Not Bethany. Not Carver leaving or… or-”

“Rynne,” Fenris said firmly, and her face instantly crumpled at his use of her first name.

He took a deep breath, then told her the words she’d once said to him. “People die, and they leave, and…terrible things happen. That is life. That is not your fault.”

He watched with a fresh throbbing of sympathy as a rivulet of tears trickled along her face toward her pillow. Then she sniffled hard and smiled at him. “Who told you that? Somebody stupid, I bet.”

He smiled faintly at her, and she laughed wetly and wiped her face. “Maker’s balls, I did say that, didn’t I.”

He nodded. “You did.”

She sighed heavily, a long exhale of breath. “Ah, chaos and randomness,” she said musingly. “My dear old friends. I didn’t imagine they’d bite me in the ass so hard, though.” She laughed again, then buried her face in her hands.

Fenris stared at her shaking body, his heart pounding painfully against his ribs. Finally he rose to his feet and climbed onto the bed beside her. He rolled back his long sleeves, then unscrewed the lid from the pot of salve that Isabela had given him.

He dipped two fingers into the runny salve, then hesitated for a breathless moment before spreading it carefully over her freshly tattooed skin.

She sobbed and curled even more tightly into a ball. “Fenris…” she whimpered.

Her voice was small and broken like the cry of a starving kitten, and it rasped across his heart like sandpaper. Her pain was so close that he could almost feel it, like a malevolent heat emanating from her skin.

His eyes felt like they were burning. Maybe there was menthol in this salve. He blinked hard, then dipped his fingers into the pot and smoothed a bit more of the ointment over Hawke’s tattoo. “I am here,” he said gruffly.

She sobbed again, then pressed her hands more firmly to her face. Fenris continued to spread the ointment over her back, gently rubbing it in with careful circular motions. His fingers traced gently over the fresh black lines, stroking her side as soothingly as he knew how. He continued to work the salve into her skin until her shaking body grew still.

She shivered, and goosebumps rippled over her arms. Fenris shifted away from her slightly and tugged on the blankets. “Come. Get into bed,” he said.

She followed his suggestion silently, pulling the blankets up to her chin, then rolled over in bed so she was facing him. She winced as she settled on her tender left side, then blinked up at him. “You can go,” she said softly. “I’m… I should sleep. I’ll be okay.”

Her face was blotchy and her eyes bloodshot. She was almost unrecognizable in her grief, and so undeniably dear to him that it hurt.

He shook his head. “I will stay a little longer,” he said. “Until you fall asleep.” He settled his back against the headboard and folded his hands comfortably over his belly.

She smiled faintly, just the slightest quirk of her lips. “All right,” she whispered. Then she closed her eyes.

Fenris listened to her soft breathing, the slight shifting as she made herself comfortable, then the deepening of her breaths as she slid into sleep. In the flickering light from the fireplace, he studied her beautiful salt-stained face: she looked serious and peaceful, and temporarily freed from the grief that would surely rise again to maul her in the morning.

He experimentally shifted his position on the bed, and she didn’t wake. This was a good time for him to leave.

He continued to sit on the bed beside her, his eyes tracing along the sharpness of her cheekbones and the darkness of her hair.

Perhaps he would stay just a little bit longer. Just in case.

******************

“Hey, elf.”

Fenris jolted awake, his entire body jumping with tension as he snapped open his eyes. Fasta vass, where is my fucking sword-

“Easy, easy!” Varric hissed. “No one’s trying to mug you, it’s just me. Careful, or you’ll wake her.”

“Wh-what? Varric? What are you…” Fenris was disoriented, unused to being woken by another person unless he was being ambushed, and his brain was scrambling to catch up with the blood that was racing through his veins.

“Stay still, or you’ll wake her,” Varric whispered.

Fenris scowled. What the fuck was Varric talking about? Then, belatedly, he realized where he was.

Hawke’s bedroom. On Hawke’s bed. With growing horror, he realized the position he was in.

He was completely curled around her. His chest was pressed firmly to Hawke’s back, his knees tucked behind her own. His head was pillowed on her fragrant hair, his face an inch from the warm nape of her neck, and his arm was curled tightly around her blanketed form.

Varric was standing beside the bed, and Fenris was impressed at how neutral his expression was, aside from the slightly raised eyebrows. “Morning, sunshine,” Varric drawled softly.

A plethora of curses rattled at the back of Fenris’s tongue, but he bit them back. Slowly and carefully, and with not a little regret, he began to uncoil himself from Hawke’s sleeping body. “I… shouldn’t be here,” he muttered.

Varric lifted one eyebrow slightly higher. “You sure about that?” he asked.

Fenris glared at him. “Yes,” he bit off. “I… she thought I would leave last night. I am not expected here.”

Varric watched in silence as Fenris slowly slid off of the bed. Then he shrugged. “Sure,” he said casually. “Do what you gotta do. I’ll stay with her.”

Fenris inspected Varric’s face suspiciously, but the dwarf’s expression was infuriatingly non-judgmental as he sat in the chair by Hawke’s head.

Fenris shot one last glance at Hawke’s sleeping face, then turned away and left the room. The day was grey and cloudy when he stepped out of her mansion, an uncanny match for his mood as he made his way home.

He couldn’t help but think about Hawke’s tattoo: beautiful twisting lines that were traced by her trauma and filled in with ink. He thought of her smile as the needle pierced her skin in a constant and continuous rhythm, the unfettered rawness of her misery when he spread that soothing salve over her skin.

That’s when Fenris realized that, like his own, Hawke’s tattoo was a scar. An intricate, exquisite, winding scar that bled from her left collarbone across her shoulder blade and down to her ribs.

It represented her wounds. Her father, her sister – her whole family, now: these were her wounds, her losses made physical and printed painfully on her skin in order to heal.

A terrible thought occurred to him. Maybe Fenris was just another wound. Another person who had left her.

He ruthlessly pushed the thought aside. No, he told himself. I left so I wouldn’t do more damage than I’ve already done. Hawke believed that scars were for survivors, and she was one of the most dogged survivors he’d ever met. She would survive her mother’s loss like she’d survived the others, and she would do it more easily without the mixed messages of his constant presence.

Leaving was the right thing to do, he told himself. He didn’t know how to comfort a mourning person, after all. Varric would do far better at that than he.

Better to let Hawke work through this without his distracting presence. It was the right thing to do.

Leaving her was the right thing.

Wasn’t it?

*******************

Qunari phrase translation: Leandrakost. Ataash varin kata = Peace, Leandra. In the end lies glory.