All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands

[wolfehawke]

It's only been a few days.

Hawke has to keep reminding himself of this because it feels like there has been too much tragedy crammed into too short a time to be believable. Meredith dead. Orsino dead. Fenris dead.

That last one hurts the most because it was by his own hand. He'll have Fenris' blood on his hands for the rest of his life. But what's worse, what's ultimately so much worse than killing a Knight-Commander even if she had it coming, than killing the Grand Enchanter of the Kirkwall Circle even if he'd never agreed with the Circle system in the first place, than even the look on Fenris' face when he'd died; resigned, as if he'd expected it to happen. Maybe he had, considering Hawke's track record with people he cared for (frankly it as a miracle that anyone else survived).

What's worse is that it's Anders' fault.

It's not. Not entirely, which had been his fellow mages' point from the start. It's the system, it's the Templars, its the mages' own complacency. It's zealotry, its the Chantry, its the Chant itself. But none of those things or people had lied to him, had put a bomb in a church, had forced the situation into violence on his own head. It was already heading that way, but Anders had to do it himself! For what?

Hawke knows for what. And that's the most infuriating thing. He agrees.

I removed the chance of compromise, because there is no compromise.

And now they're sleeping in the dirt on the other side of Sundermount, praying no one is coming for them. Aveline and Carver both had given them assurances but every noise makes him look over his shoulder, has Merril's hand on her staff. In fact, the only one of them that doesn't seem on edge is Anders and that infuriates Hawke almost more than being unable to be sufficiently angry with him. He's ready for whatever comes, it seems, be that escape or beheading. It makes Hawke want to shake him.

As it is, he stalks to the edge of their meager campfire under the guise of keeping watch. Really he just needs to get away. They're depending on him to give them direction but all he can feel right now is hurt, anger, and loss.

Comments

[sayhitobianca]

Honestly, after everything, Varric is just tired. The kind of tired that doesn't get better with twelve or so hours of sleep, unfortunately - the kind that usually involves some heavy soul searching.

And the only time Varric likes soul searching is when it's a very engaging passage in his latest book.

But it seems like he isn't the only one who isn't able to sleep after all of this. For a moment, Varric stays where he is, wondering if this is one of those times where he should let it be. Only for a moment, though, and then he's clambering to his feet.

Varric's never been one to let it be. And maybe that's part of what got him into this whole mess, but it's not something he's going to change now.

"Feel like getting something off your chest?" he asks as he drops down to sit next to Hawke without looking at him, staring off into the distance. "Or am I going to have to resort to a vague 'and our champion spent the night contemplating by the fire' when I write this part of your biography?"

[wolfehawke]

Normally that would earn Varric a smirk or even a laugh. Adalwolfe's always thought the very concept of writing a book about him was hysterical; he doesn't feel any more interesting than anyone else. Ferelden had hundreds of refugees from the Blight, Kirkwall has other rags to riches stories, he hadn't done anything that anyone else couldn't do, they just hadn't. Or so he says. Mostly to keep himself from getting a big head about it.

Tonight, Varric only gets a deeper scowl and a grind of teeth.

"I worked hard to get where I was. To raise my family back to something great. I didn't even want it at first, you know. It was for Mother, so she didn't have to live in that hovel because of Gamlen's mistakes, but I would have given anything to go back to Ferelden." He runs a hand over his face, scowl morphing into something less scrutable. Pensive, maybe. "That's the thing about wealth, even if you try not to let it change you, you get comfortable, and I was so very comfortable, Varric. Silk sheets, generations-old tapestries, books my father might have killed for, invitations to parties - and not just from Orlesian nobles that want to kill me, actual earnest invitations. Even if I never went. I never wanted any of it but I enjoyed it."

He drops his hands to his sides, feeling for a moment like he wants to scream out at the night. Maybe even let the Templars find them just so he can use the resulting fight to get out his aggression. But that would be stupid, and he doesn't do it.

He's not really angry about the loss of the estate, anyway.

"I had no idea he planned this."