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She burns Sage, and the nightmares don’t go away. She wards her room, and still they slip in. She downs sleeping draughts, prepared by a sympathetic Anders, and all it accomplishes is to leave her stranded, unable to wake as her mother's corpse jerks upright, shambles forwards. She gives herself over to fighting, patrolling the streets with Aveline, and Varric, from whom she can not hide that something is wrong. But there are no tears.
Days spent gardening with Merrill, hands dug into the stubborn alienage dirt, coaxing flowers and vegetables forth so there will be food for the hungry, beauty for the weary. The elves of Kirkwall come to know and accept her, ‘Not just a friend to the Shems’ they whisper, and gift her flowers to cheer the estate. Never, of course, white lilies. Occasional nights spent in Isabela’s bed, rarely for sex, mostly for the comfort of another person there, arms ready to hold and soothe. Isabela, Hawke comes to learn, knows nightmares well. They are old friends, she says.
“It’s ok. Cry if you need to. Scream if you want. I understand. I’m right here, Hawke.”
The tears and screams stay locked inside. She convinces herself she doesn’t need them.
She doesn’t avoid Fenris, not exactly. He’d come to comfort her, and it was appreciated, but it was difficult enough to deal with the conflicting storm of emotions that losing Leandra had brought about. She didn't have the energy to wonder about him, about her, about them. Her heart aches for what could have been, but she tries to give him the space he needs. ‘Maybe… one day.’ she thinks to herself.
Grief, as immediate and painful as it is, has a way of fading, and though the nightmares don’t leave, they take on a monotonous familiarity that she can almost live with. Eventually some of the joy begins to return to her. She laughs at one of Varric’s jokes. She braids the flowers sown by her own hands into the hair of a young elven boy, humming a tune that sounds sad, but with a happy smile as her deft fingers work through coppery locks. She watches others die, Seamus in his father's arms, broken and bloody, and inwardly she weeps for his loss. Outwardly she lets slip a curse that makes Sebastian blush, stutter, and protest her rude mouth in front of the Grand Cleric. She lets him know, in no uncertain terms, that she doesn’t care one whit about Elthina’s sensitive disposition. She begins to feel normal again, and hates herself for it.
Some of her calm bravado is back by the time she stands in front of the Arishok. Fenris is talking to the Qunari, stance firm, his sonorous voice unheard to her. Seeing Carver had been a balm to her soul, even for those brief, blood soaked minutes. He has stuck with Stroud, a hurried word tells her that Kalazar is far away, in Tevinter, and She can tell that Carver is as glad of it as herself.
Fenris is looking dismayed, and Isabela horrified, but in the moment Hawke doesn’t care. Her ears are filled with the sounds of the whimpers and screams, the explosions and clash of swords that are only dimly muffled by the walls of the keep, and she is eager to lose herself in the dance of battle. She eyes the Qunari soldiers. A few spells, and they could end this. Her grip tightens on her staff.
“A duel.”
Fenris grabs her by a shoulder, grip tight, eyes burning.
“You must fight him alone,” he whispers, and then recoils when her smile only widens. A gentle hand pushes him away. She strides forward, cold gathering in the tips of her fingers, staff slowly twirling. She can do this. She must do this, to save those she can, to apologize to those she couldn’t. Hawke screams a desperate battle cry, and throws a spray of freezing ice at the Arishok’s feet.
When the sword pierces her, she finds it odd that, rather than a burning pain, she feels a cold, spreading numbness. There isn’t time for much more than that, and she lays one hand on his face as he lifts her, still impaled, overhead. A shard of ice pierces his brain, and they fall in an inelegant tangle of staff, limbs, sword, and horns. In the dead silence that follows her head lolls to one side, and there she is. Leandra standing in the crowd, nodding, eyes tight with worry but chin lifted in pride.
The tears and screams finally come, but are lost in a crescendo of noise that rises up from around her. She is still screaming as Fenris gathers her into his arms, ignoring Anders protests, and flees towards Avelines quarters. She tries to reach out to her mother, but the world goes dark.
She awakens at home, in her own bed, and they are all there. Her friends, her family, Orana with a mild broth to help her regain strength. Merrill is busy stocking every free inch of space with the flowers that pour in from everywhere. Her favorite bouquet comes from the alienage, stocked not just with beautiful flowers, but ones that will be useful even after they wilt, with leaves that can be dried and crushed into healing poultices. Anders, who looks as though he hasn’t slept in weeks, is overjoyed. There are herbs as well, and beads, and a small Mabari carved with enough detail so that she could see a specific pattern of Kaddis. Sandal with a rune he presses excitedly into her hand. “Enchantment.” She squeezes the boys hand in gratitude. Aveline is in and out, and Isabela is there, though tense, and Hawke can’t seem to stay awake long enough to talk to her. Varric reads to her. Sebastian prays, and is understanding when she tells him that she can’t. Not right now. Maybe not ever again. Both Meredith and Orsinio attempt to visit, but Bodahn sends them away, polite but firm.
Only Fenris is missing. Each time she wakes, she searches for him, disused voice croaking out his name. Orana dabs beeswax onto her chapped lips, tells her that he was downstairs, or helping Aveline with clean up. One time she tells Hawke that he’d stayed the night, but left early that morning. Hawke barks a hoarse laugh, the stitches in her wound straining and aching.
“What else is new" she mutters before drifting off again.
Then, finally, she wakes once in the middle of the night and there he is. He sprawls in the chair next to her bed, a simple book in his lap. When she moves one hand towards him he wakes, sitting up, the book tumbling to the floor. They stare at each other, wordless moments stretching out. She only realizes that she is crying when Fenris reaches out a hesitant hand, one thumb gently brushing beneath her eye, coming away wet. Wordlessly he moves to sit next to her, hands gripping in the flickering light of the lone candle. She can hold it in so longer, the tears flowing freely but silent, choking on her voiceless sobs, pain blooming from her wound, spreading to clench her in iron bands.
He is silent through it all, till the end, when at last she has exhausted herself. Stepping to a table, he returns with a draught, encouraging her to sip at it, knowing it will help ease the pain. He bends down as she drifts off, brushing a lock of icy blonde hair, stuck to her face with tears and sweat, behind an ear. Darkness enveloping her, she still manages to hear the whispered words.
“Leandra would be very proud of you, Kyana Hawke.”
She drifts away with a smile on her lips, the demons of regret and grief at last calm and silent within.