Hi guys! Sooo... this is a thing. I'm testing the waters to see if you guys would actually want to read this? If I get enough of a response I'll post the second chapter. It's just a thing. the second chapter has been elusive to my muse. :/ I was hopin' a little positive reinforcement could help me out

anyway, this takes place in a reality where Carver died outside Lothering, Bethany died in the deep roads and of course the whole creepy zombie mom thing occured. Fenris was romanced, but too tied up in his own memories and not realizing what it would do to hawke so soon after losing his mother, he left after the first night.

this fic is based on that idea-the observation that no matter what happens to poor Hawke, Fenris leaves you at the end of Act 2 before the Qunari invasion. It seemed rather cruel of him. I decided to explore things from Hawke's POV and this monstrosity ensued.

TLDR: Ya'll like it, I'll post more.

this ficcy's also up on AO3. I wanna transition over there since there's fewer restrictions, but the copy-pasta upload method is so TIME CONSUMING. I find myself manually putting " P " breaks and "emphasis" into my HTML for EVERY paragraph and it makes me want to never post there. O_O

When he felt Aveline tug on his elbow, saw the look of grim acceptance on the Arishok's broad face, he knew that this had gone horribly wrong. He ran with the rest of the guards in a frantic race to the gates, lances raining down on them all thicker than any summer storm. He heard men dying around him and had no time to stop, no time to look for help and no way to turn around with Aveline leading him by the arm. Though he was pretty sure that if he just stood still and let them hit, he'd have enough blood and enough power in his dying breath to take them all out. He could stop this war right here, if he only dared use blood magic. It was so close. He knew exactly the way to push his power through his own life force. Exactly the way to—

Hawke stumbled just once, but it served to be his undoing. The moment he slipped, something punched him in the side hard enough to knock him into Aveline. She kept him upright without even glancing in his direction, her grip sure and strong. He was grateful to her—he would have fallen if he'd been alone. His world shifted as they ran, images swimming into a realm of grayscale and slow motion. Whatever had hit him had left him achingly sore, vision tunneling, each motion he made tugging at the edges of the wound and smarting like a terrible bruise. It took him a few sluggish moments to realize that the blow had been a lance, that it was the blade scraping against his ribs that made putting one foot in front of the other so difficult all of the sudden.

As if understanding it had summoned the pain, the moment he was able to comprehend what had happened he was flooded with ripping agony, tearing up his side and stopping his breath. He could feel the blade stirring his entrails, tearing his flesh. Almost in shock, he could do nothing but continue on, one foot in front of the other. Each step was a tug of the wound. His lungs pumped air almost violently in and out, whole body moving with the effort. The two rhythms of running and breathing jarred the embedded weapon at a jangling, inconstant beat, not quite predictable—not quite something he could acclimate to and push passed. He knew there was a way to make it stop—that if he only dared to search it out there was a demon in the Fade waiting for him to beg for help—that he could control it. The pain would stop and the wound would heal and the blood, oh, the blood was so full of magic. It was singing, couldn't he hear it?

Hawke tore his consciousness from the brink of the fade. The hurt and the blood plopping sickening to the ground with every step had him tipping dangerously close to dreaming, but he had enough will to see this through. He only had to think of his mother's dying breath to know he'd die before taking even a step towards blood magic. Still, the way out stretched endlessly forward. He thought he'd spend an eternity being dragged along through too-narrow streets and dank back alleys. It was only his need to protect Aveline and sheer adrenaline that kept him from passing out then and there.

Eventually, by some miracle, they lost their Qunari pursuers. Hawke wasn't aware enough to know it, but he'd learn later that they'd practically flown through the Qunari gates and the Docks, managed to trek through several blocks of Lowtown before stumbling to a stop.

"Maker take them all!" The Captain cursed, letting go of him at last as they rounded the final corner. Hawke collapsed against the wall behind him not a second later, but it brought him no relief. Falling against the stone only served to jar his wound again. It was all he could do to remember how to breathe. He slid bonelessly down the alley wall, body shaking with shock. He wished he could just go to sleep, dream forever and forget the rest of the world, but he couldn't stop here. Not just yet. Especially not when he knew there was something waiting for him on the other side, all too excited to see him slip up.

If he was going to keep moving, this damn lance was going to have to go. Hawke wrapped his hands around the shaft as best he could, to see if he could move it. No such luck; the limb on his injured side wasn't responding well enough to be of any use. Hawke's fingers thudded clumsily against the wood, flooding him with tiny thrums of hot agony. He wanted it out. He felt irrationally like crying.

"Those were good men." Aveline was talking to him, but he was too far gone in the maddening haze of pain and panic to hear her. She'd been facing away from him since they started running, probably didn't even know he was hurt. He couldn't think well enough to tell her. "Void take the blasted Arishok, I swear on all that I am that this will not go un—" She turned at just the right second "Hawke!" Aveline gasped as she caught sight of his predicament. She must have been too focused on her rage and her lost men to notice his new attachment during their run. He wasn't sure if that was a testament to his ability to persevere, a statement as to her obliviousness or an insult to his normal state of fitness. Probably it was a combination of the three. The world seldom held simple answers, after all.

"Hawke." She repeated again, swallowing, as if his name were an anchor to hold her to reality. He wanted to laugh as much as cry, and wasn't sure why. Aveline seemed terrified at the very sight of him. So then, it must have looked every bit as terrible as it felt. He tried to spare her a chuckle, but he could scarcely get enough air to breathe. His mind was only half focused—currently this efforts were tied up in trying to tug the damned shaft out. There was no way he could heal himself with the thing still there. He needed it gone. But the arm closest to the wound didn't appear to want to cooperate, and the other was so weak that he could do nothing more than wiggle the spear sticking out of his side, sending jolts of excruciating sensation through his entire body with every pull.

"Aveline, could—could you—" She rushed into motion at the sound of his voice, dropping her shield in her haste. Hawke shifted to try to give her more access to the wound.

"No, Hawke don't—" The warning came too late. His attempt to move jarred the butt of the lance against the ground, replacing his senses with pain pain pain until the world faded away and the hurt and the dark was all that existed. At least this way he was too addled to hear any demon's honeyed words.

"Don't you do this to me now, Hawke!" Aveline dragged him back to reality with a harsh slap, the sting forcing his mind to pull all its shattered fragments back from the void. Hawke focused on her face to give himself something to anchor to. "I am going to pull this shaft on the count of three, and you are not going to pass out. That is an order Hawke." She demanded, her voice uncharacteristically frantic. He hated that he'd done this to her—his cool-headed Aveline. Such a good friend. A good sister.

"Aye, Captain," He gasped, granting her a wry smile. She didn't return the gesture. Woman needed to learn to lighten up.

"…three." She counted with an even voice, yanked the wood and steel free from its bed in Hawk's side before his body could comprehend what she was doing. He nearly bit his own tongue trying to weather the agony that followed, but he didn't slip back under into the dark. Aveline's warm grip on his shoulder kept him grounded.

"Glad you're here." He slurred, drunk on pain. The guard captain didn't spare his words a moment's notice. She was already pulling his shirt away from the wound as gently as she could, removing fabric from the places where it had become stuck to his insides. Hawke worked very hard not to scream each time she touched the raw flesh and exposed bone. "You know what would be really good right now?" He asked, his thoughts floating in a hundred different places all at once. He didn't expect her to answer him, but he liked the sound of his own voice just now. Liked the warmth of his own breath against the pallet of his throat. "A flagon of ale would be amazing." He choked on the last word, wincing as she pulled away a particularly blood-sodden scrap.

"Sorry Hawke." She tossed the apology out without meaning it. Aveline was always all about her work. All duty. That was why Donnic was so good for her.

"Seriously though, I—mmph." He had to stop talking or risk his words dissolving into embarrassing wails of pain. Hawke snapped his mouth closed with an audible clack, muffled his voice with the back of his still functioning arm. He managed to maintain some semblance of dignity until the very end, when the shock had settled comfortably in his mind, and his pride had lost all meaning. Hawke could do nothing to stop the weak whimpers that escaped him by the time Aveline cut the last of his shirt away, but she said nothing about how pathetic he sounded. Good woman, Aveline.

"Heal." She grabbed his good hand and held it just above the wound, didn't comment on the places where he'd bitten through his own skin to stifle the pain. "Heal, soldier!" She commanded, and Hawke almost didn't listen. How easy would it be to simply fade away here? "Hawke, you are not allowed to die on me. Not now. Heal." She was pleading with him. And somewhere outside of his failing mental faculties he knew she was right. He had a responsibility to see them all out of this.

Hawke reached for his magic and pushed, too out of his head to remember how to be careful and efficient with its use. He wound up flooding them both with healing energy, curing minor scratches and muscle aches and his gaping wound all to the same degree. The result was a tenuous, still-oozing scab over too-hastily knitted muscles. He hadn't been able to do anything about the notches in his ribs, but he had somewhat miraculously managed to reaffix his entrails without issue. It was by no means the best healing job, not even for Hawke's meager skills, but he was in no danger of bleeding to death.

"Whoops." He mumbled once he'd found the strength to speak again. His magic was nothing more than a faint buzz at the edge of his psyche; he'd used too much of it. It would be sluggish to return. Aveline was blinking beside him, a little overwhelmed by the healing magic he'd just washed her in, but no worse for wear. She scanned his side one more time, appraising his work. Sighing in relief, she dug out one of their emergency healing tinctures from its hidden place at her waist. It did nothing but lessen the small amount of blood still eking out to clot, but it did much more to soothe the pain than Hawke could manage. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding as the stuff turned cool against his inflamed skin.

"We'll have to get moving quickly. Every templar and Asaad in the city will have sensed your display just now," She teased. Hawke chuckled back, tried to use the wall behind himself to stand, but he was still too weak. Aveline stopped him with a careful hand on his shoulder. "Wait." She removed the kerchief from its eternal place about her neck, and after a little thought, began tearing it to shreds. "This would be a lot easier if we'd brought Anders along." She fussed as she tied strips of handkerchief together quickly and carefully. Hawke saw his own blood covering her steady hands. It smeared along the fabric as she worked.

"Should have argued with the guards longer." Hawke agreed, jovially. "Would have been an easier fight if they'd turned on us sooner anyway." He managed not to wince when she wrapped the few loops of bandage she'd managed to craft around the wound, finishing her work with a tight knot and a glare. Don't do this again, her eyes said, panicked. Hawke understood what she couldn't say.

"That will have to do for now." She grunted, pushing herself to her feet before reaching down and lifting the mage by the waist. The wound at his side pulled rather uncomfortably, but his shoddy healing didn't split back open. He could weather this. "Let's find the others, and regroup." She coached, trying to make sure he stayed alert and aware despite the hurt and the blood loss. He didn't know where he would be without her. (Dead, most likely.) He watched her pick her shield up from the ground. "We'll figure out what to do after we know our situation."

"Lead the way," He chimed, trying to remember how to stand on his own power. It took about twenty shaky steps for him to be able to walk without leaning against the wall of the alley, forty more for him to be able to let go of Aveline's shoulder, but he managed. He had a mission to find his friends and see them all safe. He would not fail. If they ran into any enemies, it would be tricky going, but… he could do this.

"Hawke!" Varric and Fenris stepped out of the shadows to meet them somewhere just before the Docks met Lowtown. The dwarf was shouldering his beloved Bianca. "Son of a nug, Hawke, I thought you were a Qunari. I almost shot you!" Oh. Oh, it hurt to laugh.

"Wouldn't be the first time today!" He chortled, even as he winced. Aveline seemed considerably less amused.

"I don't suppose Anders was playing cards with you when this mess happened?" She asked, voice terse.

"No, couldn't get him to leave his clinic." Varric's answer left Aveline swearing colorfully, elf and dwarf shooting her wary, suspicious looks. "Why? Did someone get—"

"Wait. What do you mean it, 'wouldn't be the first time?'" Fenris interrupted. As always, the warrior's voice sent a pang of bittersweet longing through Hawke's being. Stop it stop it, he is not yours to wish for.

"Just the usual sort of thing. Nothing to worry over. All in a day's work," he chimed, making no effort to hide the shoddy bandage job wrapping around his side or his torn and bloody robes. If he tried to keep it secret, they'd only worry more. Especially Fenris. Though only the maker knew why Fenris cared at all—he killed your heart didn't he? Why wouldn't he want to finish the job?

Varric whistled at the sight of the ripped robe and the blood. No doubt he'd have a good yarn going on the subject by this time tomorrow.

"Do you need to hang back until we can find Blondie? Shouldn't be too hard to cover for you with me and Broody here now."

"No," his refusal was immediate and assured, perhaps too much so. He was making them nervous and he knew it, but Hawke couldn't help himself. The very thought of sitting back and letting his friends take the brunt of the Qunari's attacks… he couldn't stand it. Not when he was pretty sure this was all his fault somehow. If he'd been a better negotiator, or been able to convince Isabella to hand the book over or… or… ugh he didn't know how, but he was sure he could have done something somewhere! And he wouldn't have them paying for his mistakes. He'd keep them far from this madness if he could—the ones he'd sworn to protect. They were all he had. "No, it's not a big deal, I was able to heal it myself eariler. Aveline's just being a bit paranoid."

"Hawke." Aveline's chastising glare was severe enough to stop most men in their tracks. Hawke was not most men. He stared pleadingly back. If he had it his way, he'd keep his friends out of this whole battle, but he knew that wouldn't work. At least if they had to be involved, he didn't want them worrying over him, distracted while they fought such formidable foes. "Hawke will be fine, once he rests." His captain hissed, bowing her proud neck. Her dedication to her men and morale worked in his favor this time.

Thank you, he wanted to whisper, but he knew the others would be suspicious. He hoped his eyes conveyed the sentiment well enough. When he glanced back at Fenris he found the elf peering back with narrowed eyes, his green gaze heavily laced with suspicion.

"Seriously, I'm fine." He smiled for the elf's benefit, un-hitched his staff from the holster at his back. The wound at his side complained rather uncomfortably when he lifted his arm like that, even more so with the weight of his weapon in his hand, but he didn't flinch. He kept his expression of pain to nothing more than tense muscles and the faintest twitch of his eyelashes.

"So you are." Fenris rumbled in his way, the only one among his friends who remained unappeased and frowning.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" The warrior actually seemed to be considering his words for once. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, brow furrowed. Hawke had a feeling he wasn't going to like what came next.

"That… is a lot of blood." His voice was low and accusing as he motioned to the stain in Hawke's robes. "And yet it is as you say. You are 'fine.'"

"Yes…?" He wasn't sure where Fenris was going with this.

"Did you know blood mages often stab themselves in the stomach with their own staves? A good hemorrhaging wound there gives them more power than a cut on the palm can, without completely incapacitating them like slitting the throat might." Wait… was… was Fenris actually saying…? Hawke felt all the air rush out of him, and not because of his wound. He could do little but watch Fenris's mouth move, each word hurt more and more.

"Fenris, stop." Aveline tried to cut in, but the elf was not to be halted.

"The demon within them heals the wound before it can send the mage into shock, leaving only a ghost of the injury behind." Fenris finished, eyes filled with fear and uncertainty. He searched Hawke's face for some time after his last word had been spoken, waiting. For what, Hawke didn't know. He could do little more than stare back, hunched protectively around the throbbing organ in his chest. Whatever Fernis was searching for, he didn't find it. He turned away after what seemed like an eternity, apparently too disgusted with what he thought had occurred to remain. He didn't say anything further, storming to the mouth of the alley.

"That is not what happened!" The guard captain jumped to Hawke's defense at the last moment, just before their companion turned the corner.

"Then what did?" He heard the desperate tone in Fenris's voice, knew the elf was lingering there at the space where ally met street, just waiting for him to deny the accusations placed upon him, but he couldn't speak. He could hardly breathe.
"The honor guard attacked while—" Aveline tried again, at the same time Varric offered a tentative,

"Broody, I think you might be over—" They both stared at Hawke as they spoke, carefully watching his stricken expression. Somewhere under the dull numbness of shock he was grateful to them for the attempt, but he knew it wouldn't succeed.

"I wasn't asking you!" He couldn't see the elf, but he could imagine the way Fenris would gesture with both hands, his sword waving dangerously, nearly scraping the alley wall, but not, because Fenris was better than that. "Hawke. Tell me that's not what happened, tell me—" Everyone was looking at him, all eyes begging him to speak. Hawke couldn't form the words. The world seemed to be underwater, faces and voices a distorted blur of color and light. How… How could Fenris think…. After all they'd shared, after what had happened to his mother, how… He couldn't complete the thought. His mind was a litany of broken questions.

Fenris scoffed, turned on his heel, and was gone. He would doubtlessly still protect them—he had a self perceived duty after all—but that didn't mean he had to be nearby. He would drift in front of their group like a ghost, cutting down the most dangerous foes in advance before they could reach the rest of the party. He'd done it before when he wanted to be alone. Hawke didn't see why this time should be any different. Fenris probably didn't want to think about his apparent inequities any more than necessary—to think about how he'd bedded a monster. Hawke had been relegated to the special place reserved in Fenris's mind for Denarius and his ilk. And that… that killed him. Hawke collapsed against the stone wall in the warrior's wake, clutching at his chest.
He didn't realize it was possible for the heart to break twice.

"Confound that elf!" Aveline swore, rushing to his side. He looked in her face and saw his own helplessness reflected there. She gently pried the heavy staff from his shaking hands, helping him sheathe it without words.

"What did happen, if you don't mind my asking?" Varric tried to break the tense atmosphere, and failed. He was simply curious, voice lacking in the accusatory tones Fenris had employed. Maybe, just maybe, he was a little worried as well. Hawke found it hard to tell.

"The Arishok's Honor Guard landed a spear a good four inches in Hawk's side, that's what. He's lucky he didn't bleed out before I could get him to heal it." Aveline felt his brow as she spoke, frowning.

"What?! And he managed to heal it himself?" The expression of disbelief on the dwarf's face was almost comical. Ordinarily, Hawke would have laughed, but he was too bereft to do so at the moment.

"Not completely. There was a reason I was hoping to find Anders, you know." Varric swore colorfully at the admission.

"Alright, I'll go talk some sense into Broody, and then we can fight our way into Darktown. Hawke you just—"

"No." He croaked, voice edged with pain and too much emotion. "We don't have time for that. We have to head the Arishok off while there's still time to keep this from becoming a full-scale war." Making sure his friends would be safe was his number one priority above all else. He couldn't care less for his own life. Especially not now, when… when he was feeling this way.

"Hawke, you're not going to do anyone any good when you can't even hold your own staff," Aveline chided, gently. He knew she was right, but he didn't much care by this point. He blinked back the feelings and the hurt, forcing himself to stand on his own power. He was going to see this through to the end, whatever that end may be.

"Just give me a moment, and I'll be fine. I can cast another cure as soon as my magic comes back." He managed to keep his voice even and blank. If he didn't breathe too deeply, it didn't even hurt.

It didn't.

"Are you sure? It's not such a big deal to—"

"I'm fine, Varric." Hawke interrupted, forcing a reassuring smile. He pushed away from the wall, brushed off Aveline's fretting hands and followed Fenris's path. It was an easy one to follow in his drained state—he could smell the lyrium on the air, burning tracks of madness across the street and his soul.

No wait, that wasn't right.

"You two coming, or am I fighting off the Qunari on my own?"

"Psh, I'd rather you not. I don't relish the thought of collecting a Hawke-kebob off the street later." The dwarf joked, reloading and cocking his crossbow. Aveline stayed where she was, her lips pursed tight. "Come on, lady knight. Our Lord Hawke's not to be convinced." She shook her head, smacking Varric lightly for the 'lady knight' comment.

"Promise you'll stay behind me and avoid drawing their attention for once?" She un-shouldered her shield, flexing her arm once or twice to test its weight as she caught up to them.

"Something tells me that's not going to be possible." He laughed hollowly.

"Hawke." Aveline squeezed his arm as she passed—her way of letting Hawke know she was there, that she'd be watching out for him. He couldn't face her. She knew too much of how he felt, and if he saw the pity in her eyes he'd fall apart.

"You're a good man. He'll see that." He didn't acknowledge the words, swallowed the bitterness that threatened to escape him.

"Let's go."