.demons.

Hawke hesitates. If this is truly an illusion, it has been very well done, very convincing, nothing like she's ever seen before. But it's still possible. Very possible.

Varric offers his hand. "I know you don't completely trust us. But if you just see him, maybe you'll remember."

He's insistent, but if he's not lying it's understandable. But the vague recollection, the missing pieces... she doesn't trust this. Doesn't trust them. It's wrong. All wrong.

"I'll go," she assents, hoping her lie is not obvious. She must play along until she can find some way to escape. With her life, if she's lucky.

"Through here," Isabela directs, sashaying with ease through the narrow passageways, past ship hands who watch with silent interest. Hawke doesn't pay attention to them, just moves forward, trying to swallow her hammering heart.

"Here, with Merrill," Isabela says, taking her arm from Varric and helping her down three small stairs into what appears to be a makeshift infirmary. The only patient is being tended to by Merrill, who is twisting water out of a damp handkerchief. "Hawke!" she starts, standing quickly, almost upsetting the bucket of water beside her. "You're awake!"

"Merrill," Hawke repeats, and the word brings forth more memories, I can handle this, you are a good friend, may the Dread Wolf never catch your scent Merrill. "I remember you."

"You do? Oh! That's wonderful!" The small elven girl quickly crosses the short distance between them and wraps her arms around Hawke. "I knew you would! But we were so worried, we were too slow and-" Merrill jumps back, minding Hawke's arm. "Elgar'nan. Does it hurt, terribly?"

"I'm fine," Hawke grits, disconcerted at the physical contact.

"I'm just glad your awake and not hurt too much and- oh! Are you here to heal Fenris, then?"

"Not until she's comfortable," Aveline reminds. "We promised her it would be on her terms."

Hawke moves forward carefully, trying not to make it obvious how she watches them out of the sides of her eyes. The one she's supposed to heal, Fenris, lies in a cot, brow spotted with sweat, and face twisted with pain. White lines, lyrium, she recognizes, run from his chin to his fingertips, much like hers, but far more, as far as she can see. White hair lies sodden on the pillow beneath his head. He flinches and grasps at the light blanket covering him, lips moving faintly, though she can't catch what he's saying, and it doesn't sound like any language she recognizes.

She waits for the recognition that has come with seeing the rest of them, but nothing happens.

Nothing.

Strange. She had faint recollections of all the others, but... him? He's like the space on a mantle uncovered by dust, indicating something had once been there, for a long time, but not anymore...

"Is this him?" she asks for clarification, but it is evident that it is. Why can't she remember this one? Another trick to throw her off? Her suspicion grows more with each passing moment.

Carver looks at her with confusion. "You... don't recognize him?"

"I know that he is Fenris."

"But you don't remember him?" Varric further asks.

What can she do but shake her head? "No. I don't."

Isabela lets out a low sigh. "That's... odd. Swelling, romantic music and a tearful reunion was more the direction I was expecting."

"Why?" Hawke asks.

"He was- you know," Merrill says.

"You love him," states Carver, with irritation, like he's tiring of the act.

Of course. They would tempt her with her beloved. She kneels at his side. He is beautiful, she can't deny that. Fortunately, it seems her memory has left her at the appropriate time. She's not sure she could do what she's about to if she remembered him.

But he is a lie.

She presses a hand to his chest, and the few whispered snippets of conversation cease as they watch her intently.

"Fenris." Something makes her say his name. Maybe for the last time. Whoever he truly is, he seems the kind of person she would want to know. They all do. Maybe she'll get out of this alive, and see the truth of these illusions.

But that doesn't seem like a very strong possibility.

"With grim determination, she sets her jaw and electrocutes his heart. It's quick. There is no place for compassion for a demon, but she doesn't draw it out, part of her balks at the thought of making him-it-suffer. His jaw clenches. His eyes open for a moment, roving blindly, and then settling on her face. He blinks once, twice. Looks at her. His eyes...

And then they close.

It takes several moments of disbelief for the others to realize what she's done to their compatriot, but she's already rising and preparing to attack.

"Hawke," Merrill stutters, rushing to Fenris' side, but he's not moving, not breathing. "What did you do?"

"Release me and we all walk away from this. Attack me, and we all die." To prove her point, ice and lightning crackle and swirl around her hands.

"Maker, sister, no! What have you done?" Carver demands, looking from Fenris and Merrill to her. "Did you kill him?"

"Yes, and I will not hesitate to kill you either, demon, even if you do wear my brother's face."

"He's dead," Merrill says, voice breaking. "Hawke, why?"

"Don't you dare!" Hawke sneers, flinging the Dalish girl into a wall, hard. She crumples upon impact, sliding limply to the floor.

"NO!" Carver yells, leaping to her defense. He's not as easy to incapacitate, and he manages to swing a fist at her before she freezes him to the floor and shoots a spike of ice through his chest.

"Hawke, no!" Isabela yells, voice hoarse and terrified. "Stop!" She and Sebastian try to stop her, rushing forward, but they made the mistake of giving her this lyrium. She is far more powerful, far more deadly. They are far easier to fell; she breaks the archer's neck with a sickeningly audible crack, and drives one of the other rogue's daggers into her ribs.

"Stop!" Aveline more pleads than demands. She is moments from immolating the approaching woman when someone grabs her arms, restraining her. The pain of fingers pressing into the lyrium makes her scream.

"Hawke, it's us! Please stop!" Merrill cries, tears mixing with streaming blood as they stream down her wan face.

"I will not succumb to demons," Hawke repeats, but it's getting harder and harder to resist. It hurt to kill the others, they seemed so real... but they're not. This is all calculated to fool her and she can't let it work. For their sakes, the real ones, for her own.

"You found my father's caste ring at some stall in Kirkwall," Varric yells to get her attention. "What did it look like?"

She falters, the question seems so strange. "I don't-"

"Like this!" he yells, holding up his hand. A clearly Dwarven ring adorns his middle finger. "You can't be imagining this and we can't be demons using your memory because you don't even remember!"

No.

That can't be true.

Merrill sobs behind her, and Anders comes streaking into the room. "What's going on-" his words fall short when he sees the bodies. "Oh no."

"You're not..." Hawke mumbles, looking at her hands. The hands she just used to kill her friends? No, that can't be right, that can't be-

"I told you she wasn't ready! I told you this would happen!" Anders rails, running to each of the felled. Isabela moans, but the others are undoubtedly dead.

"We didn't have a choice," Isabela chokes, clutching at her wound as Anders frantically tends to it. "Fenris is- Fenris was dying. You couldn't do anything."

"And now she's killed him! And her brother! And Sebastian!"

Merrill whimpers, drawing away from the eldest Hawke to the youngest, and cradling his limp head in her hands. "Ma vhenan..."

The reality of the situation comes crashing down. These weren't demons. These were people. Worse yet, her friends. "I didn't..." With dreadful dawning horror, she looks at the dead face of the elf in the cot. At Fenris. The man she supposedly loved. She'd killed him in cold blood.

"Maker," she breathes, dropping to her knees beside him, "I'm so sorry, I thought- I thought this-" He is far beyond hearing her worthless apologies. They all are.

…

Sebastian, Carver, and Fenris all receive a burial at sea. Hawke watches from the brig as their bodies plummet over the side of the ship, into the water, sinking, sinking. Part of her sinks with them. In her hands she twists a piece of fabric, vibrantly red in the darkness of the brig, holding onto the favor for dear life. As if life is dear anymore. Surprisingly it had been Anders who had brought it to her. He hadn't said a word, just handed her the cloth, downward cast eyes disturbingly blank. "He would have wanted you to have this."

She spends the nights weeping as she remembers.

When they return to Kirkwall, Aveline turns Hawke over to the Circle. She knows they don't tell Anders, no matter what he felt about her crimes, he would never allow that. But she doesn't fight it. Perhaps they were right all along. Magic is evil. Meredith is all to happy to order the Rite of Tranquility. She had expected death, had hoped for it, even though she knew she didn't deserve the peace of the grave. At least when she was made Tranquil, she would no longer see their faces when she closed her eyes. The memories wouldn't come back to her in dreams, dreams that felt so real. She wouldn't dream of their last moments, her betrayal. She wouldn't remember snippets of conversations with Sebastian, how he reacted to her playful jibes with stammering embarrassment. Or her brother, their childhood, their lives spent together, his lopsided smiles and fierce loyalty. Or Fenris, and his voice, his eyes, him. And if she did, at least it wouldn't hurt. Sometimes she wanted to remember them. Sometimes she would get so lost in the dark fog of her own mind she would almost forget they were gone.

On the evening before the Rite, Cullen, Samson, and Kerran steal to her tiny cell and begin to unlock the doors, furtively striving to get her out.

"Leave me."

"You're daft," frowns Samson. She remembers him, remembers them all, but something about his voice specifically makes her heart jump in her chest.

"Serah Hawke," Cullen says quickly, still working with the manacles on her wrists. "You have done much for us individually, as well as our order."

Kerran adds, "We can't let Meredith do this to you."

"You can, and you will," she says coldly. Not unkindly, but as a fact. She is not leaving. She deserves this for what she's done, no matter her intent.

Cullen stops working at her chains to look her dead in the eye. "Meredith has been been waiting for the chance to take you out of the picture. Don't let her do this. Kirkwall needs you. Your friends need you."

"I killed my friends."

She looks away.

"There's no need for the Rite, she's already Tranquil." Samson whispers, though his voice is not accusatory.

"Leave me!" she hisses again, biting back tears. She will not cry in front of them. She doesn't deserve their pity.

"It's now or never," Kerran says, glancing over his shoulder at some far off noise.

"You should go. Thank you anyway. I know you meant well."

There isn't much more they can say. With a final, remorseful goodbye, they sneak off in the opposite direction, eluding detection.

She ties the red cloth around her wrist as the sun rises. She prays to the Maker for forgiveness, but wonders if there is any for her. Finally, she stands as the guards approach, bringing her to the courtyard. It's time.

It's crowded. Many have come to see the fall of the once Champion of Kirkwall. Some look gleeful. Others look grieved. Excited chatter abounds, falling quiet when she enters the courtyard, head held high to meet her fate.

Aveline is there. She meets her friend's eyes for a moment, before the boring glare makes her turn away. Varric is there too. No sight of Isabela, or Merrill. Probably for the better.

"Hawke." Meredith addresses her quietly, and then raising her voice, she adds, "You have been accused of murder. Your sentence is the Rite of Tranquility." She holds out a hand for the brand, and someone hands it to her, bright, red hot, burning against the warm pink of the sunrise sky behind her. "Do you have any final words?"

What more is there that she could say? She shakes her head.

Meredith lines the brand with her brow.

She cries as the sun bursts behind her eyes, silhouettes of familiar forms in the bright light.

It doesn't hurt any more.