HERE LIES THE ABYSS.

      thedas adorned her heroes with lavish titles,    yet beneath painted pleasantries lay true,  cumbersome burdens that prick the flesh and pinch the heart. folk are keen to mold a saviour,  a protector,  a maker.   mayhaps ‘tis easier to pull apart another when the world is so heavily fractured.  the witch however,  remains imbrued with shadows,  her eyes catch the wick of the sun until all else is extinguished. 

       ❛  fate is quite the bewildering mistress —   would you not agree,  champion  ?  ❜   /     @halflegacy . 

she blinks once as hawke drinks directly from the bottle and after a moment’s pause, tosses her glass back with a tilt of her head and sets it aside. she’s more than comfortable forgoing any pretense of formality here, all but welcomes it, even. “i swear on my good friend andraste, who everyone seems to think i have some sort of constant rapport with.” she huffs in annoyance, reaches for the bottle for sip that lasts a bit longer than decorum might call for before handing it back. “he let himself be dragged across the ocean for you, hawke. he’s a good friend, the sort anyone would be blessed to have.” her brow furrows. “i don’t know, i think there’s hopefully at least someone out there who might do the same for me, one day.” 

sidri leans back easily, the mountain breeze stirring her hair. “well, varric’s here, obviously, and is profoundly skilled in the art of pissing off our seeker. nothing about your mage friend, anders, however. i suspect he must be hiding given, well, everything.” she glances towards hawke, expression softening. “i can have the inquisition see what we can find, if you’d like.” 

‘  i know...  i know,  ’  he mumbles, faint as the bottle returns to his hand and then to lips.  he knows it too well.  varric has done  —  still does   —  too much for him.  it’s not something ever far from thought, and he needs no reminder.  a smirk hides behind the lip of the bottle.  ‘  i’m...  lucky.  ’  and thankful.  that doesn’t even begin to describe it.  nothing could, and no other soul in the world would be so dedicated through everything.  ‘  not many people out there are like him.  look after him, and he’ll look after you, too.  just don’t ask him to cross anymore seas;  one’s enough, at least for a while.  ’

‘ you never would have agreed to be inquisitor, would you? ‘ 

there’s a weariness in her voice that cassandra can’t seem to cover up. remember your lessons, girl. you don’t show weakness. she’d been enchanted by the champion of kirkwall. she’d been a fool. there was no bringing justina back. there was no fixing what the temple of sacred ashes shattered. all cassandra had left to put any hope into was the inquisition, and she almost made that an absolute failure as well. if she’d spent more resources on finding hawke — she keeps trying to pull herself from the hellish loop her mind keeps throwing her into, but she can only see her failures as the days continue and word comes of more and more tragedies that might have been prevented if she just — 

digging the metal on the back of her gloves into her palm, she sighs, taking a drink. she never drinks ( she hates it, the loss of control. reminds her too much of her uncle, too ) but thinks she might as well if it’ll quell her thoughts.

‘  no.  ’

hawke wants there to be an ache.  some kind of drop in his chest, knot in his stomach  —  anything to mark remorse or regret in how quickly he has his answer.  leading is never something he imagined he’d be wanted for.  not after kirkwall.  not once he ran.  so much effort put into hiding from mistakes and vanishing from the world.  even in skyhold he kept to the outskirts, worried someone might decide his time as a free man has expired.  and, in spite of the seeker’s truth, that paranoia hasn’t faded.