#da ii

will all great neptune’s ocean wash this blood clean from my hand?

a handers tarot card i drew a bit ago inspired by the national theatre of korea’s macbeth poster. happy dragon age day—this series and these characters mean so, so much to me ❤️

Art trade for @ree-duh

You could barely feel your own body—every limb aching, your muscles trembling, and magic prickling under your skin like an ember struggling to go out. The room was quiet now, save for the faintest sounds of it's breathing, of your breathing, and of Fenris’s presence somewhere nearby, keeping you in a reality you weren’t sure you could grasp yet.

Her. Not an it. A little girl, your daughter.

The feeling of her in your arms was impossible and yet so real. Tiny, fragile, warm—so different from the battlefield, where this exhaustion often meant steel or blood. You’d thought you understood what it meant to fight, to endure pain, to win—but 18 hours of labor had been its own war, the kind that no sword or spell could make easier. A war you’d won by bringing her here. You’d spent every ounce of control you had keeping your magic at bay, terrified one stray spark could light the house, Fenris, or her ablaze.

You could still feel the damp sweat on your brow, the grime that clung to your skin from those endless hours, but none of that mattered now. Your mind had gone blank when you looked at her—when you really looked at her—and saw her pointed little ears.

Your thumb brushed one of them softly, marveling at its delicacy. Fenris’s ears.However that was possible, you didn’t know. It shouldn’t have been. The universe wasn’t kind enough to allow things like this. And yet… there she was.

You didn’t have a witty retort on your tongue, not like you always did after something difficult had happened. You could see Fenris watching you now—carefully, silently—as if afraid his voice might shatter whatever fragile moment was unfolding. You could almost hear him asking “Is she… alright? Are you alright?”

You weren’t ready to answer.

You weren’t ready to put words to the flood of emotions threatening to overtake you—the awe, the exhaustion, the grief that lingered in the cracks of your happiness.

Because it shouldn’t have been like this.

Bethany would’ve been here first, probably pushing Fenris aside to coo at her niece with that soft and stubborn warmth only Bethany could manage. Carver would’ve hovered awkwardly nearby, arms crossed and face hard, only to lean over and whisper “Don’t worry, little one. I’ll protect you. Always,” when he thought no one was listening. Mother’s joy would have been boundless, her arms open wide to cradle her granddaughter, tears in her eyes as she proclaimed, “The Maker has blessed us with a miracle.”

And Father—Father would’ve spoiled her beyond reason, laughed as he claimed it was his right as a grandfather.

But none of them were here. The silence left behind by their absence was louder than any war cry, any shattering spell, or any death knell. It echoed in your heart. The only Hawkes left in this world were you and this little one.

Your daughter.

Fenris shifted from his place, stepping closer until he was kneeling beside you. You felt his warmth then, close but hesitant. He didn’t know what to do with hands that were so used to holding weapons or fists that had carved so many lines into his path.

“She has your spirit,” he murmured, voice low but utterly certain, as though the observation were fact. She was going to be a handful.

Your gaze lifted to him, the tears you’d been holding back welling up in your eyes. “And your ears,” you whispered, your voice raw, trembling, but full of something deep and fragile.

Fenris’s expression shifted, softening in ways you rarely saw. That was only ever for you. He stared at the tiny bundle in your arms, the wonder there almost eclipsing the guarded man you’d known for so long. Slowly—so slowly you might’ve imagined it—he reached out, his fingertips brushing the edge of her blanket, his hands careful and reverent.

For the first time, he looked unsure of himself. “I don’t know how to…”

“You don’t have to know yet,” you assured him softly, finding your voice again as you looked down at her face. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

A breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding slipped free as Fenris settled beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours. For once, the silence didn’t feel empty.

Your free hand found his, fingers curling around his scarred knuckles, anchoring you both to the moment, to the miracle that neither of you thought you’d ever deserve.

Your daughter let out the tiniest, softest sound in her sleep—nothing more than a breath—and the world felt still. Whole.

“You’re injured, my Lord,” Hawke grunts. His brow is knitted, furrowed over a set of dark, impenetrable eyes.

“I’m fine,” Anders lies. He clasps a hand over his shoulder, radiating with pain where the shield split open from impact. It had been a thorough embarrassment, the way it shattered at the end of a jousting pole, but at least he stayed on his horse.

Worse than his defeat, Anders flushed to the ears when his knight helped him down, wrapped a steady arm around his waist, and slowly escorted him to his bedchamber. The given accommodations are threadbare – a draughty room set in a boisterous tavern – but it’s what they could secure at short notice for Lady Surana’s wedding.