Chapter Text
Did I ever tell you about the time Hawke was on a merchant guild hit list?
The time spent running, dripping, through the Fade had reached unknowing. At all times she could hear the Nightmare laughing behind her, but she was certain it was just a memory.
Ribs broken, legs torn, blood poured down her body… She would die soon; she knew this. If not from the wounds, hunger would gnaw through her belly or thirst would break her will. She had readied herself for this when she had demanded the Inquisitor leave her behind. But it had dragged on for so long now. She was starting to doubt whether the whole “sacrifice” thing was something was all it was cracked up to be.
A sacrifice just isn’t the same when the Rift closes and you’re left in a dream alone. She had saved Kirkwall only to find herself betrayed by a man she cared for. After narrowly avoiding a brutal fate in the Conclave, she had rendered her assistance to the Inquisition and once again found herself with the short straw.
They sent guys from the local Carta to Hawke’s estate one night. Five big dusters, armed to the teeth.
The air was sharp and burned her lungs as she tried to wedge herself into an alcove to try to tend her wounds before the demon’s spawn caught up to her again. So many of them had fallen that she could no longer tell which blood was hers. Her right arm was completely limp. It had been hours since she had felt any pain in it, or indeed anything at all, but her fingers still twitched with the residual magic of a spell.
The Inquisitor couldn’t have closed all the Rifts. Somewhere ahead there had to be daylight. That smug bastard didn’t get to capitalize on the heroic death of the Champion with his books -- and if the elf truly was the Herald of Andraste, Hawke would be damn sure the bards sung that she was Andraste herself. And Varric would owe her a lot of alcohol.
They kick in the door and Hawke yells, “You’re just in time!” And drags them over to a game of Wicked Grace. They played two hands of cards before the city guard showed up to take them away.
Something caught Hawke’s attention. She had fallen asleep for a second - or blacked out. It was hard to tell anymore. She dragged her staff towards her with her left arm and used it to get to her feet. At one point it had been a well-cared for piece of equipment but the Fade had deteriorated it to a worn walking stick.
Far away to her right lay the edge of the demon’s domain...or a mirage. There was no way for her to know if it had been there before through the stars in her vision. Beyond it could lie anything, but she was sick to death of nightmares. A change of pace could be interesting. Maybe a desire demon that constantly called out lewd suggestions to her. Anything was better than constantly being reminded of her many failures. She groaned and dragged herself further into the Fade.
Hang in there, Hawke. I’ll get you out of here.
After a time of walking and bleeding over the shapeless plain, she began to notice something different. Nausea. Screaming. Her screams, although she wasn’t making any noise. Where were they coming from? This was the Fade, after all, and dwarves don’t dream ...
~
That thought was not her own. Someone had spoken it and the words cut into the Fade to drag her back to reality. She was no longer in the Fade, she realized, and had not been for some time.
She threw up. Twice. The pain in the Fade had been dull and far-away. Hunger pangs had been muted. Here, in the real world, she felt the pain of all her wounds growing like a storm. She screamed for a full minute before she became aware of words.
“…but this is all I can offer. Come on, just like at the Hanged Man.”
She choked as something was poured into her mouth and threw up a third time.
“…too much pain. Her heart…”
“Let me go!” she shouted, not even sure if someone was holding her. The panic she felt was not something she could control and the stars and darkness still dancing in her eyes made it difficult to orient herself.
“Hawke, if you don’t settle down then I won’t let you read my next book.”
That voice was clear as day. Varric. Was she safe now? This couldn’t possibly be real.
“I’d li-li-like to see you s-s,” Hawke jibbered, shaking so hard she thought she might break her own spine. But this thought was important. She had to get it out - “st-stop the Champion of Kirkwall f-from buying a book.”
“I have connections. I can have you banned from all the sellers.” There was an emotion to Varric’s voice that was unfamiliar. Anger? Was he upset with her?
“The Her-ald of Andra s te owes me favlor. Flavor. Favor,” Hawke said, and then bit her own tongue.
“Stop talking,” Varric said. “A mage from Tevinter is trying to use blood magic to put your spleen back in.”
“He has the truth of it. There’s enough blood here for me to become a Magister,” came the response. “Someone’s going to have to buy me new clothes after this. Either that or I’ll have to start a new fashion line. Murderous Chic, that’s what I’ll call it.”
For a moment, the pain ebbed and Hawke allowed herself to relax, but as she felt darkness fold around her, she realized she couldn’t stay. She needed to move again before the Nightmare found her...this dream had gone on long enough. She felt around for her staff, finding only a hard leather boot in the process.
“I have to go,” she explained – or she tried to. Her tongue felt three sizes too big for her mouth.
“Maker’s breath, Hawke, I can’t hold you down until Sparkler has put a little more of you back together. Don’t make this worse.”
“Do you two mind? I know I am remarkably skilled and make this look damn easy but I promise you this is quite arduous.”
“Varric,” Hawke said suddenly, reaching her arm out into the air where she thought he might be. She found only empty space. This had to be a dream. She was still in the Fade and the Nightmare’s servants would find her soon -
“You’ll need to work on your hand-eye coordination if you expect anyone to take you seriously,” Varric said, catching her hand. A spark jumped between them as her magic briefly activated, but he didn’t cry out.
“Varric,” Hawke said again, spitting blood – or maybe mud – out of her mouth. “When y-you tell this story. Make sure you draw the parallel-”
“We can talk about my retelling of the story later,” Varric said. “Right now-“
“No, Varric,” Hawke said, jerking her hand back so she had the maneuverability to hit him. She let out a low moan from the pain as she connected with him. It was her mangled hand. “You have to draw the parallel. I came out of the rift behind the Herald. ”
Varric laughed, his voice a low vibration in the bit of chest that her hand was now limply resting against.
“Maker’s breath, Hawke. Yes. If you live, I’ll make sure everyone knows you are Andraste watching over the Inquisitor. Die, and I’m going to tell the story about how you screamed like a child the entire time we were in the Fade and we left you there to punish the Nightmare.”
“There won’t be any story telling if she doesn’t stop moving,” Dorian said. “I need to gather lyrium potions. Your girl here is only held together by sarcasm and dreams.”
“Alright, Andraste , I know it hurts, but you need to let Sparkler do his weird shit.”
“Here. Try another potion.”
Hawke tried to drink what was offered but the pain in her body intensified rather than receding. Another wave of nausea overcame her and she coughed it up along with more blood/mud/Fade.
“You never could hold your drinks.”
Hawke could hear fear in his jibe. She couldn’t see what state she was in, but she knew she had been slowly amassing wounds that refused to heal. Varric’s soothing voice was keeping her grounded – distracted, even – but the potions and the Tevinter’s ministrations were making the pain intensify rather than recede. She needed to forget her body again. The shell was too broken.
“Tell me a story,” Hawke demanded.
“How about I tell you the story of the Champion of Kirkwall,” Varric said, voice like silk against the pound of blood in her head.
“Mm…is that the brave hero with striking good looks who struggled into the upper class through a daring foray into the Deep Roads?” she asked, pulling her hand back away from him and accidentally hitting herself with it.
“Hero? I wouldn’t use that word per say. Beggar might be more suitable. Or mercenary. Apostate, maybe. Refugee. Fereldan. Thug…”
“So many words. She must be quite impressive.”
“I’ve got plenty more where that came from.”
“Do any of them describe-“
And that was it. Hawke never got to ask what they described because she could feel herself dying again. Her chest felt heavy, her blood sluggish. The Fade fractured all around her and her heart pounded in her thigh.
“VARRIC!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, not caring who was listening. “DON’T YOU DARE LET THIS SACRIFICE WORK. IT WAS A STUPID IDEA AND I TAKE IT BACK!”
She could almost hear his voice in answer.
Hang in there, Hawke. I’ll get you out of here.