questionablewit: (glower)
[personal profile] questionablewit posting in [community profile] faemused
It's nearly dawn by the time they're all on board, and the tide is turning. No doubt Varric would have something to say about both those lines if Hawke spoke them out loud, which she doesn't. She's said very little since walking out of the Gallows, and what little she's said has been to the purpose, with the purpose being getting the hell out of Kirkwall.

It's Hawke's strength, that she can keep moving even in the face of disaster. Her weakness too, because it's such an easy way to avoid actually having to think about said disasters. She keeps moving forward, keeps doing what needs to be done, and there's always something that needs to be done.

It occurs to her ruefully that she's made a tactical error in that respect by getting on a boat. There's nowhere to move forward to, on a boat. All she'll be able to do is run around in circles on the deck. Maybe someone will teach her how to be a pirate. She needs a new job, now that the Champion thing has exploded.

Even in her own mind, she winces at the word.

She can't think about that yet. She'll have to, she knows, sooner rather than later. He's here. She can't ignore how all this happened.

But not just yet.

It's noisy, on a boat. She'd forgotten that, in the years that have passed since she and her family came to Kirkwall from Ferelden. Chains clanking, sails flapping in the wind, oars splashing and voices, so many voices. That'll be welcome. Maybe if it's all loud enough, it will block out the memory of people calling for their Champion to help, explain what happened, make it better, make it right.

Sorry, Kirkwall. I tried.

Hawke looks back at the city instead of at the rising sun on the horizon. She owes that much to Kirkwall, at least, to watch it for as long as she can as she goes. There's still smoke rising in the air, and Maker only knows how much of the city is still on fire.
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