headcanon.
it scares you being alone, itâs a last resort
after leandraâs death, hawke finds her hightown mansion to be nearly unbearable. it is too empty, a colossal reminder of what she had set out, and failed so spectacularly, to do, provide for her family, hide them away behind high walls and finally keep them safe. but they arenât safe. bethany never made it to the walls of the city, much less the lavish estate. carver was sworn to a life of service, trapped in never ending combat with the blight. and motherâ.
sandal, bodahn, and orana are little comfort. they are in her employ, there to serve, not because it is their wish. it is, at least, less silent when orana plays the lute and sandal mutters his odd thoughts now and again. but still it is too quiet, dead quiet.
sheâs full of excuses, reasons to drag her friends over, to fill space that is too raw and empty. just one hand of diamondback, one round of wicked grace. they really must hear oranaâs newest piece, 10 silvers says it brings a tear to their eye. the viscount sent a bottle of wine for their latest favor, might as well share it right?Â
and even more often, she escapes entirely. sometimes she slips into the hanged man, sighing in relief at the noise. she stays too late, drinks too much with isabela, laughs too loudly, and curls up on varricâs floor rather than return to her own bed.Â
other nights her hands are dripping red, covering older, invisible stains for a few hours. all night she assists anders, tireless and almost manic in her desperation to just act and not think. to actually help. please maker, let her actually help this timeâŠ
strangely, not a single complaint or quip about the dank and dark crosses her lips. not even when she wakes with grime covered cheeks.
âtell me another storyâ, she says to merrill, again and again, til the stars are high above kirkwall. because it makes merrill happy. because it drowns the memories. but merrill falls asleep too quickly, and then itâs quiet againâŠ
if fenris doesnât  ask her to stay, she never assumes to. and even when he does, the random, vacant rooms are almost worse than her own. no noise, no life, nothing to keep her out of her own head. instead she paces the corridors and eventually finds herself wanderingâ
on the streets, night after night, she is a wraith, a pale figure who stalks the back alleys with haunted eyes. if there is no refuge to be found, she just walks and walks, one foot after anotherâ prowling, searching, âŠfleeingâ staff held loosely in her hand, she dares the things that go bump in the night to emerge. she protects the city when she could not keep her own family alive. she slays the villains out for blood and flesh and money when she cannot escape the enemies in her own head. she pretends she is invincible when she is drowning just from being alone.
dailybridgerton
2087
discoholicmusic
titsay
