Hawke hears the not-quite-question but not-quite-scolding tone Fenris uses and understands it for what it is. Acceptance, in a way. A small protest. She remembers similar when she made the official decision to support the mages in Kirkwall, rather than the templars. He respects her decision, even if he doesn't like it. Several of them had done the same.
"Wouldn't be the first time," she points out weakly, her humor faltering in the wake of a sudden heartache. All of this is really true, of course, but the tiny part of her that she doesn't want to admit to, the part that she knows and hates to be true, recognizes that she had also selfishly wanted to make up for Anders' crimes. For her part in them and the destruction of the chantry. For not seeing through him sooner.
For trusting him. For loving him. Her broken heart was never enough.
Hawke doesn't cry. She hadn't shed tears when Carver was killed by that ogre, had barely cried when she had found Mother's sewn together head on that horrific body. But this... this almost gets her there. It isn't for herself that she feels the wetness prick her eyes, but for those whom she's left.
Those whom she has hurt one last time.
"I'm here now, though," she points out, lifting her head to offer the smallest of smiles. A distraction from the things they both are feeling. "Unless someone decided to plant a caricature of me. That seems a little silly. Wasted effort and all that."
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"Wouldn't be the first time," she points out weakly, her humor faltering in the wake of a sudden heartache. All of this is really true, of course, but the tiny part of her that she doesn't want to admit to, the part that she knows and hates to be true, recognizes that she had also selfishly wanted to make up for Anders' crimes. For her part in them and the destruction of the chantry. For not seeing through him sooner.
For trusting him. For loving him. Her broken heart was never enough.
Hawke doesn't cry. She hadn't shed tears when Carver was killed by that ogre, had barely cried when she had found Mother's sewn together head on that horrific body. But this... this almost gets her there. It isn't for herself that she feels the wetness prick her eyes, but for those whom she's left.
Those whom she has hurt one last time.
"I'm here now, though," she points out, lifting her head to offer the smallest of smiles. A distraction from the things they both are feeling. "Unless someone decided to plant a caricature of me. That seems a little silly. Wasted effort and all that."