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This place has always plagued Fenris with unease. Perhaps it’s the overwhelming scent of incense, the candles which burn from dawn until dusk. It could be the silence with presses in from all sides, the overpowering sense of being smothered. The golden statue of Andraste looks towards the sky, the blue painted ceiling which plays theatre at stars. Worse even still, is the crowd of people here now. They surround Hawke, drown her in their grief. Fenris watches as she politely thanks each and every one, takes their hands which are extended in sympathy. Through that touch, she draws out their sorrow as if it were it were a poison, and takes it into herself. Unburdened, they are uncaring that she has her own grief to contend with.
He and the rest stay near her, the one thing she had requested in all this time. She has turned away their dinners, their lunches, and their gatherings. She has turned away their gifts, their offerings, and their comfort. She had simply asked that they be with her, today of all days. They have no portrait of Leandra. She thought she had more time to have one made. Instead, Hawke has surrounded her urn with all the things she loved. Her favorite flavor of tea, a slice of chocolate cake. Red roses, baby’s breath. Not a single lily.
Fenris listens to all of them speak to Hawke, and they offer up all the same set empty phrases.
I’m sorry for your loss.
Time heals all wounds.
She’s watching over you.
Hawke accepts them all without a change in expression, that soft smile low on her lips. She keeps herself tall, her shoulders straight. While the sister had spoken during the service, Hawke had kept that same expression, without a single tear. However, he knows the handkerchief in her pocket is now unraveled. A single thread was all it took. Hawke found it with fidgeting fingers, and pulled at it to distraction. There are no distractions here. Only them, and their platitudes. He has not spoken to her yet. He is learning all the things he will not say.
It is the sole thing he focuses on. He did not know Leandra well, and the last time he had been at the Hawke estate… There are many things he would like to say. Somehow, the words aren’t right no matter which ones he thinks of. No sentence, no saying, no way to make it right. His hands squeeze into fists at his side. These others, these nobles, they didn’t know Leandra well either. They don’t know Hawke. The way they carry on, they think their grief measures up to hers. They don’t know what she needs. Do they not realize how alone she feels? Do they not know she asked them to stay near her so that she knows not everyone has left her? He has no doubt once the funeral has finished, she will see no more of these wailing nobles. Their duty will be done.
In the evening, as he walks on cold cobblestone through Hightown, he is still thinking of it. It’s a speech made and unmade, unraveling as easy as that handkerchief. It’s Bodahn who allows him inside, tells him that Hawke is upstairs in her room. It’s where she gone after the funeral, and it’s where she has not left. He climbs the stairs slowly, his hand on the banister. The stairs creak under his weight, and as he steps onto the landing, he can see her door is open. He steps through quietly, quickly. Hawke raises her head, and looks at him.
“I don’t know what to say,” he says, conceding it completely, “but I am here.” He walks forward, closes the distance between them, and takes a seat on the bed next to her. She has her hands clenched in fists, pressed her thighs. The tears fall hot and heavy against the back of them. Fenris reaches over, takes one, and slowly opens it for her. It’s a knot, that fist. A knot to keep it all from unraveling. In its place, Fenris threads his fingers with hers, holds her hand tightly. She sobs as she rests her head against his shoulder.