A female mage Hawke alphabet fic meme. Master post.

Fermata - Italian: “Stop.” A musical notation indicating that the note or rest is to be held until the musician is released by the conductor. A beat taken out of time.

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There is nothing that Marissa Hawke hates more than waiting.

Too much of her life has been spent in a state of in-between: Being hustled into the cellar until the templars were safely past; twiddling her thumbs in the mercenary camp until the next job came along; ducking into bushes and trying not to breathe until the ambush was called; sitting at Father’s bedside, his hand in hers until he released his last breath. To be powerless, caught up in events beyond her control, is the worst feeling in the world.

But this waiting is a thousand times worse, because there’s nothing for Hawke to watch, no signal on the horizon. She can’t listen for footsteps or look down the path for the enemy or study her father’s face for signs. These events are happening hundreds of miles away, may even have already occurred, and meanwhile she has to carry on with business: selling the loot from the expedition, meeting with merchants and dealers and the agent who has promised to sell her the Amell mansion, without betraying a hint of her helpless frustration.

And then every night it’s back to Gamlen’s house, and the cloud that hangs over every moment spent there. Gamlen’s resentment is palpable, as is Leandra’s grief and anger — she never says the words “I told you so”, but Hawke can see the rebuke in her mother’s eyes. The three of them have frozen, unable to move forward or back, waiting for a sign that it’s all right to breathe again. 

And then comes an afternoon some time after the end of the expedition — five months, two weeks, three days, and five hours from the moment she first saw daylight again — when Hawke walks into the Hanged Man and sees Aveline, elbows resting on the table. Anders sits next to her and toys with a white envelope, tapping its edge against the table; as Hawke comes closer, she sees that Aveline bears a letter as well. They look up and see her at the same time. Aveline smiles, but Anders jumps to his feet, nearly skittering out of restless skin. 

“I have news,” he says.

“So do I.” Aveline stands up as well. “Good news, which I asked the viscount if I could deliver personally.”

Hawke looks back and forth between them. Anders is practically vibrating with nerves, so she turns to Aveline. “Good news first,” she says.

Aveline nods, hands Hawke a stack of papers, folded in thirds. “I present the ownership papers for the Amell estate.” Hawke takes the documents without opening them and slides them into her pack. “Or rather, the Hawke estate — it’s officially in your name now. That way your uncle can make no claim to it, if something happens. The originals are all filed with the viscount’s office; these are your copies. Congratulations, Hawke.”

“Thanks. Mother will be pleased.” Hawke favors Aveline with a quick smile, then looks at Anders, still bouncing on his heels. “Given your expression in comparison to Aveline’s, I can only assume your news is bad.”

“It might be. This came by runner from the docks this morning.” He hands out the envelope and Hawke takes it: there is no name, no salutation, only a seal set in silver wax: the griffon sigil of the Grey Wardens. Her breath stops, just for an instant, and she finds herself looking around for Varric, for Fenris, for a rock to lean on. She lifts her eyes, and Anders and Aveline are both looking back, faces filled with compassion, concern, and she remembers that both of them also have reason to care about the contents of this letter.

She cracks the seal and pulls out the letter and reads the words she has been waiting to see; she lets out a long slow breath and allows her shoulders to relax, just a little. “Carver survived the Joining. He’s officially a Grey Warden.”

Aveline smiles, her eyes lightening; Anders exhales all at once and collapses into his chair. “Thank the Maker!” He looks up at Hawke, wide-eyed. “If he had died anyway, I don’t know that I would have ever been able to forgive myself.” 

You aren’t the only one. But Hawke only shakes her head and says what she has been unable to make herself say before: “Thank you, Anders. Thanks for saving him.”

Anders sighs. “He may not thank me, in the end. But you’re welcome.”

Hawke folds the letter and puts it back in the envelope, but she finds she can’t let it out of her hands. “Can one of you tell Varric the news? And the others? I need to go find Mother.” Without waiting for acknowledgment, she turns to go, pushing through the door and into the street, ready for her life to finally start again.