And suddenly everything—everything—that had happened does not seem to matter at all anymore.
The room glows, but as magnificent as everything is, her attention is focused solely and wholly on the girl who rises and comes over to her. She looks like Time and although she is smiling, Hawke thinks that she can see the residual effects of death still washing from her features, the way it claims and releases her, the way that it is a prison for her life. Hawke wonders at the scream that still seems to hang tangible in the air.
She murmurs her thanks as the wounds heal, her mane regrowing rapidly to replace the bald spot, the flesh of her flank knitting back together again, the scar puckering and turning pink and then fading to be covered by fresh hide. Within seconds, she is as fresh and clean as if she had never left her mother’s side.
Her hazel gaze moves to follow along the images as they shift along the wall, more two legged creatures shrieking with joy, other animals living peacefully. She thinks that she understands, at least that is what she tells herself, but the truth is she has no firm grasp on it. She is young and the intricate complexities of Beqanna is still unknown to her; she has no ability to sink into and navigate the tides of other worlds.
So she turns back toward Her, mouth turning slightly into a frown.
“Repercussions?”
The word is foreign to her. Life has no repercussions—not for her, not yet. She lives freely, blossoming beneath the sun and watchful eyes of her parents. She lives joyfully as all wild things do, and until this journey, this quest, she had lived filled to the brim with trust. Those she had met in Tephra all had her best interests at heart. They all cared for and looked after her and she could trust the weight of their words.
All of those beliefs had been challenged during this trip, but still, repercussions are foreign.
Her brow furrows and she glances down in thought before looking up, catching Her eye and holding it, doing her best to study Her expression to find some hint of an answer, some clue as to what she is to do. “My father was, is, a great warrior,” she says finally, softly, encouraged by the kind smile She gives.
“I have heard some stories of him. How he fought in wars. Led kingdoms. Rebelled against those things he saw were wrong. He was, is, magnificent.” He is her hero, and she frames him as such in her memories of him—standing, silhouetted against Tephra’s majestic sunrise. “But he told me once that for all he had done and lived, the only thing that made it worthwhile was the love that permeated his years.”
Like the love of her mother, golden and fierce and unbreakable. Ellyse is as much a soldier as Magnus, as strong and intimidating as her father, but Hawke has seen the way that they melt into one another’s sides, the way walls came down in each other’s presence. Even if they do not use the word, she know that their love is what created Canaan and what created her in turn. It is what made her.
But what if someone had stopped that?
What if someone (something) had told them ‘no’?
Her expression grows dark at the thought, and although she realizes she has been silent for perhaps far too long, she doesn’t bother to speak yet, comfortable to let the silence between them reign as she works her way through the problem. She doesn’t know what repercussions she will face if she takes Her (she does not understand Time and its power, its purpose, its inevitability), but she can grasp what will happen if she is too cowardly to face them. There was nothing worse than turning your back on love.
And so her resolve hardens.
“You must come with me. We must leave this place.” She steps forward, placing her head beneath Her kind hand and closes her eyes, heart tripping with unwanted fear at the idea of making this journey every year. “If you need to come back, I will protect you. I will guide you here and then take you back to Time.”
Then, as if in response to her acceptance, her decision, the bubble begins to shift and warp, the edges of it sparking with electricity and then dissolving, coming undone and melting around them. Hawke's insides jerk with that familiar fear and she does not hide from it; instead, she embraces it, holds it close as a reminder of what she is doing, a reminder of the importance of it. She looks to Her, she who has tears in Her eyes. She who reaches over, wraps Her arms around Hawke's neck and cries into Hawke's mane. "Thank you," she whispers, and Hawke knows she has made the right decision.
"I have waited so long to see him again."
Hawke doesn't fully understand what is needed, what needs to happen, but if She needs to come back to do something important, then Hawke will make the journey. She will walk through the cold, and she will face the Griffen, and she will rip herself apart to make sure that Her duty is done and Time can have his love. If that is to be her lot in life, then she supposes that there are worse things to do.
Magnus would accept this burden—that much she knew.
Hawke nudges Her gently with the velvet of her nose, motioning toward the doorway that opens before them. “It might be scary out there,” she says under her breath, thinking of all that she has faced to get here, “but you must be brave.” She takes a step toward it, making sure that She is there by her side, following along. “I am here with you, and, besides, Time waits for no man.”
And then, side by side, they walk through the door and into the great beyond waiting for them.
hawke
I’m a princess cut from marble
{ smoother than a storm }