Redemption - Chapter 3

Title: Redemption: Chapter 3 - Damaged
Author: Reflection Muse
Game: Dragon Age 2
Characters/Pairing: Anders and F!Hawke
Disclaimer: The events of this story take place after Dragon Age 2. If you have not finished the game, please be aware that this story does contain plot spoilers. This story is rated Teen for language, violence, and very mild sexual content/innuendos.

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"Poor Anders...I think he's broken the thing he wanted to save." - Merrill


Hawke first became aware of the all-encompassing darkness, then of her own nebulous state of awareness. Where am I? Feelings of confusion tempered with panic came next. What happened? Something was wrong. Her visceral senses were failing her—she couldn't see, hear, or speak. Why can't I move? She struggled to fight her way out of the darkness. It was an unrelenting tide that tumbled her about, disoriented her consciousness, and pulled her under every time she tried to rise to the surface. Her eyelids fluttered, and she became vaguely aware of her body, faint voices and echoes, soft touches and gentle movement. More time passed and she felt warmth, a cold solidness below her, ripples of pain, and pressure against her skin. Strange but oddly familiar aromas filled her nostrils—pungent, sweet, musty, earthy, and metallic scents. Something pulled at the edges of her consciousness, stirred in her memory, and her eyelids fluttered again. Almost. Slits of light slowly appeared and disappeared with each belabored effort to open her eyes.

When Hawke finally came to, she became aware of a few more tangible things in disjointed bits and pieces. All her armor and clothing from the waist up, save for her undergarments, had been removed. Her right side hurt—Andraste's tits, it really hurt—especially when she took a deep breath. She decided she'd stick to shallow breaths for now. She felt like she'd taken a blade in the ribcage. Was I attacked? Sounds had a strange underwater, echo quality to them, though the ringing in her ears wasn't helping that either. There was also a gathering of blurry faces hovering over her, but try as she might, she couldn't quite get them to come into focus. When she squinted, she became painfully aware of a third thing—she felt like she'd been head-butted by an angry bronto.

"She's awake! She's awake!" Sophie chirped in a voice that reminded Hawke of tinkling, silver wind-chimes in summer.

Hawke let out a weak groan and her head rolled to the side, slowly blinking grey-blue eyes. Even blinking felt like a clumsy, laborious effort. Sweet Andraste, what happened? She tried to remember, but her head felt like it was filled with thick, sticky mud. Two large, warm hands lovingly slid under her limp neck and cradled her head; smooth thumbs tenderly stroked her cheeks. Something familiar tickled the edges of her mind, like a word that was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't quite remember. She knew those hands, and that familiar sweet scent of dried herbs mixed with musky linen and suede—Anders!

Everything came rushing back to her all at once, and her eyes flashed open wide with realization and panic. She planted her palms on the floor and tried to sit up too quickly, only to be met with a bolt of blinding pain and nausea that shot through her entire body, stealing her breath. Hawke's strength gave way and she felt herself falling to the ground, but Anders caught her in steady arms and cradled her into his warm chest.

"Slowly," Anders warned in a concerned hush, his face wracked with regret and worry. He helped her sit up, very slowly this time, keeping a protective arm around her. She slumped against his chest, her head resting against his left shoulder and her arm slid under his outer-robes, around his waist. Anders gently held her chin in his right palm; gazing down at her, he carefully examined one eye then the other. "How's your vision, love? Blurry? Are you seeing doubles of anything?" he asked in a hushed voice.

The world was still spinning, but her vision was clearing. She calmly looked around, taking in her surroundings. The little girl Anders had been tending to earlier was hovering over his right shoulder like a sweet little bird, gazing at Hawke with curious concern, a clean bandage wrapped around her head. A few of the others in the small room had fresh dressings wrapped around their wounds, and those who had been helping Anders tend to the most badly injured were all watching her now.

"Still blurry, but no double images," she answered in a voice that sounded too weak to be hers. Her tongue was thick and clumsy in her mouth and every part of her felt heavy and off-kilter. "Is...everyone okay? Are you okay? How long was I out?" she asked, her eyebrows furrowed in worry. Even now, being the one everyone was huddled around, her first and foremost concern was for them. Anders felt his stomach knot up as he was struck speechless, humbled by her selflessness and compassion.

"You haven't been unconscious for very long—maybe twenty or thirty minutes. I gave y-" his voice cracked and his face trembled and twisted in agony as he brushed his fingertips, feather-soft, over the large black-and-blue swell that now marred the pale skin on her forehead.

The healer swallowed hard and continued, "You have a concussion, and at least two cracked ribs," he said with a miserable, pained expression. "Everyone else is okay. Well...as okay as they were when we got here. Thank the Maker you were here, but I...I hurt you," his voice wavered and abruptly caught in his throat, his eyes welling up with stinging tears, and he cast his eyes down in shame. Hawke could see that Anders was waging a terrible war within himself, and it was painfully apparent he was losing. "I'm so sorry. Maybe I really should turn myself in."

Hawke felt like she was watching Anders, the center of her whole world, losing his balance on the edge of a bottomless ravine. Don't let him fall, she told herself. This was a downward spiral of guilt and self-defeat that Hawke knew she had to put a stop to before it got worse—it was a poison more potent than any she could mix, and one that she had no doubt would quickly destroy him from the inside out.

"No. Look at me," Hawke demanded and slid her palm under his chin, tilting his face up and locking her eyes with his. She cupped his face in her hands and paused between each gentle but sternly spoken word. "Anders...please. Look. At. Me."

She searched his face, his amber-brown eyes, and lovingly pressed her palm to his heart before speaking again. "It's done...and I'm sorry it happened, but I need you to hold yourself together right now. Please. I love you. I can't do this alone. We'll talk about it later, okay?"

Anders couldn't believe how understanding she was being about this, but it was all he could to do offer her a stunned, silent nod. He was totally beside himself over what had happened—terrified, ashamed, and feeling completely unworthy of her faith, love, and devotion. He'd broken, literally broken, the most important thing in his life—her, his center, his treasure, his hope. How does one even begin to cope with seeing their worst nightmare come to fruition, and worse yet, by their own hand? His greatest fear had happened; there was no pretending it didn't or taking it back, and he had no idea how to prevent it from happening again. That realization alone sent him spiraling into a desperate, full-blown panic. Justice was getting stronger and more dangerous, or he was just getting weaker—possibly both.

Hawke looked down and gingerly pressed fingertips to her right side where her abdomen was tightly wrapped in linen bandages. Anders had masterfully dressed her wounds, but she fully realized that these injuries were going to make their escape from Kirkwall, and travel in general, a much slower, more challenging affair. She smoothed her fingertips over the swelled lump on her forehead and winced. The skin there was tender and feverish, and she could only imagine how ridiculous it must look.

There was still one thing left unexplained, and she had to know. Hawke cast her intense slate-blue eyes on Anders and asked, "Anders, what brought you back this time? I need to know."

The mage's face fell and he paled. His eyes grew wide and unseeing as he remembered the moment it happened. "Seeing what I'd done to you," he croaked, unable to meet her searching gaze.

Hawke pursed her lips, slowly nodded, and smiled a little. She was astounded and so very proud of him. Every fiber of his being must have wanted, so desperately, to run, fast as he could, to get as far away from her as possible to prevent this from happening again. But he didn't. She knew that this was his worst fear come true, yet he had stayed, and was facing it. This was a breakthrough, though she doubted he realized it yet. This was paramount progress—she felt hope blossom within her again.

"Thank you," she whispered with genuine sincerity, and caressed his cheek.

Anders blinked in utter confusion and alarm, and struggled to find his voice, "Wh-...thank you for what? Maker's breath, what are you thanking me for? Do you know what I did? I could have killed you!"

"But you didn't. I'm thanking you for not running away," she said very slowly, placing careful emphasis on each word. She smiled affectionately. "I'm proud of you for staying and facing what happened. Thank you."

Anders felt completely, indescribably overwhelmed with emotion. How she could possibly forgive him for what he'd just done to her was unfathomable, but he was grateful for it, more than she could possibly know. "You're welcome. It was the least I could do," he muttered, still feeling deeply ashamed. "I tended to you and the others as best as I could, but I could only do so much. I'm sorely lacking in certain supplies and tools. I need to get to my clinic if I'm to properly help these people."

"I'll go," Hawke asserted and reached for her shirt and armor, wincing and seeing stars as she twisted her abdomen.

"What? No, absolutely not. I haven't had a chance to heal you at all yet," Anders objected. "Are you nug-scat crazy?"

"Yes? I've never denied that," she said with a wink and her best charming smile. She knew this wasn't going to be an easy thing to convince him of—turning on the charm wouldn't hurt. She continued reasoning with him as she carefully pulled one arm at a time through her shirt and fastened the buttons. "Seriously, one of us needs to stay here, and you're the better choice. I think we both know that."

Before Anders could object further, Hawke addressed the little girl perched at his side. "Sophie, dear, do you want Anders to stay here while I run an errand?"

"Yes! Stay here!" Sophie sang, and threw her tiny arms around Anders' neck, resting her chin on his feathered pauldrons.

Anders rolled his golden-brown eyes at Hawke in pure exasperation; he couldn't believe she would use a little girl against him—a wounded little girl—to get her way. "May I speak with you privately for a moment, love?" The mage gently removed Sophie's arms from around his neck and rose to his feet. He shook his head in disbelief and followed Hawke out into the cellar passage.

"You know I adore you, but that was not fair," he said in an irritated tone, defiantly folding his arms across his chest.

"Sorry, love, but I don't always play fair. You know that," Hawke reminded Anders with a surly grin. She was already slipping into her leather armor, tightening straps and fastening buckles. "Remember we need to get out of town as soon as possible. The longer we stay here, the more danger we're putting ourselves, and everyone around us, in. You need supplies from your clinic to properly help these people. Yes?"

"Yes," he admitted, "Tomwise is going to need an amputation and crutches. Several of the others need splints and slings, and I could use more bandages and liniments. I store all of those things in the back room of my clinic."

Hawke nodded and continued, "I remember. And one of us needs to make sure these people are protected while the other is gone. The cellar entrance to Darktown is right there," she said and pointed down the corridor, "And the clinic is just around the corner once I'm outside. I'll be in and out and back here before you know it."

"I don't like this. At all. What if you're attacked while you're out there alone? Then what?" Anders asked, his brow deeply furrowed in concern. He affectionately stroked her cheek, and swept a wisp of black hair from her eyes. "Please be reasonable—don't do this," he whispered.

Hawke sighed and gave him a half-hearted smile, trying to lighten the mood, "Isabela read my fortune the other day and assured me I won't die anytime soon. Or at least not this week. Sorry, but you're stuck with me!" Anders just raised an eyebrow and gave her an incredulous 'I'm not amused' look, so she dropped the attempt at humor and took a more sincere approach. "You know I can handle myself. I'll be careful. I promise."

Anders could see she'd made up her mind, and when she'd done that, there was no winning the battle. He knew she was right anyway; he pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head, begrudgingly giving in.

"Fine," Anders conceded and let out a long sigh. "Bring Riven at least, and let me take care of your concussion first, please. Your ribs will take a bit more effort and time."

"Deal," she said triumphantly and gave him a quick, determined nod.

"Thank you, sweetheart," Anders said graciously and stepped closer to her, holding his hands over her bruised forehead. He closed his eyes and focused on mending the lesser of her two injuries; white light, pure and serene, emanated from his palms. She felt a peaceful presence, calm, warm, and comforting, connect deep within her. Hawke watched him with awe and adoration—how anyone could consider this beautiful, miraculous gift nothing short of a blessing was a mystery to her.

The light from Anders hands faded, and he staggered back against the wall, weakened from the effort of healing her. Hawke took his face in her hands and kissed him between hushed words of gratitude, vows of love, and promises that all would be well. She helped her lover back to the others and left for Darktown with Riven following close behind. As she walked to the end of the passage, she gently ran her fingertips over her forehead; the lump was gone, as was the pain. All that remained was a tingly, warm sensation that lingered on her skin where Anders had used his healing magic on her. Amazing, she thought and felt a renewed fervor. Her right side still throbbed under her armor, but it was tolerable as long as she didn't take a deep breath or move too quickly.

Anders watched on from the doorway of the temporary refugee camp, dwarfing Sophie's little hand in his, until Hawke's silhouette was swallowed up by the darkness. Under his breath, he whispered a desperate plea, "Maker, please bring her back to me safely."

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Hawke slowly eased open the wooden hatch leading out of the Amell cellar passage, wincing as it creaked. She lifted it just enough to peek outside and scan the dark, open area outside Anders' clinic for any signs of danger. She saw nothing, but she was positive she heard the telltale sounds of battle—ringing 'clangs' of metal striking metal echoed from somewhere in the distance, accompanied by agitated shouting. Someone was out there, waging battle with someone else.

"Well, old boy, it's just you and me," Hawke whispered to Riven and drew in a slow, careful breath. "Are you ready?"

Riven nuzzled her arm with his wet nose and let out a muffled bark, followed by a low growl.

Hawke held her breath and slowly crept through the hatch, followed by Riven. She pressed her body against the grimy wall inside the cellar hatch alcove and took a better look around. The sun was long gone, and Darktown had been plunged into inky evening shadows; the only light illuminating the immediate area were the lanterns in front of Anders' clinic. She recognized that the fighting she heard earlier was to the south, but she couldn't tell how far away.

Her heart hammered frantically against her chest as adrenaline coursed through her veins. Hawke tightened the grip on her daggers and crept with slow, silent steps into the clinic. She knelt behind a stack of weathered wooden crates in one of the corners nearest the clinic entryway and carefully peered out from her hiding place. Hawke meticulously scanned every corner and shadow in the clinic for the presence of anyone else. She was a little surprised by her luck so far, but she knew better than to let her guard down now.

Acting purely on instinct, she crouched down low and pounced from her hiding place toward the shelter of an old, upturned cot—she realized the severity of her poor choice as her back arched mid-leap. Excruciating, stabbing pain radiated from her cracked ribs. She bit down hard on her tongue to keep from crying out, and gracelessly hit the ground in a clumsy heap. She crawled behind the cot and sat there for a few minutes, holding her head in her hands and taking short, shallow breaths until the pain became bearable again.

As she worked her way along the clinic's inside perimeter, the assassin took care to move far more slowly than she would have liked to keep the pain in check. She kept to the interior wall, slipping through the shadows, until she reached the back room where Anders kept all his supplies. She sheathed her daggers to free up her hands and quickly snatched up a small handsaw, liniments, bandages, splints, a pair of crutches, and a few other supplies Anders hadn't asked for, just in case. Looking at her collected pile of supplies, she realized she had a slight problem—she didn't have enough hands to carry everything. She snapped her fingers as an idea came to her. Hawke grabbed a musty blanket and stacked the supplies inside, tying the corners off in knots, and slid the crutches through the opening.

"Perfect!" she whispered to herself, quite proud of her quick thinking and resourcefulness. She leaned down to lift the makeshift rucksack, but had barely lifted any of the pack's weight when she felt the pain in her side flare up in warning. Hawke slumped to the floor and leaned her head back against a dusty wall, fighting off waves of nausea and dizziness. Angry tears well up in her eyes; she hated that she was being hindered by her injuries and ashamed that she was unable to soldier through the pain. It made her feel so weak and helpless. She sat there in the darkness, wracking her brain for another plan. Riven whined and nuzzled her shoulder; she put an arm around the mabari and rested her head on his muscular neck.

"That's it!" she exclaimed and looked at Riven with a smile. The mabari tilted his head and blinked curious, brown eyes at her. "You can carry this pack for me, can't you boy?" she asked him, and scratched the fur under his chin. The mabari snuffled in response and nosed the pack of supplies. Hawke was smiling again, relieved to have an alternate plan, and even more glad to be close to returning to Anders.

Her moment of elation was short lived—Riven let out an angry, guttural growl that made her blood run cold. She'd heard that very specific growl enough times to know exactly what it meant. Something was wrong. It was too quiet. She wasn't alone. She raised her eyes just in time to see five hulking silhouettes step out of the shadows, into the clinic doorway.

Hawke cursed sharply under her breath and quickly pivoted, dropping behind a wall and unsheathing her daggers. She heard several arrows lodge themselves into the wall where she had been standing mere moments before.

"Well, well, well...what have we here?" a menacing voice called out. "Pretty one, ain't she, boys?"

"Yeah, maybe we should keep this'un for ourselves," another voice sneered.

"Nah, someone'll pay a nice sum for her, s'pecially in Tevinter," a third male voice said with a jeer.

"That don't mean we can't have a piece fer ourselves, first," said the second voice, and the men erupted in cackles.

Slavers, of course, she thought. They're still here. And why wouldn't they be? She crouched down and let out an enraged snarl, cursing her luck. She knew things were going too well. She was cornered, like an animal, with no way out but through five ogre-sized men—possibly more.

One of the men whistled and called out to her, "C'mon sugar. We know yer in there. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way—yer choice!"

"I'll bet she prefers the hard way!" another of the slavers shouted, mocking her. The men uproariously howled and laughed, amused by their little joke.

Hawke was livid and her hands were trembling, but she was focused and ready to fight for her life—she was under no illusions that she had any other choice. All she could think of was Anders, and what she wouldn't give to have him here now. Were she not injured, the assassin would have set on the slavers with her full fury, but she knew that in her current state she'd be at a great disadvantage in toe-to-toe combat with the slavers. Even at her full strength and having the element of surprise, five-on-one weren't promising odds. She'd have to keep them from rushing her for as long as she could.

Hawke pulled out a few throwing daggers, quickly dipped the tips in a vial of venom and rose to her feet. She peered around the wall, let loose one of the throwing daggers with a quick flick of her wrist, and retreated against the wall again. The agonizing howl and 'thud' of a body hitting the ground, followed by convulsive floundering, told her the dagger had found its mark and the toxin would soon do the rest—her lips curled in a satisfied, feral grin.

"Take that, you nug-humping bastard," she hissed through clenched teeth, and readied another throwing dagger. Riven impatiently whined next to her, eager to join the fight. "Stay here for now, old boy. If they rush us here, you'll be our little surprise." Riven snorted, and obediently crouched beside his master, all muscle, coiled and ready to strike.

"You bitch! Yer gonna pay for that!" one of the men roared, and she heard the remaining men bickering over who should go first. Their argument was abruptly cut short and she heard the horrible squelching sound of rent flesh, the loud cracking of bones, and a blood curdling scream from several of the men, followed by wet gurgling and an eerie silence.

"What the...?" she whispered to herself, and peeked out from her hiding place. Standing over the mangled slaver bodies, still clutching a bloody heart in his clawed fist was Fenris in his formidable Lyrium Specter form, casting a vibrant light-blue glow over the clinic entrance.

"Fenris! Thank the Maker!" Hawke exclaimed in relief, more grateful to see the elf than she could ever remember. She stood in the dirty little hovel in the back of the clinic and strode to him in slow, deliberate steps, holding her cracked ribs, which now felt like they were trying to burn a hole through the flesh on her side.

Fenris unceremoniously dropped the heart on the clinic's dirt floor and gave Hawke the most utterly dumbfounded look she'd ever seen him make—it would have made her laugh and tease him mercilessly for it if the circumstances had been different.

"Hawke? What are you doing here? I thought you had already left the city," he said, and narrowed his large, moss-green eyes in confusion. "Why have you not left the city yet?" He paused and looked around, raising one dark eyebrow. "And where is your apostate?" he asked, with surly, unabashed disdain. He noticed the way she was favoring her right side and his dark brows furrowed in concern. "Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?" he spat.

"It's...no. It's nothing. I was injured before I got here. I'll be fine. As for the rest, it's...well, it's a long story, Fenris," she said with a shrug and an apologetic smile. "I could ask you the same. What are you doing down here?"

"You think I would miss a chance to kill a few slavers?" he asked and issued a sharp kick to one of the corpses at his feet. Fenris shook his head and clucked his tongue at her, "Honestly, Hawke. How long have we known each other? You know me better than that," he said with a wickedly amused smirk.

"Good point," Hawke chuckled. "Well, I can't tell you how glad I am to see you. I was in a pretty bad spot there. You really saved my hide—thank you. I owe you one."

"Anytime, Hawke. It sounded like they had some fairly unpleasant plans for you," Fenris said with concern written all over his face. "If I had known it was you they had cornered as their quarry, I would have taken my time properly torturing them," he said with a sneer and a fiercely protective glint in his green eyes.

Hawke smiled, remembering what had ignited their brief but explosive fling all those years ago. Even now, years later, the elf's intense loyalty and ferociously protective nature were unrivaled, save for her own. She thought back to Varric's comment in her estate earlier that day—he was right, though it hurt her pride a little to admit it.

"Why is your possessed mage not here, Hawke?" he said with a glower and a deliberate venomous edge to his question.

"He's in my estate's cellar passage, tending to a group of injured Darktown citizens who were lucky enough to flee from the slavers," she explained. "I requested he stay there in case any slavers found where they were hiding."

"I see," he replied, dryly. "And will you be leaving the city with him soon?"

"Yes, as soon as I get these supplies back to them," Hawke explained and motioned at the pack that Riven was sitting next to.

"Hawke...," he said and trailed off, exhaling a growl of a sigh. "Nevermind."

"Out with it, Fenris. Come on, you've never coddled me. Why start now?" Hawke said with raised eyebrows and a beckoning motion of her hand.

"Fine," he snarled, "Anders is dangerous. I think today's incident duly proved that point. I genuinely worry for your safety, Hawke. Do you honestly trust him to protect you, as you do him? Is this really what you want?" Fenris asked, cutting to the chase.

There it was. That's what she expecting from him, though she could tell he was, in his own way, still showing remarkable restraint and trying to be polite about it. "Thank you, Fenris. I appreciate your honesty and concern, truly. Please know that I do trust him and this is what I want—I love him."

The former Tevinter slave grunted and fixed a scrutinizing gaze on her from beneath a messy, silvery fringe of hair. "Festis bei umo canavarum—stubborn as always, I see. You're being foolish, Hawke," he said with that disapproving scowl that always had an uncanny way of making her feel like she was five-years-old again, being scolded by her elders.

Fenris may be sorely lacking in the tact department, and often infuriating, but Hawke had always understood, respected, and appreciated his raw honesty and directness. Even when she didn't want to hear it, she had to admit to herself that there was usually some bit of undeniable truth to his words. She did have a tendency to wear her heart on her sleeve and get lost in her own head at times. Through the years, he had become her grounded voice of reason whenever her emotions got the better of her; she was going to miss that.

"Maybe, but it's my choice," Hawke replied with a quick shrug. "Where you see foolishness and stubbornness, I see love and devotion," she said with a light sigh of frustration through her nose. They'd had this 'discussion' countless times before. "Of all those I know, I think you understand better than anyone what it means to want to protect someone important to you and to fight for a cause you believe in, at any cost," she said, knowing that pointing out their shared sense of vigilance, hinting at what she knew still lingered within him, may hurt him to hear.

It did, and she immediately felt extremely guilty for it, like she'd just kicked a puppy. Fenris' expression flickered with what Hawke recognized as sadness and regret that ran deep, but only for a brief moment before his expression returned to the well-practiced, stoic countenance he always wore. "Yes, I suppose I do. After you leave the city, where will you go?"

Hawke didn't answer right away; she internally debated whether or not she should tell him, and decided it wouldn't hurt to give him partial information. "We're headed to Sundermount to meet Merrill. Depending on how things go with her at the summit, we may meet Isabela in three days' time on The Wounded Coast."

Fenris nodded and straightened himself, flicking drops of blood off his clawed gauntlet with a look of open disgust on his face. "Do you have everything you need?" he asked and cast his eyes on her again.

"Yes," Hawke replied and took a few small steps toward him, fixing her gaze with his.  "Fenris, I can't thank you enough...for everything. I mean it."

Fenris smiled, a rare genuine smile, and stiffly bowed with one arm held across his chest. "It has been an honor, Hawke. Perhaps our paths will cross again one day," he said in an overly formal but warm tone.

"Perhaps they will, Fenris," Hawke said with a heartfelt smile. She opened her arms and moved to give him a hug goodbye, but stopped herself, remembering the pain his lyrium markings caused him when touched.

Fenris surprised her by pulling her into a strong embrace, taking unusually gentle care to mind her injury, and whispered into her disheveled black hair, "You're one of the best friends I have ever had, Hawke. I owe you my future—I will not forget you."

"Nor I, you, Fenris," Hawke replied and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. "Have fun hunting the slavers."

"Always do," he answered, with a feral sneer. The two old friends—once lovers—parted ways into the night, though for how long, neither could be sure.

"Let's go home, old boy," Hawke said out of habit and smiled down at Riven, giving him a scratch on the neck. Home, she thought. She didn't have one anymore, in the traditional sense, but her home would always be wherever the center of her word was—wherever Anders was. And that was enough for her. Riven padded behind Hawke, with the rucksack of much needed clinic supplies held securely in his massive maw, and the pair slipped back through the hatch leading into the Amell estate cellar.