14. Cineri gloria sera est. Glory paid to ashes comes too late.

Cineri Gloria Sera Est

He blames himself. The duel, after all, was his suggestion. Had he forgotten that Hawke was only human, mortal, a mage; that her victories in battle were never hers alone but bought by the bonds of friendship? What titan stature had his imagination given her as her years of patience won his trust, as her victories gained his respect? He had not even dreamed that she could fail.

He corrects himself: The statue now overlooking the docks is proof that she did not fail. The Arishok was defeated, and the Qunari have departed Kirkwall. Kirkwall, now tripping over itself in its haste to pay honor, posthumous glory, to a Champion who will champion the city's struggles no more. Hawke won her duel only by surviving a little longer than her foe. Carried from the Viscount's Keep, consciousness fleeting, it took her three days longer to die than it did the Arishok. On the third day, the city mourned. The day after that, it named her Champion and began construction of this monstrosity of a statue.

Weeks pass before Fenris goes anywhere near the docks; it is Merrill who finally drags him there so he can see. The others speak of the memorial, of the title, of the recognition finally paid to Hawke to whom it was so long due, but she is ash now, he thinks, and this glory comes too late. What did Kirkwall give her in life? What, he wonders, did I give her in life? Sorrow. Regret. Trouble. One night of believing in more, and then day after day of awkward distance. Ever patient, she had not responded in anger, though he knew he had hurt her. She granted him time and space and the friendship he still needed, and yet at the end -

"I couldn't even go to see her," he confesses, one hand hovering over the polished marble edge of the statue's base, not quite touching. "I couldn't - couldn't just watch her dying. Once I got as far as her chamber door, but then I fled. It was my fault she was lying there. My fault she had to die, not knowing - I never told her - " He lowers his gaze to the flowers scattered at the foot of the statue. "It is too late now."

He flinches at a touch, light as a daisy, on his back, but Merrill, undaunted, gently smoothes the fabric of his tunic and looks up at him with eyes deep with sadness. "You made her happy, you know," she states in all seriousness. Fenris winces and looks away. "You did," Merrill insists. "Puppy dog eyes and all. She smiled so when you were near." She lifts Fenris' hand in her own, transferring her daisy touch to the red ribbon he still wears. "I think she knew what this meant. Whatever you didn't tell her? She knew. She was just waiting for you to know it, too."