Where had this been, this mourning and pain, when they were standing underneath the smoking ruins of the Chantry? Where had this guilt been in the courtyard of the Gallows--even if Anders couldn't remember it, hadn't experienced it, the Anders she remembered had been firmly committed to his righteousness even when they were practically wading through corpses, mages his actions had sentenced to their deaths. Hawke bit her tongue, to keep from snapping--or screaming--or Maker, she didn't know what. Quite literally bit down on her tongue almost hard enough to draw blood, before thinking better of it. Bleeding could be dangerous, after all.
For a few moments, watching Anders collapse under the weight of what she had to assume was guilt and horror, she could find nothing to say. Her crossed arms became less of a condemnation and more of a defense for herself, and she tightened her grip around her upper arms, as if they would provide comfort or answers. Anders undoubtedly deserved to feel this way, but she had no love of the impartial and absolute concept of Justice, parceling out what people deserved for their actions. (And, she'd been made well aware over the course of their relationship, Justice did not always have much love for her.) It was fair to let him suffer through it, but it was not pleasant in the slightest. Hawke was half-aware that she was grimacing as she spoke up again. "... Well, there's more. Meredith's dead. I objected to her decision to kill every last mage in the city." Also, Meredith had been completely insane, but that might be a detail for a later occasion. "And I registered my objection in the usual manner."
It had never been fated to end well, that uncertain truce with Meredith, but the way it had gone was about the worst ending Hawke could imagine that still left her and her friends standing. She changed the way she was gripping her arms, resettled her stance, moving pointlessly and uncomfortably without actually going anywhere.