It was, perhaps, a bit of a stretch to say Lavellan trusted Hawke. He acknowledged that the mage could fight, that he was fully capable of handling himself, and the elf respected him insofar as he was a very important person to Varric. Realistically, the real problem here was that Lavellan had always been shit at knowing his own limitations. He’d gone when the Keeper had asked him to spy on the Conclave. He’d agreed to help Cassandra when she started the Inquisition. He’d even accepted the sword from her with minimal complaint, knowing what it would mean if he refused. When there were people who needed him, he did what was asked.
But Hawke was right. If he failed now, the city would be without a measure of safety, small as it was. That sense of responsibility tugged at the elf’s last resolve. There was no way around it—he’d have to trust that Hawke could handle some of this, or they’d both end up dead. Plus, he was fairly certain the voices were telling him to stop being an idiot.
Lavellan sighed.
"Ma nuvenin." It was as much of a concession as he could make under the circumstances. They would continue, then, facing this together or not at all. Thankfully, the way ahead was clear for the moment. Lavellan stepped beyond the light that the torch cast, listening carefully for any indication that they would be descended upon again, and from what angle.