Hope was hardly ash upon his tonngue, still warm but nearly a ghost. Just a mockery of what it should be. He, the jester on the fool's court and he knew as much. There was nothing to hope for, no reason to suffer that burden. Survival relies on the mechanations of self, and would come apart on a molten tide of wishes that could not be fulfilled. And, until now, he had never even known the illusion of hope.
Fenris took to deceit and laid it like blinders on a bridle to his unknowing recuers. Driving them onward to weather the trap set for him so that he would not perish or suffer. If reputation did them justice, they would come through. He had made certain only the strongest would be hired for his task. Perhaps they would harbor a grudge, but that did not concern him. He did not care because, what would it matter? He was alone, that's the way things were. It was no loss to him if it earned him hatred.
But, then, there were whispers his Master had come personally. A chance at true freedom that he could not refuse. Yet, at great risk to him, and he would need his decoy, should they survive, to aid him further. Against the odds of a grudge forged from his lies and trickery. And that was when the ash of delusion piled thick in his mouth, poisoning every nervous swallow and spreading through his blood.
He rids them of the last of their contenders, who were prepared for ambush. Perhaps, in a show of good faith, this could pardon their differences long enough to dispose of the Magister. Of course, he would also offer glittering coin for their service as well. Surely that will have to do. Maybe that will be enough to sway them, if just for a moment, to become his ally.
He must gulp even harder to clear the ash crowding his voice, ignoring it in full as he wanders into view. He makes a show of his power, letting 'her' know he is not easily trifled with. A deterrent until their bargain can be struck. It takes the warrior a moment to assess he is not an open threat, her sterling eyes sharp and cold as death. This may very well be a mistake on his part. The rumors of her prowess were accurate.
Then, those irises are void of all aggression, just smooth like silk and polished stone. They lack anger and bloodlust. And, as they speak, her tone offers up frustration but not hatred, to his surprise. Her allegiance is easily won, and he is at a loss for words. His eloquence escaping him as he tries to understand how she could answer his plundered ideas of hope. It was only a taste, nothing more, and she has fed him with it.
Hope grows like a weed, twining about everything else. Every emotion and thought, binding his actions and words. New chains, living and ever expanding, even when cut. It takes its time wrapping him up mercilessly within its coils, to choke the bramble flower he is of the nourishment of self reliance. It dwindles his freedom, confines it to her, slowly. So that he is not made aware he must run before it is too late.
Every day that he wakes to sunrise, it is there. Stronger and more vigorous than the day before. Even if it only boasts another inch in length or a single new leaf as it spreads over him. Reaching for her, the sun and the moon. Never the wiser that she cannot sustain it forever. One day, it will understand the sun is out of reach. And the moon is never constant, waxing and waning with the seasons. Hope will die then. He cannot wait for that day.
He will rip its tendrils tracing the lines at his flesh from his limbs and be free once more. He will turn away, his tenderness not in need of either celestial body to live. He makes due with the dead and rotting things beneath the soil. That sustains his blooming purpose, and that alone.
The conviction does not stop the shoot from forming a noose at his neck when he is confronted on the coast. Slavers sent by Hadrianna, an old enemy that should have been lost to the dust of years past by now. And Hawke is there, and he wants her help again, her alliance. And hope strangles his throat until she quiets its yearning with compliance. Shining bright enough her rays reach down to the tips of hope's outreaching stem.
She follows through, her beams never faltering. She gives hope strength to endure until the winter that is surely coming. Breathing enough warmth into its frame to keep it green, and he does not know if he can withstand this. His thorns cannot ward it off, or keep it at bay despite their keen edges.
Hope has become akin to being buried alive. Air is running out, time passing closer to a fate riddled with doom. It is dark as it presses down on him, his thoughts only imagining her shining. Missing the glow, wanting it, needing her. In ways he never knew he could need anything at all.
He tries to stay calm, not waste any precious breath so he does not suffocate any faster. But, every now and again, his breath catches within his chest and he panics. There is no reality that he can claw his way out and dig up his own grave. Like some near lifeless corpse, breaking free into the safety of the darkness of night. Hoping the moon will not be there to spear his decaying essence with its purity.
The taste of ashes pasted to the roof of his gasping mouth has turned into a craving. A drug with a vicious addiction that never is sated. He aches to call for her, scream her name. Hawke, please help! As if she could hear him from so far under. As if her warmth could peirce the cold earth between them and restore his body. And, why?
Why turn to her? Why does his heart continue fighting, the beat wearing ever on no matter how weary he feels, just to think of her and nothing else? Where does this path go but a dead end? But, here, in a resting place for his bones that will never wander again. His freedom stripped for the pyre he was condemned to by hope. To waste away at a funeral spanning an eternity beside a woman in the shambles of love. Tying himself willingly to the post for a sound lashing of desires. No horizons to chase but a cage in the halls of a home that could never truly be his.
He would be forced to haunt the rooms, knowing his worth has died away with him. Dulled by age as the years pass and the worms feast. And she would look elsewhere for her needs and wants. Leaving him behind. The pleasure of his company wearing thin from all the use within her bed. After all, his strong limbs and lethal tattoos, his sturdy stature and vulnerable demeanor behind a mask of denial... That is all he is good for. That is the only pleasure he could offer. And pleasure does not keep long. There is more to seek than those hungers in life. Eventually she would be lured to something more, something else.
Yet, still he is restless, even for one who is dying. And he cannot bite back his cries behind clamped teeth. He is drawn to her anyway, fearing rejection and hoping still. Always hoping, for something so foolish. She hears him, but, how could she being so far away? Never the less, her hands dig him up and pull him from the chasm. Her form wraps around his and seeps new life into him with every caress. Holding him close, safe.
He is out of the hole, and he knows it is only a matter of time before more hope arrives. For a concept old or a concept new. And, he must fight to keep himself free, the strain bringing him insufferable misery and pain. Summoning within him a torrent of agony, of other things he would hope for, reach for. Terrified, he runs away from their tryst. He must get away!
Fenris is drowning in hope now, utter suffocation beneath a vast surface overhead. His memories, all he knows, bob like jellyfish in this ocean. Illuminated with terror but slowly drifting past. The currents pulling him further beneath the more he struggles. The dappling light above fading from his sight. He cannot reach the sky now, and he will be dragged to the bottom. How far, how deep is the bed of one who has been cast beneath the waves?
His sister, like a whale, swims into view. A massive force he is confronted with and he cannot decipher if this will be a gentle giant or his undoing. The answer comes swift as the beast's jaws part and swallow him whole. Diving down as far as there is to go, consuming him. And he faces the blackness he has been so horrified of all this time. Danarius taking hold of him like a freezing, watery, hell.
He realizes that the sea in which he is adrift was gathered together into the rut of fear, filled with his tears. All bitter and unsavory as he drinks them, inhales them. All he has left is hope, no surity or faith. Nothing steady to hold him up from falling so far from the grace freedom offers. No dreams to watch only nightmares to witness. This was it. This was where hope gives way to nothing at all.
Snared by the abyss, he surrenders. His thrashing stills and he floats limp. He has nothing left, is empty. No more breathing, no more life. No aura or glow to enrapture his passing. No sound to answer his weeping or wings to carry him to the heaven filled clouds. He is alone.
The Little Wolf is deceased, his broken substance leaving wakes in the sand as it touches down. And the stars of his world have followed, trailing over him. They have morphed into fish so that they may come with him to the end. Greedy for the sustenance his loss will provide. Rejoicing that he is no more.
"I am here, Fenris."
He feels the words, does not hear them. And all at once his remains are broken apart. And from them streams all the brilliance she has ushered into his being. It bursts forth from the depths of sinking, rising with a flash, a streak of unsurpressed life. It makes way for the crystalline barrier above, reforming him as it blazes upward. He is renewed in rebirth, from the Little Wolf to only Fenris. To only her interpretation of the name. It gives his new existence much more meaning.
It is hope that is now the breeze, which he, fervent, sucks in with unrestrained desperation. Worried only, that he cannot take in enough. That he might fail to revive his lungs and sluggish heartbeat. To bring back his wind, he partakes of it readily.
She will come again, to see him. To check on his progress since his Master's death. And, when she is here, maybe she will give him the air he needs to breathe and come back from such a brink as oblivion. He hopes now, as before, for what he had fled from. He hopes for the return of her love.
Hope is still not easy. It pulls him down roads that face all odds. Brings him through wars and truces made to alter disaster without any solid protection. It removes the armor over his soul exposing him to possibility. The rewards are massive as is the trial, the risk. But, hope would have him walk without hesitation through it all. He no longer fights it so much as for it.
She is near, Hawke has indeed come. Hope fills his chest, lifting it from the weight of needing to inhale. It soothes his need, gives him newfound strength. And he feels himself waking up, at last, to touch what is real. Finally, he embraces what is before him, gifted to him in blessed bounty.
Love is freedom. It is the choice to have and to hold with selfish intent. And, yet, a repayment of her deeds in selfless expression. There is no prison to harbor him, but a companion to share his prize with. In that, he is not caught in the shackles of solitude, but let loose by a friend he now has to call his own.
With hope, breathing comes easy in steady rhythm and bravery roars. It captures her notice, and he tames his wild passions, holding out to her his palm. His gaze never leaves her, just subtly pleads. As always, she grips tight his hopes in her fingers, their hands locked together. Their lips meet in earnest to a vow of loyalty to one another.
Hope... Hope is Hawke. Everything he needs, and everything he pines for. It is her frost white hair, her liquid silver eyes pooling with calm, her rose red lips curved in a peaceful smile. It resides in her supple arches that, soft, create her shape. It rests in her footfalls and speaks through her hands and their actions. It keeps sharp her blade and resilient her will.
Hawke belongs to him, just as he belongs with her. His hope and his dreams. Everything lovely and perfect. They are perfect, she is his new world. One that gives far more comfort and fulfillment than any before her. Her worth is beyond measure. His Xeress Hawke, his happiness and peace.
Fenris would give anything to keep her here beside him. Keep them together and safe from all the evil running wild in this grim reality. He is ready to weep, so very sad to face the thought she will be taken. That ferocity with which he tried to rid himself of hope long ago is, today, his every whim to never be separated from it. Nothing could be worse. Nothing.
Fenris keeps his courage as he asks her to promise him to live. To just live, no matter what happens now. Regardless of what comes for them in this storm of revolt. He keeps his head high as he holds her one final moment before they are turned out into the chaos. The ash became sugar that tends to nurse his fears away. And he keeps steady with every kiss, drawing in as much of her, of hope, as he can indulge himself with. Hers is a beloved taste, precious.
She has taught him how to live. By the mercy of the Maker, there will be a tomorrow. A week, a year, a lifetime! Of this, just this. Them and forever and always. Openly, willingly, powerfully... He hopes there will be. Just as he, she, as well, needs him to.
"I am yours," he confirms.