Content Warning: themes of slavery and brief implication of past non-con/rape.
After gathering his nerve for perhaps a quarter of an hour, Anders casually strode up to Hawke's side and asked, in a low whisper, just what the hell they were doing.
Hawke accepted the question cheerfully, as she usually did, and deliberately interpreted it in the most literal possible terms. "Well, we're going to the Hanged Man, aren't we?" she said, smiling brightly and not bothering to match his hushed tones. "I could have sworn that I mentioned something about that before we left."
Anders sighed, rolling his eyes without any real malice, and pressed her further. "Yes, I did catch that bit, but why?"
Hawke wished that she could muster enough irritation to summon a truly withering glare, but, as it was, she was distinctly aware of the impotence of her own expression. Anders stared flatly back at her, utterly undaunted, and waited for her to offer a more genuine reply. Relenting, she glanced back over her shoulder to make sure that neither Fenris nor Isabela were within earshot, then murmured, "Because he asked me to go with him. It's not as if I could refuse."
Anders shook his head, his brow furrowing with the annoyance that discussing Fenris always brought on. "He takes advantage of your partiality, you know."
She let out a soft burst of laughter. "Everyone takes advantage of me, Anders. It's one of the few downsides of being so consistently chipper and aggressively helpful: people start to think that they can walk all over you." With a crooked smile, she added musingly, "But, then again, Fenris can do whatever he likes all over me and I won't complain."
"For an otherwise intelligent woman, you really do have the most appalling taste in men," he grimaced. "Or feral beasts, as the case may be."
Anders' final words, and the edge of bitterness to them, chafed slightly, but Hawke had long since learned that maintaining her amicable relationships with both Anders and Fenris meant tolerating a certain degree of acrimony between them. So, with a dismissive shrug and the faintest hint of a tight smile, she said, "He's my friend and he needs me; it's as simple is as that. Besides, it's not as though he makes more ridiculous demands than anyone else, yourself included." Anders exhaled sharply in indignation, but Hawke laughed before he could contradict her. "Oh, don't even look at me like that. Unless you imagine that I went frolicking about in search of Sela Petrae because of my deep and abiding love of being ankle-deep in shit."
Anders opened his mouth to form some sort of a denial, but his reply died on his tongue and came out as a rough sigh instead. "Alright, fair enough," he grumbled. "Though I doubt that you think of him as merely your friend."
Hawke allowed herself to communicate with another shrug rather than bothering to form a verbal response. She hadn't quite discovered the secret to ridding her friends of their persistent misconceptions about her relationship with Fenris, but she'd found that her more strident objections only seemed to encourage them.
"I must admit, I was hoping for a denial," said Anders, after a brief stretch of Hawke's continued silence.
"There's nothing to deny," she replied, unable to entirely suppress the laughter brought on by the subtle disappointment in Anders' tone. "There hasn't been anything to deny for years." With a careless smile that seemed forced even to her, Hawke added, "I may not have the most flourishing of love-lives, but I haven't yet reached the point of desperation where I'm willing to pursue a man who hasn't showed the slightest indication of interest in me for three years. I'm not that pathetic." Hawke wished that there were more truth to her words. The fact the she was able to recall, almost to the day, how much time had passed since she and Fenris had been together was doing very little for her self-respect.
The slight awkwardness of the pause that followed her declaration seemed to indicate that Anders hadn't quite believed her, either. Still, he had the good grace not to press any further and, after a moment's lull, he said simply, "Well, good. That's good."
"If you say so," she mumbled, privately hoping that this thread of conversation had come to its natural close. Discussing whatever feelings she might still have for Fenris was never particularly constructive with any of her friends, but it was even less so with Anders. Much though she valued his opinion on other matters, she doubted his objectivity where the elf was concerned.
Hawke's diminishing interest in the subject at hand must have been evident, because Anders veered away from it swiftly, turning back towards his original line of questioning. "So, the reason you're accompanying Fenris to the Hanged Man is because he's your friend, apparently, and because he asked you?"
"That's about the size of it, yes."
"Which leads me to my question: why are we going? It strikes me as incredibly doubtful that Fenris would have asked specifically for Isabela and I to come along with you."
Hawke hesitated before answering, glancing back over her shoulder once more to ensure that the others had not developed a curiosity about what exactly she and Anders were discussing. It seemed, for the time being, that they were both suitably distracted. Isabela was continuing her game of slyly interrogating Fenris about the color of his underclothes and Fenris was busy walking the line between annoyance and amusement. While the pair of them exchanged playful barbs, Hawke turned back to Anders and said mutedly, "I want this to go well for him. I genuinely do. But, it strikes me as being awfully… fortuitous… that his long-lost sister has chosen to suddenly emerge from the woodwork."
"You don't think that it's really her?" Anders asked in a whisper, moving in closer to Hawke's side.
She shook her head, furrowing her brow thoughtfully. "That's not it, exactly. I believe Fenris when he says that his sources are reliable, but even he has some misgivings. And it is a bit difficult to believe that Danarius would simply forget that he had such an irresistible lure at his disposal." Hawke sighed, lifting her shoulders noncommittally, before adding, "Only a fool trusts a stranger, as they say, and, even if Fenris hadn't asked me along, I would never let him go into this meeting alone. If something happened and he was taken…." She cleared her throat and finished blithely, "Well, then I'd have to launch a time-consuming search-and-rescue and, as it is, I haven't the coin to fund an expedition that costly."
Anders let out a gust of a laugh. "So, it's a matter of financial responsibility, then?"
"It generally is, where I'm concerned, yes," she nodded. "And, as I said, it's just a favor to a friend."
"You're a better woman than he deserves," sighed Anders, shaking his head but letting his lips lift slightly at the corners.
"Well, obviously," she grinned, tossing her hair in a show of arrogance. Under other circumstances, she might have said that Fenris deserved happiness however and with whomever he chose, but it seemed like such trite remarks would fall on deaf ears just then. So, as elegantly as she could, Hawke steered the subject towards more comfortable ground. "Thank you, by the way," she said warmly, placing a gentle hand on Ander's shoulder. "For coming along, I mean. I know Fenris isn't your favorite person, but I appreciate your help. Believe me, there's no one I'd trust more to have my back."
Anders looked taken aback by the sudden shift in her tone, but his smile spread as he nodded in acknowledgment. "How could I refuse a favor to a friend?"
Hawke gave his shoulder a quick squeeze before letting her arm fall back to her side. "I'm going to go see how he's doing," she said, tilting her head back towards where Fenris was rolling his eyes at Isabela.
"I'd expect no less," muttered Anders as she fell away from his side. It was difficult to discern whether amusement or bitterness dominated his tone. Hawke bit her lower lip to keep from laughing at him.
Anders remained at the head of their small party as Hawke drifted towards the rear, attempting to appear casual as she did so. If Isabela's reaction was any indication, Hawke did not succeed in disguising her motives for suddenly changing direction. As Hawke approached, Isabela, who had her arm slung chummily over Fenris' shoulders, raised her eyebrows pointedly before looking rapidly between Hawke and the elf, her lips twisting in a knowing smirk. Hawke rolled her eyes as Isabela threw her a lusty wink and, pulling away from Fenris, flounced off towards Anders after offering only the thinnest of explanations for her abrupt departure.
Over the past three years, Hawke had tried everything imaginable to convince her friends of the fact that she no longer harbored romantic feelings for Fenris. None of them believed her, of course, and, while all of them made insinuations, Isabela seemed the least burdened with subtlety.
For the most part, Hawke found it all fairly amusing. That particular afternoon, however, some unknown turning of her mind made her slightly more susceptible to the pangs of discomfort she sometimes felt regarding her situation with Fenris. Perhaps it was only that she found herself recalling the vulnerability in his eyes when he had spoken of his sister. Perhaps it was that the scent of the summer air had the same note of spices that it had had the night Fenris had come to her home, agitated and beautiful as he let her lead him to her bed. Perhaps she had simply grown tired of saying, time and time again, that she felt nothing more for him than friendship. Whatever the exact configuration of the sentiment was, Hawke felt a small, sharp stab of longing as Fenris lifted his gaze and, with a lopsided quirk of his lips that anyone else might have missed, smiled at her.
Most days, she felt unbelievably lucky to have him for a friend. More often than not, she thought that there was nothing in the world that could improve upon the fact that he trusted her, felt free to laugh with her, and confided in her when he would not with anyone else. Most of the time, she was perfectly content with their current arrangement. But then he'd smile and some small, traitorous part of her would ache. It was all very annoying and she really would have hoped to be over this nonsense by now.
The dull pain of longing soon receded, however, falling once more into the background noise of Hawke's consciousness. With the matter at hand returning to the forefront of her mind, she could turn her attention fully towards Fenris and the palpable waves of tension that were practically rolling off his drooped shoulders. When she spoke, however, her words were less focused than her thoughts.
"So, it's a nice day, isn't it?" she said inanely, glancing around the streets of Lowtown without the slightest intention of noticing anything in particular about their surroundings. "Birds chirping, beggars begging, wild dogs roving through the streets unchecked. Nature's a wonder, isn't it?"
Fenris lifted his head, meeting Hawke's gaze more steadily, and let out a rough breath of a laugh that sounded more like a cough than anything else. He clearly anticipated the direction the conversation was heading and, rather than forcing Hawke through the awkward process of artlessly inquiring after his wellbeing, he got to the heart of the matter. "If you're checking up on me, there's no need," he told her simply.
"Oh, there isn't?" she said with exaggerated relief. "Well, then I was concerned over nothing. I suppose you'd rather that I just leave you alone. I'll go, shall I? Talk to Anders instead?" She sped her pace, moving to leave Fenris behind.
Fenris' smile broadened. "I wouldn't dream of subjecting you to that," he said wryly, placing his hand lightly on her wrist to keep her from moving forward. Hawke grinned and fell into a slow, easy pace at his side as Isabela and Anders moved onwards, expanding the distance between the two pairs.
"Carver and I don't get on very well," Hawke said abruptly, after she and Fenris had walked in silence for a moment. He seemed surprised by the incongruity of her remark, but Hawke continued on in spite of it. "We never did, even before the whole templar business, which, as you can imagine, hasn't improved our relationship." Fenris stared at her, his brow furrowing, as if his attempts to discern her meaning were leading only to confusion. She cleared her throat delicately before drawing nearer to her point. "Of course, we love each other; it's in the blood, I suppose. It's not always easy, but we're family."
"Ah," said Fenris, breaking eye contact as he bowed his head and began to stare fixedly at his toes. "So, your counsel is for me to moderate my expectations?"
"No," she said hurriedly, "I expressed myself poorly. I only meant to say that, even if things seem a bit awkward at first, or if it turns out differently than you expected, then there's no reason to be discouraged. It will be alright, even if it takes time and effort. The love is always there, and that's what matters." It wasn't exactly what she had intended to say. She had meant say something far more pessimistic, and, yes, she hadn't wanted him to have high expectations that might be met with disappointment. Somewhere along the way, however, she had lost focus and she wasn't quite sure how that had happened. When she finished speaking, however, Fenris was smiling faintly, so perhaps erring on the side of optimism hadn't been an altogether bad thing.
"The reassurance is appreciated, Hawke," he told her, his voice low and his gaze tilted downwards, "but it's unnecessary. I happen to be entirely calm at the moment."
Hawke refrained from making a sharp sound of incredulity, though she could not keep herself from arching a brow at him as she suppressed a small smile. "How long have we been friends, Fenris?" she asked conversationally.
He glanced up at her, a teasing spark of levity in his eyes as he said dryly, "I wasn't aware we were."
Hawke grinned, punching Fenris' shoulder without any real force. "Keep that up, and we won't be." Fenris lifted his shoulders carelessly, clearly unperturbed by the idle threat. Hawke allowed herself to enjoy the momentary softening of his expression before adding more seriously, "The point is that we've known each other for a while now. Long enough that I think I can interpret your facial expressions with some degree of accuracy." Hawke spoke evenly, careful to keep her voice free from any intonation that might be interpreted as pity. She'd made the mistake of being overly compassionate in the past. Fenris had not taken to it kindly. "And right now, Fenris, you're wearing that familiar expression of yours that tells me you're about to hurl a bottle of very expensive wine at the wall. Metaphorically, of course, but the point stands." Fenris rolled his eyes at that, but he didn't seem to have taken any offense, and so she continued, perhaps a bit gently, "I thought I might as well tell you, just in case you needed to hear it, that it's going to be fine. Whatever happens, whatever she's like, whatever she helps you to remember, I'll be at your side. Whatever you need."
He looked at her from the corner of his eye and, after a pregnant moment of silence, opened his mouth as if to say something. He decided against it, however, letting out a wordless gust of air instead. Another silent moment passed before, with a faint smile, he made another attempt. "Thank you, Hawke." The words sounded somewhat strained, as though he would have liked to say something else, but he appeared to be sincere nevertheless.
"Anytime."
She pressed no further, then, letting him drift into his own thoughts again. Fenris seemed less preoccupied than before, though he still didn't seem in the proper state to carry on easy conversation. There was no tension in the silence, however, and, all things considered, their stroll towards the Hanged Man was an almost pleasant one. Unintentionally, Hawke and Fenris slowed to nearly an amble, drifting near enough to one another that, once or twice, the back of her hand grazed inadvertently against his.
Their pace, however, was unacceptable to the others members of their small band. "Hurry it up, you two!" shouted Isabela, who was quite a ways ahead at this point and walking backwards as she called out to them. "I'll have you know that I interrupted a perfectly lovely afternoon at the Blooming Rose for this, and I'd like to get back to it sometime this century. So, if it's not too much to ask that you two move at a pace that isn't entirely glacial…."
Hawke smiled sheepishly at Fenris before shouting out her apologies to Isabela. The space between them quickly closed, the four of them moving in a unified cluster as they rounded the final corners on their way through Lowtown. The final paces to the Hanged Man, however, were slowed once more. There was a degree of awkwardness, with three pairs of eyes surreptitiously observing Fenris while he pretended not to notice the scrutiny.
"You're ready?" asked Hawke, though her inflection was more fitting of a statement than a question.
Fenris nodded, his lips compressed into a tight line as he visibly steeled himself for what awaited him on the other side of the tavern door. "No point in drawing it out," he said roughly, reaching out and pulling open the door without any further preamble. Delay would only provide opportunity for his anxiety to intensify.
The dim light of the Hanged Man was jarring after having spent so long under the golden light of afternoon. Of course, it was always a bit of a shock to the senses to enter the Hanged Man. The pungent stink of unwashed flesh, sour vomit, and cheap ale. The vaguely sticky feel to every sullied surface, including but certainly not limited to the floor. The cacophony of drunken laughter, bawdy chatter, and energetic gossip. It could be downright overwhelming, at times.
On that particular day, however, it seemed as though the energy of the place had shifted. There was something subtle but distinctly wrong in the feeling of the air. It was odd, the silence of the place, the absence of resident drunkards, and something indefinable but distinct that sent a shiver of adrenaline through Hawke as the door swung shut behind her.
There was a girl, pale and red-haired and almost entirely dissimilar to Fenris is appearance were it not for the elven features. At the sound of footsteps approaching, she lifted her gaze and it was then that Hawke saw the similarity between the girl and her brother in those wide, luminous green eyes. There were ghosts shadowing those eyes, as there were in Fenris', but there was something else as well. Hawke furrowed her brow, trying to discern what it was exactly.
"It really is you," the girl said without rising from her chair. There was something resigned in her posture and a note of melancholy in her voice.
Fenris walked ahead of Hawke, ahead of all the others, as he drew closer to the table where his sister sat. "Varania?" he breathed, his voice touched with a strained awe. "I… I remember you." His words, his expression, his every movement, spoke to the strength of his emotion. Emotion that his sister seemed curiously without. "We played in our master's courtyard while mother worked. You called me…."
"Leto," said Varania softly, completing his thought. "That's your name."
As she spoke, she rose from her chair at last, the movement weary and slow.
It dawned on Hawke what was in Varania's eyes that Fenris' lacked, why her body and her movements seemed oddly burdened. It was resignation, surrender.
It was no longer only Hawke who was aware of the oddity of Varania's manner. Fenris took a step closer to his sister, his head tilting slightly to the side as he observed her with careful curiosity. "What's wrong? Why are you so…?"
He drifted off, searching for and failing to find the words to adequately describe what was off-putting about her behavior. Hawke watched him, watched the confusion cross his expression. She, however, felt no surprise, only a dull, throb of heartache for the pain she knew Fenris would soon feel.
She had wanted to warn him, to protect him from the pain of disappointed hopes. She'd learned this lesson enough times herself. That once someone is lost, they never come back. And, if by some miracle, they do return, they're never the same as they once were. She hadn't returned from the Deep Roads to find the loving arms of her brother; she had met a stranger, a Templar. She hadn't even been able to hold her mother's true body, so altered was it by the time they were reunited. People, no matter how loved, had a way of changing beyond recognition. Varania was no longer the little girl playing in her master's garden; she was a snake amongst its grasses. Maker forbid that Fenris should be allowed this one good thing. Maker forbid that just one person should be allowed to keep someone they loved.
Hawke took a step closer to Fenris' side, an ache welling in the pit of her stomach as she saw that he had not yet realized what Varania had done or why she was hunched with defeat. "Fenris," said Hawke urgently, "we have to get out of here."
He didn't look towards her when she spoke and, indeed, it didn't seem as though he had heard her at all. Fenris' eyes lifted over Varania's shoulder, turning towards the dark figure of a man who was languidly descending the staircase. He moved sinuously, his face already written with the assumption of his imminent victory. He was flanked on either side by guards, their faces concealed by their helms and their protective shells of splintmail shining dully in the faint light of the tavern. Fenris' gaze never strayed to the guards; he never looked away from the smug face of the man who was at their head.
Hawke watched Fenris' eyes widened with a fusion of shock and horror, and any uncertainty she might have had about the identity of the newcomer was firmly removed. A mage who radiated a power so potent that Hawke could practically feel it vibrating in her own skin. A man whose mere presence cast Fenris' expression with a naked vulnerability that Hawke had never seen there before. A monster and a magister. Danarius.
"Ah, my little Fenris," the magister said smoothly, his lips twisting into cruel smirk. "Predictable as always."
Varania bowed her head, her eyes downcast as Danarius and his guards came to stand alongside her. "I'm sorry it came to this, Leto."
Her softly murmured words of contrition pulled Fenris from the trance of his horror. He lunged towards her, furious as he snarled, "You led him here."
"Now, now, Fenris. Don't blame your sister," said Danarius with the tone of an even-tempered parent burdened with two quarreling children. "She did what any good Imperial citizen should."
"I never wanted these filthy markings, Danarius!" hissed Fenris, his body tensing visibly, seeming to curl inwards in preparation for attack. "But I won't let you kill me to get them."
Danarius chuckled at that, though whether he derived his dark amusement from Fenris' rage or from the words themselves, Hawke couldn't tell. "Oh, how little you know, my pet," Danarius said, his voice still colored with sickening delight. Driven by protective impulse, Hawke drew still closer to Fenris' side. Her movement, slight though it was, drew Danarius' attention, and his smile widened as he trailed his eyes over her with a slow, sweeping glance. "And this is your new mistress, then? The Champion of Kirkwall? Quite lovely."
"Fenris doesn't belong to anyone," she returned disdainfully, her grip tightening reflexively around the staff she clutched in her hands.
"Do I detect a note of jealously?" sneered Danarius, arching a brow as he glanced between Fenris and Hawke. "It's not surprising. The lad is rather skilled, isn't he?"
Fenris' reaction was immediate, the lyrium in his skin blazing suddenly into life with the force of his anger. Hawke bowed her head, only for a moment, as she fought back a deep, visceral stab of pain. Danarius' suggestion of jealously, the oily glide of the word 'skilled' as it left his mouth, the intensity of Fenris' response to Danarius' words. It was enough to confirm what she had long suspected. She exhaled roughly, feeling the swell of her magic coursing impatiently through her veins.
"Shut your mouth, Danarius!" spat Fenris, brilliant and flaring with power as he began to advance on the magister.
Danarius had the audacity to seem exasperated, heaving out a sigh as he said wearily, "The word is 'master'."
As his men advanced, Danarius fell back behind the line of their defenses. Hawke watched Fenris charge forward to meet the assault and, raising her own staff, smiled.
Hawke didn't rejoice in death, or in the act of killing, but, in the throes of combat, things were always clear. She could release the ache of sympathy she felt for Fenris, dismiss the hatred she felt for the people responsible for his suffering, and feel nothing but the unwavering, straightforward drive to survive. It was in such moments, with her adrenaline pumping and her enemy before her, that Hawke felt most at ease with herself. There was no self-doubt, no loneliness, no longing. There was only the base, primal dance along the line that separated the living from the dead. It was in the simplicity of that distinction that she found clarity.
Naturally, this had not always been the case. When she was younger, Hawke had faced conflict with the anxiety that was to be expected of one who is unaccustomed to physical confrontation. For all her confidence in her own abilities, she had been untested and, before coming to Kirkwall, she had always fought alone. The passage of nearly seven years had seen inexperience hardened into a practiced resolve, and had provided enough trusted allies that Hawke no longer faced any enemy without the aid of able hands.
This was hardly the first time that Hawke, Fenris, Anders, and Isabela had fought alongside one another and, as such, their unit had a cohesion that Danarius and his guards lacked. It was evident, in the uncoordinated assaults that the magister's forces presented, that his men lacked the same level of familiarity with one another that Hawke had with her allies. Perhaps they were skilled, as was Danarius, but they were inefficient and lacked unity, and, as time wore on, their numbers thinned quickly. Danarius supplemented his losses with flurries of summoned demons, but, for all the confusion and chaos that they brought to the fight, the disorganization of their attacks rendered them rather more ineffectual than the magister had likely intended.
Hawke had grown up hearing about the legendary power of Tevinter's mages. She had heard of their mastery of obscure magics and abilities that no southern mage, hobbled by Chantry superstition, would ever be able to access. It was a relief to find that, in spite of all the glory ascribed to the Imperium and its magisters, Danarius was still just a mortal man. He could pant, and sweat, and feel the strain of flagging mana, like any other mage when faced with an opponent who was more than their equal.
But, at just the point when a few well-chosen attacks would have finally ended Danarius, Hawke lowered her staff, as did Anders. Likewise, Isabela, who had just felled a demon, made no move to approach the crumpled figure of the weakened magister. There was, amongst them, a tacit agreement that Danarius' life was not theirs to take. It seemed right, and infinitely just, that the final blow should belong to Fenris.
The lyrium that lined Fenris' skin was still bright as he moved in swift strides towards Danarius. On the floor, beside the ash of a fallen rage demon, Fenris' sword lay forgotten. Hawke thought that perhaps she understood why Fenris, after so long running from a memory, would want to feel the last beating of Danarius' heart with his own hands.
At Fenris' approach, Danarius made a weak attempt to push himself up from the floor. It was a wasted effort, only serving to allow an oozing curl of intestine to spill free of a deep gash in his side. Lying there in a growing pool of his own blood, it wouldn't be long before Danarius succumbed to his wounds, but the magister wasn't fated for such a drawn-out end. Fenris closed the distance between them, leaning in close to grip Danarius' jaw, wrenching it harshly so that the magister was forced to meet his gaze.
"You are no longer my master," snarled Fenris, sliding his hand down to Danarius' throat and clasping it tightly. With that firm purchase, Fenris rose slowly to his feet, dragging Danarius upright by his neck. Danarius staggered, teetering on the tips of his toes as Fenris increased the pressure on his windpipe. Hawke watched as Danarius' face reddened, his eyes watering as he struggled to breathe, as though breath would be enough to save him.
Blood gurgled from Danarius' mouth as he managed to choke out a ragged cough. The sound was rough, strained beneath Fenris' grip, but, just as Fenris hauled Danarius higher from the ground, the cough broke into a hysterical torrent of laughter. It was quiet, barely discernable over the wheeze of his wet exhalations, but, nonetheless, the laughter was distinct. The abruptness of the sound seemed to catch Fenris off-guard and, almost imperceptibly, his grip loosened, allowing Danarius just enough air to rasp, "Do you still not understand it, my pet?"
Danarius had chosen his words well. There was promise in them, a teasing allusion to the memories that Fenris had lost. It was enough give Fenris pause, to make him hesitate in putting that last, crushing pressure on Danarius' throat. Another broken laugh rattled from the magister's throat, his sneer peeling back from blood-reddened teeth. "I will always be your master," he coughed, forcing the words out in a rapid, frantic stream. "You whimper, you whine about wanting to be free of me, but you fought to be mine. You killed for the privilege, killed for the honor of it."
Blood sprayed from his mouth, flecks of it dappling Fenris' clenched hand, but Danarius radiated self-satisfaction, grin widening with each moment of hesitation that his words caused. "My little wolf, so hungry," he wheezed, lifting his hands to claw his along Fenris' arm. "Hungry for power, starving for just a taste of what I had to offer. My power, my magic, my markings—you were aching for it. Always aching for more. Just like me. You blame the marks, blame the magisters, blame the magic, but you were always going to be mine."
Danarius' fingernails bit down harshly against the tender skin on the inside of Fenris' wrist, but whatever pain that was caused by the slight rending of flesh did nothing to pry Fenris off his throat. On the contrary, the mocking tumble of Danarius' speech finally seemed to have driven Fenris past breaking. Hawke watched as Danarius' eyes began to protrude from his head, the capillaries bursting and speckling his once-white sclera with pools of lurid red. She watched as his tongue lolled from between his lips, a gagging sound like a scream torn from his throat as Fenris lifted him fully from the ground. She was so consumed with watching Fenris finally putting an end to Danarius' miserable life that she didn't even notice the light pooling where the magister's hands were pressed to Fenris' skin.
It seemed to take Fenris by surprise as well, the flare of light that exploded suddenly where Danarius was clutching tightly around his wrist. "You'll never be free of me," Danarius hissed, the choked words audible only to Fenris. "I'm inside you. Under your skin."
It happened all at once: the lyrium imbedded in Fenris' skin burning with a searing brilliance, Danarius' sharp rasp of triumphant laughter, the scream of pain that tore from Fenris' throat.
Hawke knew that she must have shouted Fenris' name as she lunged forward, but all she could hear were his agonized screams as he doubled over in pain, losing his hold on Danarius. The contact was unbroken, however, with Danarius still grasping onto Fenris, the lyrium's light seeming to surge from Fenris' skin into Danarius hands. Hawke was still too far off to intervene, but she could still feel the charge of mana welling, stronger than anything she'd ever sensed before.
She was closer, close almost enough to break Danarius away from lyrium that he was somehow channeling into himself, when the air began to burn white with a light so intense that Hawke had to lift a hand to shield her eyes. The crackle of magic was almost deafening as she fought her way forward, feeling as though her skin were being torn apart by needles of electricity. It was driving into her, closing around her, consuming her in the brilliant, burning glare. "Fenris!" she screamed, panicked, as she tried to follow the sound of his cries.
It was useless. The sharp prickling of magic was too much against her skin, piercing into every inch of her. The lyrium's flare was too disorienting, robbing her of sight and sense as she closed her eyes, unable to endure the blinding light.
A/N: The title is inspired by a lovely song by Carla Bruni. Of course, I have the title in English.