Fenris snarled—a twisted sound of pain and rage as the slaver's sword glanced off his spiked pauldron. He stepped back to avoid the blow of the shield, and then let gravity do the work as he cleaved the slaver's head in two. Blood splashed on his face, but he paid it no heed. It dripped down into the grass.
He sidestepped to the right in a quick pivot, let go of the sword, and reached through the slaver attempting to come up behind him. Intangible, he solidified his fist just enough to grasp hold of their heart and crush it to a pulpy mess.
He let the now slack dead body fall from his hand. Cato, his mabari companion, leapt at their mage, tearing his throat out with her powerful jaws before Fenris could reach him with his sword.
Fenris turned to the remaining slaver, eyes narrowed as the lyrium on his body glowed an unearthly blue. The man shook like a leaf in the wind, trying and failing again and again to notch an arrow to his bow. In one swift swing, Fenris sliced the bow in half, which did not hamper his sword from biting deeply into the man's torso.
His futile movements told Fenris that he was still alive. Fenris swung again at the man on the ground, decapitating him. It was more mercy than the man would have given any of his captives.
Danarius was dead, but greed was forever, and Fenris made excellent bait. They would never stop hunting him down. Not with the bounty on his head. Long ago, the thought of such a tiger remaining at his back would have bothered him, but now it played to his advantage. The trail of bodies from Ostwick to Perivantium said as much.
Magisters, Fenris thought. Always willing to take advantage of political upheaval. Especially since the fall of the Circles. He had seen bands of roving slavers preying on young mages who were always willing to believe the best of the Magisters. More fool they.
He turned his cool green eyes to one such woman. Girl, really, in a set of ragged apprentice robes: bloodstained, and covered with so much dirt the original colour was near unrecognisable. She couldn't be older than fourteen. She slumped against the ruined wall, face drained of all blood. She trembled on the ground, wringing her hands, and watched him the way a rabbit would the hounds. Her short hair was reddish-brown, her eyes a striking shade of emerald. The resemblance was nigh uncanny, save for the fact her skin was a pale, creamy rose, compared to a deep tawny brown. He closed his eyes and winced. Hawke.
She took a deep breath. "T-t-thank you," she managed to get out, looking at him but avoiding his eyes. He did not reply. Instead, he reached over and pulled her to her feet, steadying her when her legs attempted to give out on her again. Even though he was an elf, he must have stood a head and a half taller than her.
"That was unwise," he said in his saturnine voice.
His voice caused her to glance up at him. Her green eyes widened. "You're him!" she said, her voice breathless. She clutched her hands to her chest. Her eyes shone. "Fenris! The Lyrium Wolf!" He ignored her. Perhaps another avid reader of the dwarf's Tale of the Champion. They had been cropping up more and more as of late. Mages were the worst of the lot, many of them seeing Hawke as their saviour due to her actions in Kirkwall.
"Mages," he sneered, but it had no heat in it. He crossed his arms and scowled. That damned book.
He was completely unprepared when she threw herself at him. His hand jerked to his sword hilt, and his elbow hitting her breast must have hurt, but she burrowed her head into his chest, wrapping her arms around him and sobbing. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you! Thank you!" He tensed at the contact, but his eyes softened, and he awkwardly patted her back with his free hand until she let go.
"Tevinter lies. They were never going to help you," he said.
She looked down. "I had nowhere else to go," she said. She kicked back her foot, scuffing the toe of her boots on the ground. "They killed everyone else who fought back. They said I wouldn't be hurt if I didn't fight back, that I could become a magister's apprentice. I thought…well, it doesn't matter now," she hugged herself. "I should have known better."
"Exactly so," Fenris said. Then he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Maker preserve me from idiot mages. He pointed behind them. "There's a town, about a half day back. They have a recruiting centre for the Inquisition. They'll take you in. I have heard from a friend mages are welcome."
"But I don't know anything about combat magic! I'm just an apprentice. I can barely heal!" She summoned her magic to her hand, and a tiny flame rose about an inch high before it sputtered out in the light breeze.
Truly pathetic. It could be a trick, but Fenris doubted that it were so. Especially not with Cato nosing the mage's hand, wagging her tail. He trusted the mabari's judgement. "Follow me," was all he said. Damn Hawke. And damn her for looking like Hawke. He drew his cloak around himself and loped in the direction of the town. Even when she isn't here, I find myself looking after mages.
And the little mage did follow, quiet and meek as a mouse. Fenris bit back invective, wondering just when he had gotten so soft on mages. He still didn't trust most of them, but outside of Kirkwall it was…different. He'd seen more abominations and blood magic in one year in that place than he'd seen in years anywhere else, even Tevinter.
The walk back was quiet, thankfully. The slavers had probably driven everyone else from the roads. Not one prone to speech at the greatest of times, dark thoughts kept his mind in turmoil. Cato noticed his unease, and kept nudging Fenris's hand with her head, trying to get him to pet her. She kept at it, and he indulged her with a pat or two. He also ignored any conversation attempts the little mage tried to start.
It didn't dissuade her either, and after a while, he just let her conversation wash over him. For all she looked like Hawke, her ebullient personality reminded him far more of Merrill. Once he may have preferred the quiet, but not any more. Not truly.
He left her with the Inquisition recruiter at the chantry, ignoring again the mage's goodbyes and effusive thanks. He walked back to the tavern through late afternoon. He didn't do it for her. He did it so Tevinter would have one less piece of cannon fodder in their ranks. Outsiders thought every mage had the potential to be in the Magisterium of the Senate, and Tevinter encouraged the assumption. They were notorious for sweet, poisonous lies.
The mages had yet to make themselves magisters here, but it was early yet. Still, Hawke had shown him that some mages could be trusted. A group however, was something of which to be wary. With the Inquisition's power, who would know what they would do?
The door banged open as Fenris entered. No one looked up. He ordered a bottle of something they dare called wine, watered down as it was. What he wouldn't give for a true apéritif, and not this mockery. Say what else you would about the south, but the one thing Fenris had found to be absolutely true was the lack of decent wine. The ale would probably be better, but he wasn't in the mood for the of memories that called up. The Hangman had its faults, but it was paradise compared to this.
Fenris sat immobile, back against the wall in the corner of the tavern, eyes staring unseeing out the evening crowd. He let the chatter wash over him, the cacophony of the room a dull unintelligible roar. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of sweaty bodies packed together and old vomit.
Through the window, the day faded into night with reluctance, the last fingers of daylight outstretched over the small town. Hawke had not returned this day, either. A week, then a fortnight, then a month, and still no sign of her. No letter. No missive. Nothing to let him know where she was, what she was doing, if she were all right. Just a little note she'd left at the beginning of it all, with not even an explanation:
Will be back soon, amatus. Don't brood.
—Em. Hawke
Soon. Pah! He had left her for only three days on a slaver run for Aveline. Busy as Hawke was consulting with her Grey Warden friend Alistair about the red lyrium, he didn't think she'd have time to find trouble. He should have known better.
Fenris and Hawke didn't go out together all the time on runs. It was a vital necessity, seeing as how both of them were so distinctive in both dress and battle. A cloak could only hide so much after all, and the rumours of an Exalted March had her anxious, the outcome of the Conclave even more so.
He had been accustomed to solitude, once. Enjoyed it. Welcomed it even, and the quiet that went with it. But this silence choked him, threaded around him like noxious fumes, and left him gasping for air in the small cottage they called home. Intelligent as she was, Cato was no substitute for true company, and she was as worried as he was, staring at the front door awaiting Hawke's return day in and day out.
"Excuse me, ser! Excuse me!"
He knew no one here. His contact had already left. It didn't sound like the little mage. They couldn't possibly be talking to him. He hunched even further into himself, pulling his cloak tighter about his face.
"Hey you! Elf!" He glanced around the bar. A distinct lack of elves, other than he. Or not. A Fereldan accent even. Curious.
"What do you want?" Fenris said, eyes still flickering around, watching for signs of ambush.
"I have a letter for you, Ser," the woman said, breathless. She wore the mark of the Inquisition on her cloak and a blue hood. A sunburst eye with a sword through it. "You're a damned hard man to track down, you know. I've been circling this part of the Free Marches for days."
"Deliver it then, and begone," Fenris said, crossing his arms. He was in no mood for this tonight.
"Maker's Breath! Who'd I piss off to get stuck with this?" She muttered. She handed the letter over. "All right then. Marked priority. Here you are, Ser." She said.
He recognised the handwriting as Varric's as he pulled out the letter and used the fingertip of his clawed gauntlet to break the seal:
Fenris,
I don't know if you've heard, and I really don't know what to tell you. Most of this is follow-up to Hawke's last letter. I had this sent off as soon as I could find a free courier. Didn't want to chance one of Nightingale's birds. The move to Skyhold's gotten everything messed up.
Well, shit. You'd think a storyteller would be able to write a simple letter, but this...this is one of the hardest things I've ever had to do.
He hadn't received any letters. A growing sense of unease filled Fenris, and he fought to keep the panic down. Fenris and Varric had kept in touch, as much as he'd kept in touch with anyone, but Varric was with the Inquisition now, and other than sending reports he'd picked up of slavers, he wrote very little directly to him. Most of his correspondence he sent through Hawke.
Fenris, you know it's Corypheus behind all this. The hole in the sky, the templar army. You were there in the mountains when it all went down. There's no easy way to say this, but Alistair had a lead about some shit going down in the Grey Wardens' ranks. So we followed up on it, went to the Warden Fortress Adamant over in the Western Approach and ended up trapped in the Fade again, this time physically. Yeah, you read that right. Physically, just like those Maker damned magisters of old. First Feynriel, then twice now with Alistair. Dwarves just don't belong there. Three times is three too many. There was this giant nightmare demon, and a spirit or Divine Justinia or some shit and well—
Enough deflection. I'll just go ahead and say it, Fenris: Hawke's gone. She sacrificed herself to save the Inquisitor and the Warden and me and that Seeker. You know the one. Unhealthily murderous towards books. You know how Hawke is. She threw herself in front of the nightmare demon to give us all time to escape. And here I was, the one that introduced her to him. I know we met him briefly in Kirkwall those years ago, but after our time in Antiva and Tevinter with Isabela—I've got to stop introducing people to Grey Wardens. It never ends well. Especially for Hawke.
Varric Tethras
When it sank in, it hit him like the pommel of a sword to the ribs. His throat seized up, his chest ached, like invisible chains wrapping around him and tightening at the hands of a cruel master. He couldn't breathe. He crumpled up the letter in his hands. He fell to his knees, gasping. He blinked furiously and toppled over on his hands. The pointed ends of his gauntlet dug into the floor, leaving deep scores in the wood. "No," he said, barely discernible above the chatter. Cato nudged at his side, whining.
"No," he repeated, standing up in one swift movement, flaring his brands. The little tavern quieted, though he paid it no attention. He growled and threw the bottle at the wall, where it shattered into a hundred thousand little pieces and stained the wall red. It splattered and dripped down the wall like blood.
"NO!" Fenris said, putting his fist through the stain—through the wooden wall of the tavern. As he pulled it out of the wreckage, the red cloth on his wrist caught on a piece of jagged wood and tore, nearly rending the strip in two.
The anger left him as soon as it appeared. His skin tingled, lightning raced through every nerve, and he turned his head in shame. Fenris unhooked the ribbon ever so gently, pulling his arm from the hole. He slumped back against the wall, sinking down as his legs gave out. Cato laid down beside him, putting her head in his lap, her warmth a comforting presence.
He couldn't breathe. In his rage, he'd torn what little he had left. Foolish, foolish man.
He closed his eyes, cradled his wrist in his hands, and pressed the strip of cloth to his lips. "I will not allow it," he whispered. A broken promise—an empty prayer.
His tears fell, dampening the cloth.
"I am…alone." He turned away from her.
Hawke reached out to him. "I'm here, Fenris."
No, you are not, Hawke. Not any more. A few more deep breaths as he wiped the tears away with his bare palm. He put his head in his hands and took a deep breath, trying to find calm. It would not come. It would never come again. A cold burning chill ate him up from the inside, spreading along his lyrium markings, reducing his muscles to so much ash.
He stood up anyway, no matter how hard it was. The atmosphere choked him; he had to get out! The patrons had formed a little half circle around him, but none of them had come within ten feet or so. He shot them a glare that could cut stone, tears still making their way down his face, but they parted for him. None of them said anything as he strode towards the exit.
He ignored the bartender's stammering, but he threw a sovereign on the bar for the damage. Cato trotted after him into the night, growling at anyone who came near.
The cold wind on his face soothed his grief, if only a little. It grounded him, kept him from flying apart into a thousand tiny little pieces. He took a deep breath and held it, releasing it slowly. Hawke. Trapped in the Fade. After walking there physically, like the Magisters of old.
Fenris couldn't help himself. He laughed bitterly, his arms around his sides, slumped in on himself. The few stragglers on the streets crossed to avoid him. It all came back to them in the end, didn't it? Magisters. He would never be free from their influence.
"Promise me you won't die? I can't bear the thought of living without you." He ran his fingers through her hair.
Hawke, serious for once. "I don't make that promise unless you do."
"Nothing is going to keep me from you." A kiss. A covenant. A promise he would never forsake.
Irony of ironies. Only herself, who kept her from him. A death only delayed, in the end. A promise broken, burned, and left in ashes. He would never touch her again. See her smile, hear her laugh. What am I to do now? There is nothing left of me. If she is— Fenris couldn't bear to make himself even think the word. I can only follow.
The thought latched onto him, gaining ground as he wandered through town, an impossible beast.
The moon rose, high and bright and cold. The distant light bathed the town, but Fenris found himself left in shadows. Restless, he walked through deserted streets, his cloak whipping in the wind. Hawke. Her name, a litany on his lips, a refrain of no, this cannot be, and yet, it disappeared into the wind with each measured breath, the taste bitter in his mouth.
He was nothing. He had nothing. She gave him everything. She left him nothing.
Perhaps into the Waking Sea? The little town was close enough, and had not the cliffs of the Wounded Coast.
He drifted through the fringes of town until his bare feet met sand. He curled his toes, digging little toe-shaped furrows into the dunes. The scent of oranges, the feeling of warmth wound their way through his memories. A twisted branch lay half covered in the sand, bleached white by time.
He felt Hawke beckon to him, drawing him into the sea. Moonlight, high and cold, reflected off the sands. Mist rose from the place water met earth, and its long fingers caressed him like a lover. He gasped as his feet met the icy surf. So cold, it took his breath away.
He walked up to his chest, and he finally felt like the cold outside matched the cold inside. He took a deep breath and prepared to take the final steps. Something stopped him, though. More than that long ago conversation with Sebastian. He gazed up at the moons, the frigid water lapping at his chest. Wait, they seemed to say. A warm breeze blew. His hair waved in the wind.
"Well, well, well. Hardly a fitting end for such a fine warrior as yourself, don't you think?"
He knew that voice. Fenris whirled, nearly tripping in the water. He had enough presence of mind to grab his sword. "Witch," he snarled.
She'd walked out of the sea, but no water dripped from her form. There she stood on the shore, her hair shaped like dragon horns, familiar brigandine armour as red as he remembered, though he had seen it but once. The white-haired woman smiled, showing nothing but teeth, her lips the colour of blood. "Endearing epithet. I prefer Flemeth, but witch will do just as well."
"Why are you here?" Fenris spat.
"Perhaps I do not wish to see such a waste. Perhaps you remind me of someone I once knew, long ago."
"Cease your riddles! I will not have your games!" Fenris said, wading towards the shore. He would not let this thing see his weakness. They would meet on solid ground.
She swept her arm out wide. "What is life but a grand Game? There are no better stakes, and yet you would gamble yours away on a useless roll."
"My life is not a game," Fenris said.
She shrugged. "I beg to differ, but I'm not here to argue semantics. It is curious, that you freed yourself only to chain yourself to something else."
Fenris bristled. "It is a chain, but one of my own making. I made a choice." He turned away from her and forced himself to say it. "And she is d-dead."
Flemeth shook her head. "Oh no. Not dead. Not yet."
"You cannot possibly mean—"
"Oh, but I can." Her deep voice resonated, echoing over the sea.
Fenris swallowed thickly. Hope, desperate hope blossomed in his chest. Hawke may yet still be alive. And if she were, Fenris would lay siege to even the Fade itself. "You do not tell me this without reason. You want something in return. What would you wish of me?"
She threw her head back and laughed—a throaty, rasping chuckle. "So very eager to live now are we? When you were so eager to throw your life away not so long ago."
Fenris worked his jaw. A vein pulsed in his forehead. The sound grated on Fenris's nerves. "Just tell me what you would have of me."
She placed a large seed in his palm and curled his fingers over it. "A guarantee is all I ask, this time. It is all I need. Keep this with you, always. Never let it leave your person."
Fenris looked down at his hand. The seed had grown vines; they weaved themselves together to form a necklace. He placed it over his head. It glowed briefly, lighting his brands, then settled against the hollow of his throat. He shifted from foot to foot. It felt too much like a collar. "I shall endeavour to keep to our agreement."
Flemeth inclined her head. "See that you do. In the Fade, she remains. Safe she is, for now. For how much longer, I cannot say. I would hurry if I were you."
Fenris blinked for but a moment, and she was gone, to the sound of rasping laughter and the susurrus of surf on the sand.
He knew nothing of the Fade. Just that disastrous trip into the dreams of a young dreamer, once upon a time. He didn't even know where to begin. He'd need help. Someone who knew Hawke and would risk their life for her. Someone who knew the Fade. He grimaced. Only two he could think of, and he couldn't trust either. One, however, was on the way to the stronghold of the Inquisition, and it would save him valuable time. He did not like it.
But Fenris knew where to find the mage.
Several days of travel led Fenris to a brothel on the border of Nevarra. The clientèle was by necessity discrete, but even they gave the figure slumped over the bar a wide berth.
The long blond hair was bedraggled, tied up in a loose knot. He had dark circles under his eyes, and the stress had carved deep lines in his face, and hollowed his cheeks. He had lost weight. Not even welcome amongst his own kind any more, or so he had heard.
"Mage," Fenris said. He hadn't understood Hawke leaving him alive at the time, but now he was grateful that she had.
"Oh, well isn't this is a bloody well gorgeous end to a bloody buggering day," Anders muttered over his ale. "Last thing I needed was you to be in it."
Fenris said, "Have you heard the news?"
"What news?"
"About Hawke."
"I don't care!" Anders crowed, sloshing his drink all over the front of Fenris's armour. He slumped over and laid his face over his crossed arms."I don't care," he said again, muffled. He appeared to be speaking to the polished wood of the bar.
Fenris ground his teeth. "I would ask for your help, mage. Please."
Anders perked up."And you picked a brilliant way to do it. Asking nicely. What kind of trick is this?"
"It is not a trick."
"So you say." Anders tilted his head. "What are you really up to?"
"I will not ask you again," Fenris said. "Please help me find Hawke."
"Let me think for a moment." He pretended to think. "No. She's dead. I'm starting to think you're more out of it than I am."
"I do not have time for this!" Fenris grabbed him by the collar and lifted him up. "This is your fault! You blew up the chantry and got her involved in this mess. You should help remove her from it!" He shoved him and let go. Anders stumbled with the momentum, barely managing to remain upright.
"Oh, demanding now, are we? I knew you'd turn back into that snarling mad dog you are." Anders staggered forward catching himself on Fenris. "My fault Hawke finally decided to up and run off on you, eh?" He gulped down the last of his tankard and wiped what sloshed out on his chin with the back of his hand, which he then preceded to place on Fenris's shoulder. "And then died for her trouble." Tears began welling up at the corner of his eyes.
Fenris curled his lip in disgust, glaring at Anders's hand as if he'd smeared it in something unpleasant, but he did not remove it. "The next time you touch me will be your last."
"Do it!" Anders hiccoughed. "Exactly what she would have wanted, right? To kill me? Like you did her?"
"Pah! You're not worth it!" Fenris pushed his hand away, but that caused Anders to nearly fall over. Fenris rolled his eyes, but looped the mage's arm over his neck and helped him steady himself. "You are lucky she still cares for you."
"You didn't protect her! You got her killed!" Anders wailed. "You were supposed to protect her!"
Fenris growled. "She is not dead. You will help me find her, mage!"
"What?" said Anders. He blinked stupidly, and listed on his feet. "Want to run that by me again?"
"I said she's still alive! Venhedis! Listen to me for once in your pathetic life, you drunken fool!"
"Well, what do you need me for, then? If you remember, she chose you. You go run after her, like the good little dog you are. I've got things to do here."
"Like drink yourself into an early grave? I do not care, but Hawke would not wish this for you. Did you hear how she perished?"
"No one tells me anything any more. Not since Hawke stopped writing. I heard the news through the town gossip, just like everyone else."
"They left her in the Fade, fighting a nightmare demon. Do you know anything of such matters?"
"A nightmare demon?" Anders looked thoughtful, but then he glanced down at his empty tankard and narrowed his eyes. He glanced back up at Fenris and back down again. He nearly fell. "Wait a moment. What is it exactly you're planning? They left her in the Fade? Her body would have wasted away by now. There's no point."
"Physically in the Fade," Fenris said through gritted teeth. "Half-wit. Would I be talking to you otherwise? You were there with the somniari. I'm well aware of what that entails."
Anders just stared at him stupidly. He blinked, shook his head, and then blinked again. Then he scrambled for a quill, an ink-pot, and some paper. "Like the magisters? How!?" He started scribbling down bits of pieces of words in shorthand, interspersed by calculations. "Nightmare...nightmare," Anders said, tapping his chin. The motion made him wobble."That would imply some kind of fear, maybe? A corruption of a spirit of valour, perhaps?"
"Valour?" Fenris asked. "There are demons of such kinds?"
"There was one at my Harrowing, If I recall correctly. And it's spirit. Say it with me," Anders opened his mouth extra wide on each syllable, lengthening the word beyond any reason. "Spir-it." he slurred.
"Like Vengeance?"
"He was Justice once. It's what happens when spirits are turned from their original purpose." Anders sniffed. "Because I wasn't good enough." He turned his eyes to Fenris, his head wobbling. "I don't know why I'm telling you."
"I don't, either." Fenris said, only to smell Anders's horrid breath. The mage had fallen on his shoulder. Fenris shook him off, and his head fell off and clunked on the table. Anders had passed out. He would have one nasty bruise. It would go well with the hangover. The thought made Fenris smile, the first since he'd learned of Hawke's alleged death.
But now he had to deal with him. Fenris pinched the bridge of his nose. He dug through Anders's pouch for coin to cover his tab. He gave the serving wench the lot of it, but she shook her head and told him the amount, which was far more than Anders had on him. Scowling, Fenris tossed a couple of silvers to her. Upon hearing her acknowledgement, he threw the mage over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and left the brothel. Stares and high pitched giggling followed him to his own inn.
He dumped Anders on a bedroll on the floor in a corner, making sure he was still breathing, and leaned against the solitary bed. He shut his eyes. A mistake, every bit of it, but there was nothing he wouldn't do to see Hawke again. Guarding what you had and keeping your head low only worked when the eyes of the whole continent were not upon you.
The weeks spent travelling to Skyhold were...unpleasant, to say the least. If he thought Anders was bad the first day, it was nothing compared to having him as a companion without Hawke to mitigate his behaviour.
Still, even with the delays, they made good time. Fenris barely rested, and whatever else he could say about Anders, the mage was just as determined as he was to make it to the doors of the fabled Skyhold.
Like a migrating bird, he found himself almost guided to the front door of the keep, something tugging at his brands, pulling him along. The seed around his neck pulsed. His lyrium whispered of an underground door. He felt for a moment he could walk through without any of the inhabitants noticing that he was there, but he blinked his eyes and shook his head, and the feeling left him.
As he and Anders came up to greet the patrol, the guards started, jumping and shouting at one another and pulling out their blades. The captain was an elf, strangely enough. With vallaslin, no less. The Inquisition has made allies of the Dalish as well? Odd.
Fenris argued with them vehemently. As he was not a recruit, they did not want him to enter, especially without chaining Anders. They knew who he was, all right. Who they both were.
"Get. Varric." Fenris would not budge. He did not care what they did to Anders after, but until he helped Fenris find Hawke he would not be imprisoned. He needed him. Fenris paced. The soldiers stationed at the valley felt differently, and it seemed like an age passed before one of them led them up the path to the hold. He pointed to his eyes with two fingers, then to Fenris, then to Anders, then back to himself. "I'm keeping my eyes on you two."
Anders rolled his own. Fenris sympathised with the sentiment.
It was a long walk to the mesa upon which Skyhold sat nestled by the surrounding mountains. Good defensive position, one entrance. Probably several boltholes leading through the mountains. The Frostbacks were notorious for connected caverns, or so Hawke said once.
Skyhold was enormous on the inside. It had to be, to contain such an army. They travelled through a market to get to a set of stairs. Dozens sparred in a ring taking up a good one fourth of the courtyard, and the air was thick with the smell of sweat and horseflesh. A man came and got Cato to lead her to the kennels.
Perhaps even more interesting were the circle of mages chatting amicably with several templars, a far distance from Kirkwall, before. When they caught sight of Anders, a majority of them glared. The mage shrunk in on himself but held his head high. The displeasure and dislike directed at him were almost palpable. Fenris did not envy the mage at this moment.
A short walk up a set of stairs and they were led to massive double doors. The Great Hall was as grand as anything one might find in Minrathous, with an impressive throne set underneath stained glass windows. The whole hall and throne were done up in the Fereldan style, with wolves and mabari everywhere. Odd, Fenris considered, seeing as how the Inquisitor was supposedly a Marcher.
They were led to a table in front of a roaring fireplace and encouraged to sit down.
He didn't have to wait long before the dwarf came in, clad in a familiar long coat and silk shirt. Varric raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms and smirking at them."Blondie. Elf. This is an unexpected surprise. Seeing you here. Together. And also not the brightest thing you could have done, walking up to the front door of the Inquisition like this."
"Why, you and your Templar friends going to string me up?" Anders said.
"I wish they would," Fenris muttered.
"We just might," a deep female voice sounded out from behind him. Fenris whirled, and looked up to find a qunari female standing behind him. She had dark grey skin and a soft, rounded face making her look young. Unusual, considering the hard lines of her race. She had a massive set of horns, curved elegantly back like a ram's.
His eyes flickered to the staff on her back. Sarebaas. His lip curled. Yet another mage. He tensed before making himself relax. He laughed at himself. At this point, it was almost a given. Why not let the entire continent fall to mages, between the Hero of Ferelden and the Herald of Andraste? So long as she could control herself and didn't hurt anyone who didn't deserve it, he didn't care.
Anders paled.
Fenris inclined his head. "Shanedan, Inquisitor."
She waved her hand, "I'm vashoth, that's not necessary. I couldn't give two shits about the Qun." She held it out. "Hello, I'm Kostasala Adaar."
"Very well." Fenris took her hand. "'Peaceful soul,' for an ex-mercenary and a leader of an army that could rival kingdoms," he said, matter-of-fact.
Adaar laughed. "Well, my Tevene is a little rusty, but you don't look much like a 'little wolf,' either. And it is followed by—what was the translation again? 'Cannon?' Where's Bull when you need him?"
Fenris found himself warming to her. She sounds like Hawke. His lip twitched. "I grant you that."
"So I find myself having to ask," Adaar wiggled her eyebrows. "Were all the stories about you and Hawke true? I've always been curious about the fisting." Scratch that. Definitely more of an Isabela.
Someone gasped and whispered behind them, "But didn't the Champion..."
Fenris cut his eyes over to Varric, who had the most curious expression on his face. He ran his hand over his own. "Blasted dwarf," he muttered.
"Hey, I'm a storyteller. It's what I do. And uh, you seem a lot less upset than what I was expecting," Varric said, hands up. "You did get my letter, right?"
"Yes," Fenris said. "You know why I am here, Varric. I would wish to learn all of what happened."
"Not to say I'm not happy that you're not trying to kill me, but you're acting like you're in good spirits. Or you know, deep in your spirits. Just saying."
"Hawke is alive," Fenris said simply.
Varric sighed. "Now I know it was hard on you, but you know just as well as I do that that was a death sentence."
"Do not patronise me, dwarf. I am well aware of what it could be. But what I know is that she is alive and I will find her." Varric shared a look with Adaar. It was strange seeing Varric share that sort of familiarity with someone that wasn't Hawke.
"Honestly, Varric. Do you really think I'd go anywhere with him, if I didn't think it was possible? If he says she's alive, I believe him," Anders said.
"And your uh, passenger, doesn't have anything to say about that?" Varric asked.
"I've told you before it doesn't work like that. Don't any of you have any real idea on how the Fade works?"
Adaar shrugged. "I never went to a Circle so don't know much about the academic stuff. Hell, even Dorian and Solas are better at the theory than I am. I've been taught a little bit by Vivienne, but I'm more like a bow you point and shoot."
Varric huffed. "Try cannon." The qunari and dwarf both laughed. Fenris's lip twitched.
Anders sniffed. "I've seen plenty of mages here. They were Circle trained. Surely one of them should know and told you. Theoretically, if she were able to escape from the nightmare, she could live indefinitely as long as she has enough willpower, and Hawke's one of the most determined women I've ever seen. "
"What are you saying, Blondie?" Varric asked, crossing his arms.
"The Fade's not like here. It's shifting and malleable, unwilling to maintain a specific shape for long. It can happen. The somniari do it by dreaming, but even they'll waste away given time. If she's there physically, she could live off the air, gain sustenance just by breathing. It's one of the rumours that that's what the elvhen uthenera meant and a reason why the elves lived forever. Pure speculation, of course, but there is always a grain of truth in every legend. "
"But why wouldn't Solas tell us that?" Adaar asked. "He's our resident expert on the Fade. And a fellow apostate. And an elf."
"I wonder," Fenris said dryly.
"But that's only if she survived fighting the giant spider demon," Varric said, "So it could be pointless anyway."
"I don't think it's a good idea," said Adaar. She got up from the table. "Well, I'll leave you to go do what you're best at, Varric. I've got to finish these reports and then I'm going to go see what Josephine's up to." She left the room for her quarters.
The dwarf laughed. "Well that's the last of her we'll see for tonight. She's worse about Josephine than you were with Hawke, and I never thought I would say that."
"Well, it seems like you're certainly fitting in nicely, Varric," Anders said, propping his feet on the table.
"I do what I can," said Varric.
"So, Storyteller, shall you begin?" Fenris asked, leaning forward and putting his hands together.
Varric slid his chair back. "It's quite a tale. One minute, I'm a little hungry, Blondie, want to come with? So Fenris, still like wine?"
"Is there a giant hole in the sky?" Fenris answered.
"Touché."
"It appears the dwarf has learned Orlesian. Aggregio if you have it, D'Alessio if you don't."
Varric shook his head. "Blondie?"
"Sure, Varric. Anything to escape his company for a little while." They left the room.
Not too much longer, a bald elf walked in, with the aura of magic. He almost walked past Fenris, then he perked up and paused, backtracking to Fenris's table.
"Hello. I am Solas."
Fenris didn't respond. He tapped his fingers against his arm, waiting for Varric to return from the kitchens with Anders.
"Your markings are curious. I can't ever say I've seen their like, and I am quite experienced with such things. They are not quite vallaslin, are they?"
"It is none of your business, elf."
"You call me elf like it does not suit you, like we are not of the same."
"We are not the same."
"Is it because I am a mage? If you are who I think you are, I have heard of you hatred of them."
Not so long ago, that had been true."I do not hate mages. Most mages cannot control themselves, or their lust for power."
"And the ones that can't?"
"I cut down."
"Just like that?" Fenris shot him a flat look, but Solas didn't seem to take the hint. "And elves?"
"Content to serve masters. I am not."
"And yet, you followed the Champion around. Even now, you wear her mark."
Fenris pushed him against the wall and slammed his fist into it. The bald elf didn't even flinch, and had already prepared an ice spell that burned against his armour. "My choice," Fenris hissed. "It is none of your business."
The elf mage touched his brands with his magic, causing them to light. For some strange reason, it hurt more than Fenris ever thought possible. He doubled over in pain, and fell to his knees, shouting invectives in Tevene.
"That's lyrium!" the bald elf gasped. "That's barbaric and should not be possible. I thought that knowledge had been lost! Who did this to you?"
"For the last time," Fenris managed to ground out, "It is none of your business!"
"Solas, what's going on? I thought I heard dulcet tones speaking Tevene. I thought my father must have come back, what with the string of verbal abuse." The dark-haired human waved his hands dismissively before catching sight of Fenris on the ground. "Oh, who's this?" He walked around and caught sight of his lyrium markings on his arms. "Wait, I know you. You're the one Danarius—"
Fenris knew this man. He'd learned all the rivals of the House of Danarius as said man's bodyguard, and Dorian Pavus had been an up-and-coming prodigy before Fenris had made his escape. Fenris struggled to his feet and sneered. "Do NOT speak that name. You don't hold any power over me so don't presume—"
"I wasn't presuming anything—" And it descended into verbal chaos as they started talking over one another.
"—if the Inquisition were aware they harboured a viper in their midst—"
"—a viper? Well that's hardly sporting, now is it—"
"—So much as touched a hair on Hawke's head—"
"—You're the Champion's lover? What am I saying, of course you are—"
"—kill you where you stand—"
"—So would a lot of other people, you're not exactly unique—"
"Ugh!" A loud noise of exasperation cut into their argument. "I am trying to have a meeting with a Grand Cleric and I cannot do so with your incessant racket!" A large imposing figure stomped through the large doors with an expression of fury on her face. She had short, cropped hair, burning amber eyes, and a strong jaw. A scar cut through one side of her face. Fenris was instantly reminded of Aveline by her bearing, but with a Nevarran accent. "Is it so much to ask you to keep it down?"
"I fear this is my doing, Cassandra," Solas said. "I apologise."
"Your doing? How unusual!" She turned to Fenris. "And you! I don't know who you are, but surely as a guest of Skyhold," she trailed off, looking him up and down. Then she squealed, and clasped her hand to her mouth as her face and neck turned a burning red. Her wide eyes twinkled. "You're Fenris!"
"The last time I checked, yes," Fenris said wryly.
She held her hands in front of her as if she were in prayer. "You're the one that facilitated the duel with the Arishok. And can rip people's hearts out through their chests?"
"In part, yes," Fenris said, a bit wary now. He widened his stance and rolled on the balls of his feet.
"Will you do me a favour? Here, hold on a moment, I've got it with me." She rummaged through the bag at her waist and pulled out a book, then reached for Varric's quill and ink-pot. "Will you sign my copy of Tales of the Champion?" She asked, flipping the book to back lining. Contrary to what he was expecting, the book didn't have a stab mark through it.
Fenris blinked. "I, uh, yes." Slightly taken aback, he scribbled his name in blocky, uncertain script. His name was right next to Hawke's and Varric's. And oddly enough, slightly above Merrill's, Carver's, and Aveline's.
She sprinkled drying sand on it, and then sighed dreamily. "It's so romantic the way you two came together despite all the odds!" She closed the book and clutched it to her chest. "Thank you!"
Solas and Dorian were staring at her as if she'd grown another head. "What?" Cassandra asked. Then realising where she was and what they had witnessed, she blushed again and tucked the book into her bag. She cleared her throat and tucked her hands behind her back in a parade rest. "Now stay quiet. I've got a meeting to continue," she walked out of the Hall, her cheeks burning and her head held high.
"Now that's something I never thought I would witness," said Dorian. "Cassandra as giddy as a schoolgirl."
"Agreed," said Solas.
Varric and Anders came back from the kitchen with a few maids, laden with foodstuffs. Seeing the men all staring at the door, and Fenris and Dorian side by side without trouble, Varric just had to ask, "So, what'd I miss?"
"And that's it. That's what happened," Varric said, polishing off his latest tankard of ale.
"It's quite a fantastic story, I must admit," said Fenris, leaning back, his eyes troubled. "You failed to mention the altus was there in your letter."
"Oh come on, Firefly," Varric said. "I know you don't like Sparkler, but you know he had nothing to do with it."
"I did not say he did," Fenris said, used to Varric's penchant for nicknames by now. "Even I can give the benefit of the doubt."
"And for that, I'm ever so grateful," Dorian said.
Fenris ignored the interruption, continuing, "I am merely seeking perspective. That is all." He had his hands crossed in front of his mouth, brow furrowed in deep contemplation. "None of you saw Hawke die."
"Just her wielding her staff against a giant spider," Dorian said. "The size of a dragon no less. I checked Honorium's Compendium. Strange that we all saw it as her fear, in the end. That is telling."
"Her Inquisitorialness is not too fond of spiders either," Varric said. They all looked at him. "Long story."
"Didn't we already cover this though?" said Anders. "We gain nothing by going over it without a plan of action. Can't we just go? Have Lady Adaar just swish," he opened his hands like curtains spreading, "And we're in?"
"Do not forget that it took the blood of thousands of slaves and extraordinary amounts of lyrium for the original magisters. The veil was thin there," Fenris said.
"You're not a mage, so I know you can't feel it, but the veil is thin everywhere these days, what with all those rifts," Anders said.
Dorian huffed. "Cracked open, more like. However, there is that little matter of the orb of Destruction," said Dorian. "And the archdemon at Adamant. Ah, there she is!" He said, as Adaar came walking back through the Grand Hall. "Just in time, my beautiful Lady. Would it be possible for you to open another rift and let our esteemed elf friend inside?"
"I'm no friend of yours," Fenris said at the same time Anders shouted, "Oi! I'm going too! Don't think you're going to leave me behind!"
Adaar shook her head. "I can't risk it. I'm sorry. It's a miracle we even survived the first time. And considering what happened to start the Blights, no one should ever go there."
"There's no way I can enter it without you?" Fenris asked with more calm than he felt.
"Not if you want to have a way out again," Lady Adaar said. "And I don't like the idea I may be condemning you to death."
"By that logic, Hawke just mucking around in there is all right?" Anders said. "Who knows what manner of unspeakable, world ending acts she could be releasing at this very moment!" Anders said in false horror.
Adaar didn't smile, her face serious. "Even so, I can't help but think it's against the will of the Maker." An Andrastian, against all odds, Fenris mused.
And it seemed like everyone just accepted it as the final decision. Even Varric. From the way Anders was fuming, he had not. He was the only other.
"Very well," said Fenris, his face a veneer of calm. Inside, he was seething.
"You're just accepting it?" said Anders. "I can't believe I went anywhere with you!" Anders noisily slid his chair back from the table and stalked off, hands in the air.
Fenris nodded and said goodbye to Varric. He went to go find Anders. He was sitting on the west ramparts, his feet dangling over the edge of the wall.
"So bringing me was useless then?" Anders asked without turning around. "What was the point of your empty words?"
"They were not empty, and I still need your help. I could feel the Inquisitor through my lyrium. Was it the same for you?"
"Yes, there was a sort of humming in the Fade. Stronger, I think, for Vengeance."
"Good. Then we have a plan." They stood in quiet for a long while, gazing out over the mountains.
Anders spoke up. "What's the plan?"
"I need you to create a distraction. I will get her alone." He lit up, watching the bones of his hand. "This is a priceless amount of lyrium, and it still holds power. It should channel and amplify her mark."
"So, what? After all this, you're leaving me behind?" Anders said.
"There will only be time for one." He turned pleading eyes to Anders. "I need someone to hold off her allies until I make it through."
"So you brought me to be cannon fodder. I'm not surprised." Anders laughed bitterly.
"No," Fenris said. "Mage, we've known each other for ten years. We've fought and bled together, nearly died together. You were there when we unleashed Corypheus. You've dragged us all kicking and screaming into your rebellion, and we followed." At Anders's sharp look, he added, "Regardless of our reasons."
"And?" Anders asked. "Rubbing it in again?"
"We are not friends, nor do I desire to ever be," Fenris said. "But you do not share ten years and come out unchanged. I do not wish you harm. A larger mental capacity, perhaps. You're the only one I can trust here, as odd as that seems, and as much as I dislike it."
"And not Varric?"
Fenris moved his hands. "Did you not see? He did not say as such, but he admires the Inquisitor too much, and is wary of the Fade. It undermines his conviction, as much as he cares for Hawke. He would not help us in this way."
"And you know, don't you? That I'll do it? To save her?"
"We are alike in that, you and I, and that is why I trust you."
"Why not me, though?" said Anders.
"You do not have the ability to channel her mark. Danarius often used them this way, revelling in my pain. You said yourself that magic and her mark are both born of the Fade. It should work. It has to."
"I'll find something conspicuous to do in the throne room," Anders said. "All eyes will be on me anyway; might as well make use of it."
Fenris knew all too well that trust made people a fool. That's why he was only half surprised no one stopped him as he entered her quarters. Large, cozy. The fourposter there reminded him of Hawke's in the Amell Estate, and he'd been regaled with the fact the windows were Serault glass. He heard the door open and turned to face it.
"Inquisitor, I—,"a voice with a musical accent began. It sounded Antivan. "Oh, hello Signor Fenris." It was the raven-haired diplomat, Josephine. The Inquisitor's lover.
Fenris didn't say anything, just crossed his arms and turned back towards the open balcony. He expected a "What are you doing here?" but he didn't quite receive it. Not like he was expecting.
"Waiting for the Inquisitor, yes?" she said, walking up beside him, her hands loose at her sides, her palms open.
Fenris shifted from foot to foot, catching her long, thorough once-over. It was true, so he said, "Yes." He caught a shift in her eyes, a minute tensing of her hand towards the small of her back. A hidden weapon. Just as well. He himself had nothing to hide. He relaxed his stance, and her hand dropped.
"I don't believe we've been introduced. I know of you, of course, but I don't quite think I know you," the woman offered. Pah, double talk. Assessing the threat. He had had enough of that in Tevinter. He knew of her, too. Diplomacy in and of itself was another form of attack, if one marginally less prone to bloodshed. Fenris almost preferred open combat. At least it was honest.
"Nor I, you," he said. "Fenris."
"Charmed. I am Josephine Montileyet."
"I doubt it."
"Doubt what? That I am charmed? Or that I am Josephine?" She asked, a small smile on her face.
"Perhaps a little of both," Fenris said, with a quirk of his lip.
"Come. Sit." She gestured wide towards the divan that faced the fireplace.
The familiarity with her quarters surprised Fenris a bit, but only a little. He had long since heard the Inquisitor was fond of the noblewoman. To sit down, he would have to remove his greatsword. No matter. He laid it against the arm of the divan, and sat just on the edge of the seat.
"I will not bite," she said, chuckling, holding a hand to her mouth.
"That remains to be seen," Fenris said warily.
She shook her head. "It's a difficult thing, waiting like this, isn't it?"
Fenris knew Josephine wasn't talking about waiting for the Inquisitor. "It can be."
"'The course of true love never did run smooth,'" she said, sighing. Fenris only figured she was thinking of her own. Things must not be quite as well as the rumours said.
"'If there is any sympathy in choice, war or death will lay siege to it, making it momentary as a sound, swift as a shadow, short as any dream,'" Fenris replied.
In surprise, Josephine said, "You are well-read!"
Fenris turned his head, looking at the wall. "For a former slave, you mean."
She held up her hands, palms out."Oh no! I didn't mean it like that! Are you always so willing to take offence?"
"Are you always willing to give it?" Fenris asked in return.
"I only meant that not many people take time to commit the words to memory. I would find it impressive of even a king or courtier," Josephine said. She sighed again. "For those words to come so easily, you think on them often. You must miss her."
Fenris said nothing. He was not willing to state the obvious, and nothing she said bore comment.
"Oh, I wouldn't dare to presume!" Josephine said. "But Hawke was," at his sharp look, she changed her wording. "Hawke is a wonderful woman. Sweet, funny, charming, occasionally blunt—"
"And entirely too willing to involve herself in the affairs of others," Fenris said, entwining his hands together. "Such flaws have felled stronger people."
"But you are not so sure, no?"
"I am certain she is alive," Fenris said.
"She's lucky to have you," Josephine said. "You inspire confidence."
"I am more fortunate to have her," was all he said in return.
"You really believe she lives?" Josephine asked.
"I know," Fenris said.
"You love her much," Josephine said after a long moment. "Enough to die for her."
"Yes."
She nodded, and rose to her feet. "Perhaps my Lady Adaar may be persuaded," she said, and she left the room.
The full moon had peaked, shining like a white lantern in the sky. Fenris watched it rise from the Inquisitor's balcony, leaned against the bannister, wondering at the warmth of the Keep in the cold mountain air. Fenris turned as he heard footsteps, and hoped Anders was ready.
"What are you doing in my quarters?" Adaar said. "Josephine told me you were here. What's this about? I assume you're going to try to convince me to change my mind?" She asked. "She has already tried. As much as I'd like to, I can't, Fenris."
Fenris inclined his head and smirked. "In a manner of speaking." Inquisitor Adaar stood a head and a half taller than Fenris himself, and had extraordinarily tough skin, but it was the work of a moment to have his sword against her throat and pin her to the wall, activating his brands and putting one arm through her shoulder.
"Ah. The fisting. Not the welcome I was expecting," she coughed, trying to edge away from the blade, but her horns caught on the stone, scraping, and she could move no farther back. A crow cawed loudly and flew away into the night. "We just don't know each other well enough."
"You would not do it. So I will make you," Fenris said "Are you suitably convinced?"
"Don't do anything you would regret." Adaar swallowed against the blade.
"You speak as if I would regret this. No. Not if Hawke returns."
"Please don't do this. No one else has survived! It was a miracle we made it through the first time!"
"I do apologise. I wish it were not necessary. This could have been prevented."
"I had to make a choice," Adaar said, voice wavering. "The Grey Wardens are the only ones who can stop the Blights. Everyone knows what happened during the Fifth Blight when Loghain exiled the Wardens. You have to understand," she pleaded. "Killing me won't change anything."
"I do not plan to kill you. Merely borrow your power but for a moment."
The sound of spellfire and yelling and heavy boots told him he was out of time. He heard Anders's dual toned voice cry out above the din, "Hurry!"
"That's impossible!" she said. "I had to make a choice," she repeated, more firmly.
He faltered, but only for a moment. It didn't make it any easier for him. Who was he to care about the larger scheme of things? Hawke mattered. Nothing else but her, not any more. He removed his fist from her body, grasping the left hand of the vashoth mage with his own left, and he channelled his power through it, and with it, hers. She shook, held rigid with glowing green eyes and magic exuding out of every pore. Green fire coursed through his veins, and he used his right hand to rip wide the world to the Fade.
"You chose wrong!" Fenris snarled, and dove in the Fade Rift.
I do not own the oddly eloquent words spoken by Fenris and Josephine. They are a paraphrase from A Midsummer Night's Dream I.i.134, 141-144, both spoken by Lysander to Hermia after being denied the right to marry by Theseus, Duke of Athens.