A/N: I incorporated some of the lore from The Masked Empire, namely when Briala gains control of a group of Eluvians and locks them under a password for her people. Who knows if this Eluvian is linked to those—but it can be until the DA creators say it isn't! ^_^
It had been a matter of saying the right thing. He'd been close. He'd said, "I'll always be ready when you have need of me," when he should have said, "I am going with you." She had smiled at him, the twisting of her lips not meeting her eyes as Kirkwall continued to add the scent of smoke to the sea air.
"It's good of you to help Varric. I'll keep in touch with him as I can. We'll meet back up before too long," she had said, "and sort out all the bullshit that seems to insist on following us." She'd squeezed his forearm, her eyes locked on the red glow they could barely see from the Storm Coast. That squeeze had hurt, sending lances of pain up his markings, but he had placed his hand over hers nonetheless. She had looked at him then, right into his eyes, her own eyes holding a mixture of sadness and anger and protectiveness.
"I'm sorry for everything, Fenris. Before you know it we'll sit and get drunk and fight until we understand each other again."
He had smiled and held her hand. He had made himself lean in and had kissed her on the cheek. She had kissed him back—on the lips—and Isabela had stared at them with her mouth in a perfect "O," floating in her little row boat waiting for Hawke to say her goodbyes.
"Varric will be needing you," Hawke had said, though she sounded like she was convincing herself.
"I'll always be ready when you have need of me—" That was where he said the wrong thing. She had smiled at him—
"Soon," she had promised, and then she had gotten into Isabela's boat. He had watched them bobbing on the waves, heart catching each time the row boat had ducked out of sight. But the boat was rowed by two of the strongest people he knew, and before long he watched the two women climb aboard the ship. The ship disappeared on the horizon just as the sun began to rise, erasing the red glow in the direction of Kirkwall and giving him an uneasy feeling, as though what was left of Hawke's legacy was being written over.
Now he sat in a closet among dust and disuse, rereading a letter by the faint glow of his own skin. Varric knew that Fenris still couldn't read as well as he wished he could; the words in the letter were written in a clear, steady hand, and the vocabulary was simple for one such as Varric Tethras. There were some things that Fenris still couldn't understand, either due to his own inability or the forceful rejection that flamed within him at every reading. Regardless, he understood enough. He understood that Hawke was dead.
The first person he had wanted to punish was the abomination, the mage that had started it all. The creature knew this, however, as it knew that so many would want its head. It had hidden itself very well, and Fenris could not muster enough of a trail to hunt the creature down.
The next obvious culprit was the person Hawke had sacrificed herself to save, the coward who had seen no reason to stand up and face his own fears. The Hero of Ferelden, or someone close enough, a Grey Warden with weight to his name. Fenris had seen the Warden's face once before, a brief interaction as Kirkwall fell around them. Varric had known that killing the Warden would cross Fenris's mind. He'd written that Fenris should respect Hawke's choice, that murdering the friend she'd died to save would be an insult to her memory.
That part of the letter was what put Varric on the list. Varric, who knew damn well what Hawke was to Fenris, to Aveline, to Isabela, to all of them. Varric, who had strictly failed to protect the one person to ever—
But it couldn't be Varric. Varric was already hurting, hurting nearly as much as Fenris, his loss wrapped up in regret and words left unsaid. Every breath Varric ever took would catch on Hawke's memory. Fenris found twisted solace in wishing the dwarf a long, long life.
Fenris carefully folded the letter and slid it into a pouch on his belt. The final candidate had been tricky to reach, but not impossible. All he had to do was listen to the stories, hearing them grow as a living monster fell to its doom and the tear in the sky bled closed. Once armed with their supposition Fenris had used the full extent of his pointed ears and claimed a right to a history that he cared little for. He had fought upon the streets of slums in Orlais, initiating himself with people whose concept of culture, as far as he could care, rested solely on the shape of one's ears and the lilt of one's accent. He'd listened to orders, committed silent assassinations, and orchestrated careful smugglings. He'd found the ladder and worked his way up it. Just as it all began to seem pointless he had at last walked the ways of the Eluvian and whispered the key to open a thousand doors. The correct door had opened to stone that all but hummed with history. He'd stepped through.
The Inquisitor was well loved and well feared but despite his guards and spies and friends no one had stopped Fenris as he moved through the Inquisitor's keep. Fenris had worn a heavy coat over his markings, the leather dimming their glow. He'd walked with purpose, even as he'd found a back approach to the Inquisitor's chambers. Fenris was ready to kill the man then and there but the Herald was not present. Fenris had stood in the center of the sun filled room, feeling the cold breeze as it slipped through the open windows. Such opulence, such decadence. All of this glory built upon the wanton sacrifice of others.
Fenris had known well that such magnificent chambers often came with unused corners, and he had easily found such a closet and hidden himself away. He had waited, listening to the comings and goings of the Inquisitor. He had watched the sun fade through the bottom of the closet door. He had listened to the Inquisitor take to his bed.
That had been an hour ago, according to the careful count Fenris had kept in a corner of his mind. Now he stood with his hand around the hilt of his sword, his thick coat discarded. He pushed the closet door open and stepped out into the chamber.
Moonlight slipped through gaps in the drawn curtains, tracing lines across the floor to the bed. The bed was all Fenris could focus on; the Inquisitor slept on a four-posted construction adorned with curtains, though the curtains were pulled back. Fenris moved to the bedside and looked down. The human was peaceful in sleep, with no sign of nightmares making their way across his still features. A long neck trailed into the wiry muscled body of a ranger. He'd tossed his blankets to his waist like a fitful child and slept with an arm over his head, monopolizing the side of the bed closest to Fenris, the side that Hawke would always take when she would have Fenris read to her.
Fenris stared at that long neck. He stared so long that he could see a faint pulsing in the throat. He gently placed his free hand upon that pulse, easily slipping his long fingers into place. He felt the resistance on each of his gauntleted finger-tips as each pressed into the elastic stretch of skin that didn't want to split. He gave a gentle squeeze—and then pulled his markings to life.
Something hit him hard—a wall of force sending him up high and far. Fenris knew it was a mage defense even before he hit the stone wall of the chamber. This knowledge didn't help him as he hit, a resounding impact that nearly made him lose the grip on his sword. He fell to the floor, pain shooting up his right leg as he landed. For a second Fenris caught the sight of another presence in the room, but the Inquisitor was shooting upright and Fenris closed the distance with all the quickness his marks could bear.
Fenris didn't have enough time to bring his sword around, but he did manage to crack the pommel against the Inquisitor's head. The blow landed hard, and Fenris could feel the skull give. It didn't crush, but it served well enough to send the Inquisitor back to his mattress, eyes staring at nothing. Fenris would finish the job after he killed the bodyguard. He thought this as he spun around, dodging an explosion of fire. The fire bounced off of a stone wall, turning a pile of books to ash as Fenris bounced into position.
The mage was a swirl of red and purple. He shouted and raised his arms, jerking them in a downward motion. The curtains ripped from the windows, allowing moonlight to pour into the room. The mage's eyes fell on the Inquisitor and Fenris charged, preparing himself as the mage moved his hands to direct another spell.
Suddenly Fenris could hear Hawke screaming, her voice torn from her despite her panicked gasps for air. He couldn't see the chamber around him—he could only see the shadowy edges of the Fade, could only see the large shape of a gigantic spider as it ripped Hawke asunder in perfect mimicry of the image he'd lived night after night, minute after minute since reading Varric's letter. He screamed back at her, running to the edge of the chasm she had been drawn into, too high up to do anything other than fall to his death and join her. That's exactly what he would do, he decided. He kept running, speeding up as the cliff neared him.
Something in the air stopped him, hitting him solidly against his waist. He almost fell over it but suddenly it was in his hands, landing him firmly against the railing of a balcony. He was looking out at snow covered mountains, the moon high over his head.
The floor below him began to glow and he launched himself backwards and away from another explosion of flame, landing hard and rolling across the floor of the chamber. It was not graceful, but he spotted his sword as he rolled and managed to retrieve it, bouncing to his feet as the mage swore in Tevene.
A Tevinter mage—how classic. Fenris almost laughed. Instead he felt his marks come back to life and burst into a charge. He moved faster than the naked eye could trace, bringing his sword across to slice the mage in half.
Time slowed—or quickened, so far as Fenris could tell. He suddenly felt as though he was moving through a great denseness of being—not a thickness of air, but a thickness of existence itself. He felt the tip of his sword draw across something, heard a quick exclamation of pain. The sword was yanked from his hand and the gauntlet followed. The fool mage—if it was still just a mage, and not some Fade-begotten monster—pulled the gauntlet without unfastening it, and a slow shout ripped from Fenris as he felt several bones in his wrist pop and crack with agonizing deliberation. He tried to pull away, staring with wide eyes as the gauntlet vanished when torn from contact with his skin, accelerating at an incredible speed towards far wall. There was a tug on the other gauntlet, and Fenris's intact wrist began to strain under the tension.
Time lurched forward, sending Fenris to stumble towards the mage. He used the stumble to drop and push himself into a kick at the line of red on the mage's abdomen. The kick landed and tore the gash further, leaving the mage to scream and crumble to the floor. Fenris's head jerked up as he heard someone attempting to break down the chamber door. He'd run out of time.
He moved back towards the Inquisitor. The human was still laying in the bed, his eyes slowly slipping towards Fenris's approach. The Inquisitor began to raise a hand and Fenris caught a glimpse of green—more foul magic. The hand was easy enough to bat aside; Fenris did so with his injured arm and raised his gauntleted hand to strike.
"Amatus!" This a strangled shriek from the mage. Lyrium crackled up Fenris's arm—amatus indeed. As though loving someone could protect them from harm.
Fenris invoked Hawke's name as he brought his hand down to the Inquisitor's heart, remembering as much of her as he could in that single moment. The bite of her wit, her sharp eyes, her favorite staff; he even felt the burn of her touch—a light and anticipatory pain. He felt it grow, felt it engulf him—and it was a searing, terrible pain, a blinding pain, a pain that rocked him off of his feet. The pain ran down the length of each marking, and he was glowing, glowing brighter than he had ever made himself glow, screaming louder than he knew was possible. Then suddenly the pain was gone, leaving him to twitch on the cold stone and gasp for breath.
He twitched himself onto his back. He could do nothing more than that; his body would barely heed him. He focused on breathing, trying desperately to make his body forget the pain.
There was a commotion, a cacophony of voices all speaking at once. A horned head appeared over him, resting atop a figure as large as the former Arishok himself. Fenris tried to cover his head as the Qunari's body shifted. He was not successful; he felt the distinct sensation of a large boot connecting with his skull. His body forgot everything, then.