Author's note:
So during my third playthrough of DA:I I finally decided to sacrifice Hawke in the fade.
The Hawke in question was my mage LadyHawke that romanced Fenris and I will admit that I felt pretty sad when I heard her last words from which the story is named after.
"Sorry, Fenris,"
So after getting back to Skyhold I talked to Varric and he ends with mentioning having to write letters, the first being Fenris. Which is where my mind started imagining the scene where Fenris recieves the news that the love of his life was killed by a demon in service of a Tevinter magister. I ended up writing a small one-shot only 399 words long, but I wanted to share it.
Hope you enjoy!
Fenris opens the letter Varric sent to him, he doesn't know what it says, but somehow he can feel that it only bears ill news. He takes his time reading each word, Hawke taught him to read, but he still struggles with a few of them.
He only gets through half of the first line before it becomes nearly too hard to continue, not because of the difficulty of the words, but their content. He forces himself to read on, despite his fear growing with each letter.
And then he reads the words he dreaded the most. Words he never thought he would hear, never wanted to see. Tears fall down on the letter, mixing with the dried ink on the page. The letter falls gently to the ground as his grips loosen on it as he feel his body weaken and as the silence of the room breaks to his sobs. He stumbles towards the wall in search of something, anything, to stop him from collapsing. He leans in towards the wall.
But sorrow quickly turns to rage and the dimly lit room is now lightened in a furious blue. He spins around and lashes out, punching into the wooden pillar behind him, nearly breaking it, as he screams out in anger.
What does magic touch that it does not spoil? What does it not destroy? Once he spoke such words until she showed him otherwise, once he thought all mages vipers until she taught him differently.
But she was wrong.
Magic spoiled all that it touched; it destroyed its kindest wielders and empowered its cruelest masters. Those few who would use it for good were as the distant stars in the night, surrounded by utter darkness.
He tries to regain his composure, but it won't come. He sees his knuckles bleeding, but he does not care. All he feels is fury.
There is only one thing to do now.
His eyes turn toward his sword resting on the bed; he walks toward it, each step hammering into the floor. He grabs the sheathed weapon. He will not rest any longer; he will not stop until each Tevinter mage that lives lies dead at his feet.
He will not wait; he will seek out death, theirs and his.
He leaves through the door, but does not close it behind him, for he knows that he will not return.