Author's Note: This piece was done as a gift fic for orangeflavor after she totally whooped me in a head-to-head contest writing Anora stories. Make sure to check out her Anora fic, It Goes in Pieces. It's awesome. Anyhow, as a prize, here's the story she chose: a Fenris/F!Hawke piece exploring the fallout of Hawke being left in the Fade in Inquisition. Enjoy!
"Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you."
It had been rhetoric, perhaps, at the time. Something to say to your lover, a metaphor to make them realize how important they were. Something to tell her, a way to try to make up for three years of distance he had driven between them as a wedge because he was unprepared to face his feelings.
But Fenris had not expected the words to ring so true.
The bitter wind gusted again, prickling his bare arms, crusted with blood and gore he had not bothered to clean. The edges of the red kerchief wriggled in the wind. There was nothing to block it here, nothing to obstruct it hundreds of feet off the desert floor, atop the tallest cliff in the Hissing Waste.
Hundreds of feet below, the sharp rock and drifting sand wouldn't have even been visible if not for the silver moon dangling huge on the horizon and the countless stars twinkling in the night sky.
The fall would only take a few seconds, Fenris knew.
A few more seconds of pain. A few more seconds of emptiness. A few more seconds of loneliness.
And then, release.
"Hawke," he whispered to the emptiness sprawled out before him.
Fenris closed his eyes, stretching his arms out to the side like wings, letting the wind blow over him. He tried to recall her her face for the last time. The short, coal hair. The jewel-blue eyes so full of light. The fullness of her cheeks, the narrowness of her jaw as it joined to a pointed, strong chin.
The warmth of her breath on his lips, her scent, the cautious, gentle touch her hands on his branded flesh, the thumping of her heartbeat through her chest as he held her, the playfulness of her tongue in his mouth, the soft, pleasured moans as he sucked on her neck, the eager wetness between her legs as they lay together.
His body was shivering, trembling, shaking atop the cliff, the thousand-foot drop just one step before him. The corners of his eyes burned from the effort of keeping them squeezed shut. His breath was frozen in his chest. His legs felt filled with with iron keeping him from taking that one smell step off the edge.
"I am too weak, Hawke."
A confession. A truth.
Fenris let go.
"Hawke…"
The word from Inquisitor Lavellan's lips hung thick in the air like the death sentence it was.
Stroud bit his own tongue, his eyes closing as he turned his head away. There was agony written on his face, the same as if he was enduring the sting of a white-hot iron stabbed into his flank.
Hawke dragged the greatsword out of the scabbard on her back. The scrape of steel put a shiver through her now, the realization that it would be the last time, as she stared down the giant demon blocking the white-veiled tear in the Fade. Six people had fallen into the Fade amidst the crumbling remains of Adamant Fortress. Five would return. She would see to it that five would return.
"Say goodbye to Varric for me."
He would not understand. But in time, he would heal.
Hawke forced her feet forward toward the gargantuan spider, its maw dripping foamy slather, its enormous legs creeping toward the others. They bolted toward the rift, toward safety, toward life, while she headed in the opposite direction.
"Sorry, Fenris," Hawke said quietly to herself as she charged. A farewell, one that she did not feel she could utter to the others. There was no time and there were no words that she could leave so quickly that would heal the gaping hole she knew she would leave in his soul.
The sword drove through the first leg she could reach, the blade shearing into its steel-like carapace. The demon shrieked, skittering around her as she pressed forward. She swung with all her weight behind her, the blade slashing legs, raking across its thorax, striking the mandibles as it ducked its head to try to snap her from her feet.
The spider's hundred black eyes, devoid of light and mercy, focused on her, on the sword that cut and thrust through its body, unable to be ignored. Hawke turned her head, watching the light on Lavellan's hand growing brighter and brighter, the doorway reacting to her presence as they dove into the tear, slipping from sight.
The spider curled up under itself, its massive body pressing her down into the ground, its giant legs pinching her. She could feel the spray of spider silk wrapping her legs, the drip of corrosive poison that spilled from its jaws across her head and shoulders. The razor-like tips of its legs stabbed into her like spears, the demon's powerful thrusts piercing her champion's armor as if were nothing but air.
The white doorway buckled and vibrated, a roaring bursting through the Fade as light and force pounded from the hole. Green electric cut the sky, the hole swirling, black and green and white light being pulled into a single point, the edges crinkling and collapsing.
The rift shuddered, a flash of light blinking out, followed by the roar and shockwave as the tear sealed from the other side.
No way out.
No escape.
The cobwebs had grown even thicker in the year away and a hole in the roof had formed, leaving the master bedroom damp and smelling of mold.
Varric had needed to meet him, immediately, in person, his letter had said. They had all scattered since the rebellion. It had been a wise decision, considering what the Seekers of Truth had done to Varric.
Even Hawke had chosen to walk alone for a time. Fenris had not wanted to part from her. But she had pressed her finger to his lips, smiled that smile she always did despite the chaos around them and told him it would only be for a time. She could take care of herself, she reminded him.
She wasn't the one who needing taking care of.
And now, she was gone.
"How did this happen?" Fenris demanded, his fingers curled into a ball, trembling. He fought the urge to slam his fist through the table. He could barely hold himself at bay.
"They fell into the Fade. A demon divided their group, cutting off their route to the escape. Hawke stayed behind," Varric said. "She bought them the opportunity to escape."
Varric lowered his head, sighing and trying to hold himself together. He had been closest to her, outside of Fenris. The dwarf was not accustomed to pain and loss as he was. "The Inquisitor closed the rift behind them. They never actually saw-"
"She'd dead," Fenris said. Even as he said it, he knew it to be true.
Varric could only nod in agreement. Hawke had done things beyond Fenris' ability to believe, true. But this, he knew, was impossible. Trapped in the Fade, facing down a demon of immeasurable size and power. Not even she, Champion, could escape that.
"Fenris, I know-" Varric started.
"You do not know." The interruption came as fierce and quick as the dwarf started. Varric swallowed. "I appreciate you telling me this, in person."
Varric gave a single nod of his head. "I'll be at the Hanged Man, if you need me."
Varric frowned, thought to say something more, shook his head, waved his hand and turned to leave. He quickly pushed past the broken furniture and filth of the deserted Hightown mansion and out onto the street. The clank of the door closing echoed through the abandoned house.
With the dwarf gone, now he did not restrain himself, both of his hands fists, rising above his head, slamming down into the table. The force shattered the surface, broken wood and splinters cutting into his hands. He roared, lifting the broken remains, throwing them effortlessly to the side, the table smashing into the wall.
He stood, grabbing the chair from under himself, whirling, smashing it into the wall where it exploded into pieces. He threw the broken backrest in his hands across the open chamber, the wood clanging as it bounced across the floor and skidded into the wall.
The lyrium in him flared, the rush of pain as the brands burned him alight with magic, as he drove his fist into the wall, knuckles slamming through the filthy wallpaper and breaking tight hole through the paneling behind. He pulled backed, throwing his other hand forward, punching another hole. Then another. And another. His fingers reached into the gaping wounds, ripping down, the pockmarked wall buckling and collapsing before him.
He howled. From the streets of Hightown, the old, haunted mansion sprung to life with the ghosts that occupied it for nearly a decade.
Fenris picked up the leatherbound tome. The Book of Shartan. She had given this to him. He opened the cover, flipping the pages, looking at the fanciful writing that looked little more than scribbles to him.
"Slaves are not permitted to read. I've never learned."
"It's not too late to learn, Fenris." She smiled. She meant it.
"Isn't it? Sometimes I wonder."
Hawke had offered to help him learn. He had been too proud. He hadn't wanted to seem foolish to her, stumbling over words that even a child would be able to see, interpret and speak. He had tried some, on his own. He had mastered a little, enough to understand in short bursts. Enough to read a short missive.
But the book had always proved too daunting. The script was too tight and difficult to discern, the words too large and too complex, the sentences too long and winding.
It was too late, now.
His fingers dragged across the open page, tearing and scrunching it into a ball. He threw it aside, ripping the next page. The old, yellowed paper screamed as he ripped it from the binding. He tore a third page, then grabbed the leather covers, pulling, breaking the binding. The ripping sound tore through the empty mansion. He broke the spine, the loose pages spilling out onto the floor.
Andraste had freed Shartan. He had followed her to war, he served her cause, he gave his life to her. And when Andraste was betrayed, Shartan perished trying to rescue her. He threw himself at his enemy, a desperate gasp to save the life of his liberator.
And Hawke was dead. And Fenris, alive.
The book in his hands burned his heart. He cut across the room, slamming the broken leather cover and all the dangling, brittle pages into the hearth. The flames roared greedily, devouring the dry, crusty paper, plumes licking out of the stone maw, belching embers and ash around him.
Fenris placed his hands on the mantle, his fingers gripping the stones as he watched the fire consume the book. How many times had they sat before this fireplace, chatting deep into the night? He was nothing. A forgotten life. A slave. A killer.
He had tried to push her away. But unlike the others she did not go. She had never been afraid of him. She was a smile, a care, a genuine willingness to help him. She weathered his sour moods. She reveled in the good moments. Even when he ran, she followed.
Seven years. She had given him seven years. And in a moment, she was gone.
He slammed his fists into the mantle.
"Why!" he demanded.
The fire crackled.
He threw the burning wood across the room, ignoring the heat as it scorched his bare hands. The flaming logs rolled across the floor, they tumbled down the crinkling wallpaper, they caught in the mounds of dusty drapery smothering the windows.
As the Hightown residents gathered in the street, watching the long-abandoned mansion burn in the midnight, many swore they saw a ghost slipping out of the backdoor and away through the alley.
Fenris walked, not looking back.
He left bloody footprints on the road with each step, the trail winding back to the burning, dead remains of the Tevinter village.
The magisters had done this. They had tried to summon this demon. They had thrown Hawke into the Fade. They had murdered her.
He murdered them back.
The sleepy village sat on the southern border, a small, agrarian market where free men took the bounty of their fields for sale. There were strong-shouldered men shaping iron for plows and horseshoes and nails and tools. Women worked spinning wheels and looms, turning the soft wool of the local herds into textile. Children playing in the grass.
There were no soldiers here. There were no mages here. There were no slaves, no magisters, no Venatori here. He stalked into the small village in the night, his boot breaking down the door of the first house. The one-room home was pitiful, slovenly. They slept on the floor like animals, too poor to own a bed, thin, holey blankets covering their bodies.
They screamed in terror at the intrusion. But only for a second.
The village burned, the red-orange glow of fire consuming the hovels and meager shops. The scent of burning wood filled the air, black smoke floating high into the moonless night. No one would see it. No one would know what had happened until morning. No one would understand why they had all died.
"Then let me go. I beg you. I swear I wont-" the mage begged.
"You choose the wrong master." His begging was useless.
The mage's neck had cracked, the sound almost a delicate music, as Fenris twisted the mage's head around to his back before the body fell limp.
Fenris could feel the blood trickling down his arms and his neck. His chest heaved up and down, his breath full of fire as the light and strength of the lyrium dulled on his flesh. He could only feel the burning pain of the lyrium as he stalked away from the village.
The landscape before him was grey, colorless except for the small blip of red each time his right arm and the kerchief tied around it lifted.
His gore-stained blade cut the air with each step, each pump of his arm, the steel singing massacre into the night.
The warrior held his hand over the gaping wound in his flank, his lips quivering as his feet kicked at the dirt, trying futilely to back away. His eyes were awash with fear as the color drained from his face.
"Where is he?" Fenris demanded, looming over the fallen warrior, the bloody greatsword dripping in his right hand.
The warrior's eyes darted back and forth to the two other dead man at either of his sides. The woman had been cut cleanly, the large gaping wound across her chest now covered with crusted, black blood. The man, the mage, was mutilated with slashes. They were his charges, his recruits, his responsibility. "Please, I don't know."
Fenris crouched down, the clawed fingers of his left hand twisting inside the neckpiece of the warrior's armor, jerking his chest up from ground. The warrior cried out, the mortal wound at his side bubbling more blood as Fenris lifted him.
The warrior coughed, a pulse of black-tainted blood dripping out of the corner of his mouth, dribbling down onto the blue and white tabard he wore over his armor.
"You are already dead, Warden," Fenris growled. "Tell me what I want to know and I will end your suffering."
"Everything was fine until today."
The elven slave girl said it with so much fear in her voice he knew that she meant it. She suffered the indignity daily. It had become her normal. Fenris had been there once too. Broken, too far to know freedom.
The slavers had come for him, to capture him and take him back. Hawke stood at his side and fought them. She would not let him be chained again.
"It wasn't. You just didn't know any better."
"Where is he? Where is Stroud?"
The Warden closed his eyes, the muscles in his neck tightening in the agony. Tears fell from the corners of his eyes. Whether they were pain or disgrace, Fenris did not know. And he did not care.
"Oh Maker, forgive me," the Warden muttered to himself. "In peace, vigilance. In war, victory. In death sacrifice." He quickly rattled the mantra to himself, repeated the simple lines over and over, his gibbering bordering on madness as the pain coursed through his body.
Fenris shook him, his left hand rattling the Warden, the white-hot fury of the lyrium igniting across his body again. "Tell me where he is!"
The Warden let a small, fearful whine escape his lungs. "Weisshaupt. He's heading to Weisshaupt. He left from Cumberland seven days ago," the Warden squealed. "Please. Please don't kill me."
Fenris' fingers slipped through the steel armor as if he was dipping his hand into water, phasing through the flesh, his fingertips wrapping around the furiously thumping heart of the Warden. The white light of the lyirum washed out the Warden's already wan features. The man's mouth was wide open and his eyes dull, unspeakable horror written across his visage as Fenris probed inside his chest.
Fenris' fingers clamped down, surrounding the pulsing muscle, the heart struggling to pump as he held it in his fist. The Warden shook. His fingers contracted, the powerful flesh tearing, breaking, a burst of hot blood trickled between his knuckles as he crushed the man's heart, feeling it grow still in his grasp.
He withdrew his hand, the blood dripping down his wrist and his forearm. The Warden fell lifeless to the dirt with a thud.
The red kerchief at his wrist was vibrant in the dark.
Fenris stepped over the bodies, moving forward.
They walked the road, a single torch lighting the way in the darkness of the overcast night.
They had been traveling all day, with little rest. He had followed, with even less rest.
Fenris' eyes followed all day, observing, waiting for the right moment to strike. That moment had come now, the greatsword in his hand, bursting through the brush and onto the road. His feet beat down on the ground, his hands wrapped around the grip of the weightless sword as he dragged it behind him.
"Stroud!"
A warrior at least deserved a warning that he was about to die.
The Warden spun with a practiced grace, throwing the torch to the ground, his shield sliding onto his left arm, his right hand ripping the longswords of its sheath, all in one fluid motion. Stroud spun around to his rear, the shield coming up by instinct and catching the first, crushing blow of Fenris's sword.
His moves were tempered with decades of training and precision, a calm head in the heat of an ambush. Perhaps he had known he was being hunted. It did not matter. Fenris would bring him to his knees. Fenris' blade wheeled, two more overhand strikes falling hard on the shield, all of the strength of his shoulders behind each blow. One hesitant move, one missed block and the sword would rip the Warden in half.
Stroud pushed the greatsword back, his own sword lashing in, quick counterattacks to buy himself some space before he fell back in a defensive stance, the point of the sword resting just above the upper curve of the steel round shield.
There was fire behind him, flaring up along a mage's staff, her hands twisting in the air as she pulled the magic forth from the Fade. Fenris let the lyrium in him burn again, the brands glowing white hot, fueling power through his body.
Stroud turned his face to slightly to the right, his eyes not turning with the rest of his head as he kept them on Fenris. "Stay out of this Bethany!" he boomed. "This is my battle alone."
The fire on Bethany Hawke's staff did not dull, the red flames casting a harsh glow across her face, her lips pursed, but her motion stilled.
Fenris charged, his sword clanging against the shield once more. His sword clashed with Stroud's blows being thrown and checked, the shield blocking and pushing Fenris back. The blows came down heavy, powerful arms and raging lyrium behind each strike, but the Warden's feet shuffled backward, his shield stalwart even as the strikes rung his arms.
Fenris' eyes tracked each movement, finding openings, bringing his sword around. The blades threw sparks with each clash, each flash of light illuminating Stroud's hard features in the darkness. His brows were bent in, his jaw clenched and grinding as he defended, the small pink scars of countless battles vivid on his face.
His pushed his body, harder, faster. The lyrium scorched as it burned hotter and hotter, Fenris pulling everything out the tainted markings. His eyes were hazy with the agony. His entire body flailed forward, his strikes wild and full of fury. Fenris screamed, rage, pain, frustration as strike after strike rained upon Stroud.
"But all that matters is I finally got to crush this bitch's heart. May she rot and all the other mages with her."
"Maybe we should leave." Hawke placed her hand atop his shoulder, her gentle touch meant to sooth him.
He jerked away, smacking her hand aside.
"Don't comfort me."
He would never forget the look of hurt in her eyes at his cruel rejection.
The last strike bounced weak off Stroud's shield, the Warden sliding another step back, his shield still raised, the sword poised as precisely as ever just above the rim. Stroud was breathing heavily, but each breath was measured, calculated, practiced for years. Sweat gleamed upon the man's face from the exertion.
Stroud remained in control. Disciplined. Waiting.
Fenris' arms flopped to his side, letting the sword in his right arm fall. The point of the blade struck the stones on the ground, a sharp ringing. He could barely breathe, his entire body on fire as the lyrium power dulled and extinguished.
"I cannot defeat you." Fenris' heart was racing, feeling like it was ready to explode from his chest as he fell to a knee, his left hand desperately reaching for the crossguard of his sword as he leaned heavy on the blade to keep from falling into the dirt.
Fenris bit, ducked his head into his chest and lowering his head, his hands squeezing around the warm steel. The rush of cold that ran through him was the realization of surrender, of failure.
"End this," Fenris commanded.
Stroud moved slowly, deliberately, as he lowered his shield, sliding his longsword back into its sheath as he stood upright. "I will not kill you, Fenris."
"You must!" He slammed his hands down on the crossguard, the point of the blade driving into the dirt.
Stroud had had a dozen openings to disarm and strike Fenris down during their battle. Each time, he withheld his steel, turned his blade and dropped back into defense. The anger, the fury, Fenris had thrown himself wildly against the Warden. And with every opening, Stroud pulled back.
"This is not what Hawke would want."
"You will not speak of her." The low, threatening growl in his throat was instinct. He could do nothing to force Stroud into submission. Yet the words came unbidden. "Not you. Anyone but you. Why are you here? Why did you take her away from me? Tell me, Stroud!"
Stroud stomped forward toward Fenris, his right arm coming up across his chest and his fist clenched. "I volunteered to stay behind!" he roared, a crackle of mourning in his voice as his arm slashed down to his side. "It was the Wardens' fault. A price a Warden should have paid. I would have gladly paid it for our error."
"You're lying," Fenris accused. No matter how much conviction Stroud put in his words, they were merely wind, even if he knew them to be true. "You could have stopped her. You left her to die."
His words were weak. He did not believe them, even as they passed his lips. He knew they were false.
"You disgrace yourself," Stroud said.
The Warden slammed his left arm down, throwing his shield into the dirt. The clang of steel rang into the night. His hands moved at his waist, working the leather straps and buckle as he removed his sword belt. Stroud lifted the blade to his shoulder and slammed it into the dirt before Fenris.
He stood disarmed before Fenris now, his arms out at his sides. "If you think my death with bring you closure, then strike me down. But do not presume you are the only one who mourns her death."
Stroud closed his eyes, exhaling, surrendering himself.
Fenris pushed his exhausted body, rising to wobbling feet, his legs screaming under the simple strain of holding up his weight. His hands shifted along the grip of the greatsword, the blade feeling so heavy in his hands. The point rested on the ground. All he needed was a little more strength, enough to lift the sword above his shoulder, enough to throw one strike into Stroud and claim the life he did not deserve.
The sword came up. It swayed over his shoulder, his arms now so weak, the steel wavering back and forth as he struggled to hold it. His eyes narrowed on Stroud, the man's face blank and calm, his eyes closed, the breath slowly come in and out between his lips, his chest calmly lifting up and down, his hands stretched out to his sides, giving his chest to Fenris.
"I am old, Fenris," Stroud said quietly, his eyes still shut. "The taint quickens within me. I have but a few years left before the Blight claims my life. The Wardens have fallen in disgrace. What purpose do I have, now?"
Fenris fingers, lifted, resetting on the grip of the sword.
"I have battled darkspawn all my life, but I have done nothing great. There is no one who loves me. There is no one who would mourn my death if it was I left trapped in the Fade. There is no one who would suffer on my account."
Fenris turned his shoulder back, winding up for the strike, lifting the sword just a little higher over his head.
"The Nightmare taunted us with our worst fears. It tried to break up with terror. But there is nothing that occurred in the Fade that haunts me more than that moment, when the Inquisitor whispered Hawke's name instead of mine." Stroud took one more, slow, deliberate breath, the mustache over his lip wriggling as his lip quivered, his eyes bending in pain. His last breath. "It should have been me."
The sword fell.
Bethany screamed.
Fenris' fingers were limp around the grip, the sword barely dangling within his grasp. His shoulders ached. He felt as if his cold, merciless fingers were wrapped around his own heart, ready to crush the last pulse of life away.
The tip of the sword touched the ground, unbloodied.
Stroud opened his eyes.
"Fenris," he said.
But Fenris turned away, looking upon Bethany for the first time. Her knuckles were white around her staff, the pole clutched up against her chest, holding onto it as if she dangled from the edge of a cliff. The magical fire had never extinguished, flames quietly wafting in limbo along the edges of her staff as the cold night wind blew.
Fear was written upon her face. She was afraid of him. Of the animal that he was.
"You have your sister's eyes," Fenris said dolefully.
He spared just one glance for the tears streaking down from Bethany's honey-brown eyes as he dragged himself away from the Wardens, sliding back into the darkness.
Lavellan crouched to examine the body of another dead, Red Templar, her fingers cautiously poking around the warm, red crystals. He had nothing of interest.
"We're being watched," she said, her staff tucked in her left armpit, her head not lifting to look around. She did not know where, or who, but she continued without concern.
The Iron Bull pulled his greataxe off his back, crouching, his eye scanning the thick foliage of the towering trees of the Emerald Graves around him. "Yeah, I had that same feeling," Bull said. "The same kind of feeling I used to get on Seheron, right before the fog began to roll in and half my squad ended up dead."
Bull turned, his hands tight around the haft of the axe. The Qunari was rarely in this stage of alertness. But the cloud of impending ambush was so thick that he was suffocating in it.
Cole closed his eyes, dipping his chin into his chest, his daggers slipping silently into their sheaths. His lips moved quickly, wordless under the large brim of his hat, shielding his ghostly-white face from the sun that pierced the canopy.
"Pain. Every day is pain. She comes to him in his dark places, questioning, caring. Her lips taste like candy. In her embrace, for a moment, he does not feel it. Hunted, hurting, haunted, he runs far but he always comes back. She is the only one who understands, the only one worth trusting," Cole rattled away without looking up.
Varric shifted uncomfortably.
"Oh shit," he said. "It's Fenris."
The Inquisitor sat cross-legged at the lip of the cliff as the water spilled over the edge, hundreds of feet down to the forest floor.
Her hands sat open upon her knees, her staff lying across her lap, her eyes closed, her head dipped in silent meditation. She was alone. The wood was silent except for the bubbling of the water running past her before it plunged over the fall. It was a quiet, peaceful place.
Fenris placed the edge of his sword upon the back of her neck.
She did not flinch. She did not move. She was not afraid.
"I knew you would come, in time," the Inquisitor said, her voice calm and even.
Still, she did not move, did not open her eyes and did not fear.
"Why did you let her die?" Fenris demanded in the low, cold tones of the murderer that he was.
He had not yet decided if he would kill her.
He hoped she realized how critical her next words would be.
"It's Fenris alright," Varric said.
He peered through the long lens of the scope, Bianca bobbing and trembling from side to side in his grip. His hands never shook as he cradled her barrel in his left hand, never trembling as he wrapped his fingers around the grip, his index finger resting softly on the trigger. Varric swallowed hard, listening to the soft flutter of the leaves that surrounded him in the bush. A slight west wind, no gust. He turned Bianca an inch to the right to compensate.
"Take the shot, Varric," Bull urged.
His finger lifted off the trigger and he placed it back down softly, the familiar smooth metal wrapped between the bending of his knuckles. He could feel the tension in the spring. He knew her body as well as he knew his own. He had loosened the tension on her sweetest spot slightly since Kirkwall. All it would take would be a little pressure, a slight depression back toward his body to send the bolt cutting across the distance. He had made this type of a shot a thousand times before.
"What are you waiting for Varric?" Bull said. "Take him out."
He lifted his finger again, pressing it back into the trigger. It bent in just slightly, he could feel the metal springs compressing, hear the inner gears trembling with anticipation to spin into action and throw the quarrel. He eased it back out. Too close. Too close.
The Inquisitor did not move and neither did Fenris. Varric wondered if perhaps he was trapped in a bubble here. All time frozen around him, only him and Bull and Bianca able to act. His left eye was growing stiff from how hard he clenched it, using his right to peer down the scope. He slowly exhaled, his four fingers lifting and resetting themselves on the grip.
"That is sword, at the Inquisitor's neck. He is going to kill her, Varric. You know what you have to do," Bull urged for the third time.
"Damn it, Hawke," Varric thought. "What would you do in this situation?"
The world was breaking at the seams and Lavellan was the only one who could patch the holes. The Inquisition was slowly, surely, setting everything right again. The Dalish mage had solidified almost all of the known world together, battled back against the impossible odds handed to them by Corypheus. Corypheus was supposed to be dead. Varric had put his fair share of bolts into the magister's flanks during their battle in his prison deep in the Vimmarks. None of this should have been happening.
People shouldn't be dying like this. The world shouldn't be paying for their mistakes. Varric was the one who told Bianca about the route to the Ancient Thaig. This was his fault. And now he stared down the scope once more, considering two options, a thousand variables swimming around his head and consequences he could neither foresee or understand.
He knew what Hawke would do.
Hawke always did what was right, no matter the cost.
"Shit."
"I made a decision," Lavellan said.
Fenris paused, waiting for more. But there was nothing but the babbling of the stream and the whisper of wind through the trees.
"Is that all you have to say?" Fenris demanded. His body lurched, but the blade was still, unmoving. The fingers on his left hand curled. "You made a decision? Hawke is dead and that's that all you can offer?"
"Yes," Lavellan said calmly. "I'm sorry."
He had expected more. A reason. An explanation. An excuse. Maybe that the death sentence was atonement for failing to stop the mage rebellion? That it was punishment for releasing Corypheus into the world? Even something as shallow and petty as she felt threatened by Hawke's presence, knowing that the Seeker had wanted Hawke as Inquisitor, not her. Something. Anything.
"That is not good enough," Fenris hissed.
Lavellan smiled. She actually had the gall to smile, her pink lips turned up at the corners. The purple-inked vallaslin on her high cheekbones lifted slightly. Her eyes were still shut, the vivid, black eyeliner that ringed her eye, the fading purple shadow she wore on her closed lids.
"You have a decision before you now, Fenris," she said. "You can sentence me to die. Raise the sword and take off my head in vengeance for my actions. Or you can stay your hand, spare my life, that I may continue on, trying to set Thedas right again."
"You've done it before," she said. "I have heard the stories. You have held life and death in your hand. You crushed Hadriana's heart in your palm. You held your former by the throat before you broke him. Yet you spared your sister, letting her walk away unharmed."
Fenris reached his left hand down now, wrapping his second hand around the grip of his sword. "If you think to appeal to my sense of mercy, you will find it lacking."
Lavellan ignored his threats.
"Did you know that my clan was killed by humans in this war? There had been unrest around Wycome and my clan was settled nearby. A sickness swept through the city, killing many people. The Duke blamed the Dalish. He said my clan had poisoned their wells and infected the city. They slowly began to purge the elves in the alienage. Some escaped the city to warn my clansmen that the humans were planning an attack. Keeper Istimaethoriel wrote me to ask for my help.
"Our spies determined the Duke had been smuggling in red lyrium at the request of the Venatori. The tainted lyrium had infected the city, fueling the people's agitation and hate. My spymaster advised a cautious approach, to sneak some hunters in to help evacuate the alienage and move on. My commander suggested we strike, quickly cut off this source of corruption in the Marches."
Lavellan sighed, lifting her hands from her knees and folding them in her lap. She opened her eyes now, the purple-ringed irises staring off the cliff at the water that tumbled to the forest floor.
"Two options lay before me. I thought of the elves, kinsman, in the alienage and being able to save them. I thought of the red lyrium, the chance of losing Wycome fully to its corruption. I ordered the attack.
"The clash between the Inquisition soldiers and Wycome's armor bloodied the streets of the city. We were able to destroy the red lyrium supply, but our army was decimated. They retreated. The defenders of Wycome, enraged by the attack, spilled out of the city. Unable to track the Inquisition, they turned on the Dalish. The humans butchered my clan. Keeper Istimaethoriel, the hahrens, the hunters, the craftsmen, the children, our history, our culture. I was their First. One day, I was supposed to lead them. And now, they are all gone."
Lavellan rubbed her hands together softly, a little white magic between them, pressed the palms over her face, whispering quiet words in elvish that Fenris did not understand. When she pulled her hands away from her face, there were tears on her cheeks.
"Trapped in the Fade, a demon blocking our way. Hawke or Stroud? Which should die and which should live? A moment to choose. Hesitate and both might die, and I might die and all Thedas might die. How do you weigh two lives in a moment? How do you truly decide which deserves life? Who might serve the greater good of the world if given a chance? Does it even matter?"
Letting her live would be the greater good. Fenris knew that. Hawke would have known that. Without the Inquisitor, Thedas would burn. But it was his soul that burned now, too hotly and too fiercely to care about the rest of the world.
"I loved her." It was all he could force out of his mouth.
He crashed through the front door of the Amell estate, marching up the stairs. The commotion drew Hawke out of her bedroom, her eyes full of surprise as he came before her.
He was burning. Unable to focus. Unable to live. Unable to be without her.
A crossroads. Only one path could be walked. Hawke would choose and he would obey.
"I have been thinking of you. In fact, I have been able to think of little else. Command me to go, and I shall."
The mabari barked downstairs. His head lowered, his gaze fierce. She needed to be clear. He needed to know. One way or another.
Hawke shook her head. "No need."
He grabbed her in his arms, pulling his lips to hers. Her lips tasted of sweet candy, the warmth of her mouth tingling across his. Her hands wrapped around him, her touch wild and foreign to his flesh.
And then she spun him, grabbing his arms, slamming him gently into the wall. Her strength, her fire, her command, everything he admired and needed from her she gave as she pushed back to his lips again, her feet barely touching the ground as she stood on her toes to kiss him.
She stole the hate from his lips and filled the empty places within him.
"You asked me why I let Hawke die. I do not know. If I could make the decision again, would I choose differently. That too, I do not know. I am sorry that my actions have caused you suffering, Fenris." Lavellan sighed once more. "I am only trying to do what is right. These deaths, they weigh heavy on my soul too."
The sword trembled in his fingers as he looked at the nape of her neck. She had not moved, had not tried to fight him, trick him or escape. She sat, her head in the executioner's block, and did not flee. She spoke and he heard. He listened, though he did not want to.
The Inquisitor sounded like Hawke. How many had they slain together in the streets of Kirkwall? How many mages and apostates did she spare despite his ire and protests? How many people did she help that were too weak to help themselves? As the burning ashes of the Grand Cathedral fell around them in Kirkwall, how calmly and concisely did she make her case to stand for the mages? Standing with magic crossed every experience he had in his life and yet Hawke had looked at him with care, trust and vulnerability in her eyes and made him believe.
Fenris pulled the sword back from her neck, swinging it high above his shoulder. He screamed, his voice tearing the Emerald Graves and he hurled the blade over the cliff, the two-handed steel tumbling through the air down to the floor.
"Why must you take everything from me!" he shouted at the Inquisitor.
He had no memory. No past. He was once Leto, but that life was nothing but a few fading wisps that slipped through his mind. Everything he was now, everything that he had become had been forged in Kirkwall. Once, it was only hate that held him together. And when that was gone, there was nothing there.
Nothing but Hawke.
Lavellen stood now, spinning her staff, planting it into the ground. She extended her right hand in offering.
"Join us, Fenris," Lavellan said. "You are a fearless and proud warrior. Look at what this war has done to you, done to us all. Help me. Help me put it right again. Help me ensure that no one else must suffer the kind of pain you bear."
Her fingers were outstretched to him. Hawke had made the same motion to him years ago on the streets of Lowtown. An offer of help. An offer of companionship. An offer of adventures and battles to come, to try to change the world to become better than it was.
He had accepted such an offer, once.
He scorned it now.
"I will never join you," he hissed.
Her words had been enough to quell his hate, to stay his hand. But words would never be enough to heal the wounds she had inflicted upon him. Words would never wash away the pain that dogged him now.
"I will never stop hunting you, Inquisitor," he promised. "And one day, when Thedas is at peace, when there are no more battles for you to fight and no one left for you to help, I will come for you. And I will make you answer for what you have done."
Her fingers curled back. An offer rejected. And offer spurned. She pulled her hand back, wrapped it around her staff, pursed her lip and nodded in understanding.
Fenris huffed, staring at her face one last time. He would see it again, one day, and she would not escape his wrath again.
He turned and walked away, each footstep crashing down onto the stone. He would need to circle down to the river. He would need to retrieve his blade. He would need it, now more than ever.
He shouted to the wilderness.
"You should have killed me when you had the chance, Varric!"
"I wouldn't have expected to see you again."
Merrill offered a chair, a paltry, pathetic few boards nailed together with rusted and bent nails. The alienage in Kirkwall had always been an impoverished hole and things were even more pitiful after the rebellion.
"Can I offer you anything, Fenris?" she asked. "We don't have much. I could get you some water, maybe. Or some bread? I think there is bread around somewhere." Her head spun, scanning the various baskets and crates that filled the cramped hovel she still called her home.
"I need you to erase my mind."
Varania walked away, sparing one last look at the bloody remains of Danarius lying upon the filthy floor of the Hanged Man. Fenris watched her go, contempt bitter on his lips.
"I thought discovering my past would bring a sense of belonging. But I was wrong. Magic has tainted that too." He dropped his head, watching the river of blood snaking along the floorboards and falling between the cracks. His chest lifted and fell.
Danarius was dead. The magister could hunt him no longer. Yet the victory was inescapably hollow.
"There is nothing for me to reclaim. I am alone."
Hawke smiled. "I'm here, Fenris." But there was sadness in her eyes.
All he brought her was sadness.
His flesh burned, the lyrium now cool but the agonizing searing remained below the skin.
"You heard what Varania said. I wanted these. I fought for them." He clenched his fist in and out, the fire in his arms causing his jaw to bite. "I feel unclean. Like this magic is not only etched into my skin, but has also stained my soul."
All he knew was pain.
Pain was all he could offer her in return.
Merrill's face grew immeasurably sad. "What do you mean, Fenris?"
His fingers dug into his thigh as he squeezed, holding them there before he lashed out again. He had let the Inquisitor live. It was what Hawke would have wanted him to do. But he could not escape the thought daily, the memories of her. No matter where he walked, no matter what he did, she was always on his mind.
His sleep was filled with nightmares. Hawke in the Fade. Charging, her sword drawn, slipping into the mist. No matter how fast he ran, no matter how closely he followed the path she walked, he could never find her. The Fade, like his waking day, was only filled with emptiness.
"I cannot go on like this," he said, his foot stamping into the ground. "I am haunted by her memory. I need you to rip it from my head. Whatever blood magic you know, I beg you, use it on me. Take this pain away."
Merrill's face melted into a mix of shock and sadness, her big green eyes so doleful. She looked at him with such pity it made his stomach twist.
He knew what he asked. To let a blood mage snake into his mind, to change him or destroy him, he didn't care any more. Anything was preferable to this. Anything that could stop this torment was worth it, no matter how vile and distasteful it was.
"Fenris, I can't-"
"You must!"
"No!" Merril was sweet, naive, placating, always. But as she shouted now, she bellowed with the fierceness and steel he had often heard in Hawke's voice. Hawke had tried to turn her away, tried to convince her not to consort with demons and use forbidden magic. The journey had cost Merrill her Keeper. It had cost her her clan. Exiled. Unable to return. Merrill knew something of loss, but she did not know loss on the scale that he did.
"I do not possess that power," Merrill said. "And even if I did, Fenris, I couldn't, wouldn't do that to you."
He stamped his feet again. His hands rolled into fists and he pounded his knees. He quaked in the chair. "Please," he begged. His voice came out puny, pathetic and weak. "Help me, Merrill."
She leaned forward, taking Fenris' head in her arms, cradling him to her breast. Her fingers stroked through his hair with one hand as she held the side of his face with her other hand. She rested her cheek on the crown of his head, her own body trembling as she embraced him.
When he closed his eyes, she almost felt like Hawke.
"One other thing, Inquisitor," Scout Harding said before she could step away.
Lavellan turned her head back. The dwarf's hands were linked together. The scout rarely looked uncomfortable, but her head was down now. "What is it, Lace?"
"There have been strange lights in the distance at night. At the Venatori camps in the distance. Bright white flashes of light. The sound of conflict echoing across the empty sand. And then, the light goes dark and there is nothing but silence," Harding explained.
Lavellan's eyes scanned the horizon and the endless sea of shifting dunes.
"You don't think?" Varric asked behind her.
"Yes," she said. "He is here."
The sand greedily gulped the blood pouring out of the Venatori corpses.
Fenris ignored the burning wound on his right arm where one of the mages had clipped him with a spell. He ignored the broken bits of metal that jabbed into his left side where the greataxe had sheared his chestplate. He ignored the cut over his eye from where the soldier's sword had scraped his brow.
The white light around him burned brightly, fire on his skin. He gritted his teeth at the agony, the self-flagellation he would never get used to. The lyrium cut in an instant, only the dull, burning ache remaining as the power sapped away.
Fenris looked around the carnage. Six more dead Venatori. He couldn't even recall how many camps like this he had slaughtered his way through.
The Venatori had enslaved the Wardens. The Wardens had summoned the demons at Adamant. Hawke had fallen into the other world at Adamant. Hawke was left behind in the Fade.
He had flailed around the world since leaving Kirkwall, begging for answers, searching for purpose. Stalking, killing, butchering Venatori was the only solace he could find and even the senseless bloodshed was becoming more and more unfulfilling. No matter how many he killed, there were more.
They were all responsible, yet none were responsible.
The sword cleaved armor and hacked flesh. Blood spilled hot across his body. Bodies fell lifeless into the sand. Their deaths were meaningless. They could not bring her back.
They had never spoken before about that one night, three years ago.
"I felt like a fool. I thought it better if you hated me. I deserved no less. But it isn't better. That night, I remember your touch as if it were yesterday. I should have asked your forgiveness long ago. I hope you can forgive me now."
Hawke's face was serious. "I need to understand why you left, Fenris."
He placed his hand to his forehead. She deserved that explanation. How many years had he tried to avoid this moment? He could stave it off no longer. "I've thought about the answer a thousand times. The pain, the memories it brought up, it was too much. I was a coward. If I could go back, I would stay. Tell you how I felt."
"What would you have said?"
She asked. He did not hesitate.
"Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you."
He could never have understood the burden and depth of that confession.
"I understand. I always understood."
"If there is a future to be had, I will walk into gladly at your side."
He had scooped her into his arms once more, they had kissed, their bodies entwined. A moment long waited for. There were no more walls he needed. Hawke had given him his freedom, truly, for the first time in his life.
Fenris willingly bound himself to her, voluntarily enslaving himself to her, forever.
The bloody bodies were still now, the sand red-brown with their remains. The sword tumbled from his fingertips, plopping into the sand. He fell to his knees behind it.
"Hawke!" he shouted, slamming his fists into the ground.
The lyrium flared inside him again, his fists again pounding the sand. The burning magic turned the sand to glass under his blows.
He leaned back, the lyrium burning, glowing brighter and brighter. Fenris dug as far into as he could, forcing all of the energy and power out. He screamed, his arms locked at his sides, his fists clenched so tight his nails drew blood from his palms. His head jerked back, his eyes closed, his lungs burning as he poured out all of the frustration and pain.
He could yell. He could burn. He could feel the empty stabbing in his heart. But with his eyes shut, nothing left to hide, nothing left to care, nothing left to fight, there were no tears.
His lungs deflated and he collapsed to the ground, his hands digging into the bloody sand to catch himself, his chest heaving for breath.
"Why?" he asked himself. "Why can I not feel?"
The Hissing Wastes did not answer, and did not care.
He lifted his head, spotting the large, winding spire of rock jutting from the wastes. At the top, the peak veiled in a crown of stars, he thought he saw salvation.
"I am too weak, Hawke."
A confession. A truth.
Fenris let go of the kerchief in his hand.
He opened his eyes, watching the small, red cloth fluttering away from his open palm.
She had given it to him. Her favor, for him to wear. It was tied around his wrist, the manacle that shackled him to her. He wore it proudly. Every time he glanced upon it, it reminded him that she loved him and he loved her.
Now, it only served as a reminder of the pain of her loss.
He could not keep it. He could not hope to overcome the grief if it was a part of him as it had been these years. Maybe in time, with it gone, he could forget.
He wondered if Hawke would want him to forget. She would not want him to suffer. She did not then and she would not now.
The kerchief fluttered, beginning to fall, but the wind pulled it up in an updraft, the red cloth dangling before his face. As he watched it, he could feel the tightness in his throat, a cold lightning that shot through his chest. It was a feeling he had not thought to feel.
Regret.
His arm flashed out, fingers outstretched, trying to snap the kerchief back out of the air. But it was already too far off the edge, his fingers stretching, falling inches short as it began to float down over the waste.
He watched the kerchief float away, his feet hanging precariously over the ledge, hoping for another updraft, another shift of the wind. But none came, the red kerchief twisting in the wind, fluttering softly down and away for him. Fenris watched it go, the rays of moonlight upon it growing dimmer and dimmer until it floated too far, too low, and he could see it no longer.
Fenris had not thought the emptiness inside him could grow any deeper, but he had proven himself wrong as he watched Hawke's favor floating away into the midnight oblivion.
It was only then that he realized the tears rolling down his cheeks.
Fenris backed away from the edge, slowly, carefully.
He turned to the winding path off the peak. It would take an hour to descend back to the desert floor.
Finding the kerchief in the shifting sand could take hours more. If it took days, weeks, or the rest of his life, he would comb the dunes until he found it. He lost Hawke once. He would not lose her again.
He could no longer speak to her, or hold her, or kiss her.
But he refused to be alone again.