A/N: In all honesty I had every intention of this story being nothing more than a little ficlet to add to my collection of drabbles. But like with most everything else I attempt to keep short and sweet, it's blossomed into a full-on monster of a fic. Ah well, might as well not fight it, right?

I want to give all of my fabulous readers a fair warning that this story has a fair bit of graphic violence and a scene depicting what could be equated to torture. I should also mention that updates with this story will not be a fast process, for several reasons.

A) the plot is very much still in development (I was too excited to share what I have so far with you guys to wait. I know, I'm terrible.)
B) work for me is going to become even more super-ridiculous-bonkers-crazy busy than usual with the holiday season looming over us
C) I'm still very much embedded in working on TCWAA (chapter 8 is in progress, I SWEAR!)
D) I'm just an overall slow writer to begin with

I am sorry, and hope you all understand and can be patient with me. I know how disheartening it can be to have a fic just drop off into nothingness, and I promise that this story will have an end eventually. It will probably just take some time for us to get there.

So! If I haven't put you off too much, I hope you enjoy! Please feel free to let me know what you think, feedback is always very much appreciated!

Before we begin, I'd just like to say a special thank you to my ever-wonderful betas, as well as LoquaciousQuark for the absolutely fantastic advice she gave me some time ago in regards to writing fight scenes. It was a HUGE help, and I hope I've done her suggestions justice!

Abaddon - Chapter 1

They come for her in the dead of night, shadows biding their time in the forest's darkness. She falls into their trap unwittingly, too dazed by lack of proper rest and the troubled thoughts that have plagued her since their flight from Kirkwall to appreciate the danger of leaving the protection of their camp's fire. By the time she reaches the stream's bank, its glow has all but disappeared behind trees and dense brush, the last weak glimmer of light blocked by the sword-emblazoned armor of her hunters. Her back is to them as she bends down, waterskin barely submerged below the stream's surface when they move.

The attack is quick, calculated - obviously the result of many hours' worth of deliberation and planning. Hawke has enough time to recognize the crunch of leaves under a booted foot before a force like a whirlwind slams into her, knocking her off of her feet and into the face of a nearby boulder. Her head is thrown backward with a violent jerk and cracks against the stone, a strangled cry tearing itself from her throat as stars burst across her vision. She scrambles to a crouch, one hand cradling the back of her skull, the other stretched out before her as the templars slip from cover. Her teeth grit from the pain, eyes watering as she reaches within herself to pull on her connection to the Fade – but there is nothing. She tries again, unwilling to accept the truth of what has just happened, only to have her call for flame met with nothing but a short-lived spark and puff of grey smoke.

The men surround their Silenced quarry, too close now for her to break through their ranks lest she be run through by the blades they have drawn. She is trapped, a rabbit caught and cornered, wide eyed, heart pounding in its chest as it watches a pack of wolves circle ever closer.

Their leader, a dark-haired man with a cold smile, reaches for her with a gloved hand, his fingers twisting into the shoulder of her robe to pull her forward. She panics then, lashing out with fists and feet to strike wherever she can, though it earns her nothing but bruised knuckles and a backhanded slap across her face so jarring it leaves the taste of blood on her tongue. The man's grip tightens as she continues to struggle, her arms pulled behind her back and bound with coarse rope by one of the others, a sharp-faced woman who spares no consideration for the pain she causes with her less than gentle handling.

Hawke cries out again, a wordless shout shifting to desperate pleas for help, the realization that she stands no chance of escaping this on her own a leaden weight in the pit of her stomach. She calls to her friends, screams their names as loud as she can, hoping by some miracle of the Maker they can hear her across the distance separating her from camp. "Varric! Aveline!" her throat burns, head pounds, the man who holds her fast bringing his hand to knot in her hair and yanking backwards until she can see the faintest hint of the stars above through standing tears. "Help me! Fen-"

Moonlight catches against a flash of silver metal, and before the name can finish tumbling from her mouth the man has struck her with the pommel of his sword. Time shifts, coming to a near stand still as she sways in place on her knees. The ground is moving beneath her, pulsing, reaching for her until mulch and rocks have pressed themselves into the side of her face and all she sees is the polished toe of her captor's boot. The image blurs as he steps closer to her, darkness rising from nowhere to press in on the edges of her vision while distorted voices begin to speak above her, muffled as though underwater. She can feel herself slipping beneath the surface, consciousness ebbing away as surely as the tides while the Void opens beneath her, wide and black and beckoning.

It takes only moments. A short whisper more, the last of her lover's name a muttered prayer swallowed by the earth.

She falls.

It burns it burns it burns it burns it burns.

Fire on her skin, beneath her skull, searing through her breath. Lungs clench against the smoke, too tight for air while the stench of scorched flesh and hair make her stomach pitch and heave. She thrashes on the table like a wild thing, strains against the shackles and ropes which lash her in place with everything she has, the battle long since lost but she is unwilling to cede victory without a fight. Bone is splitting in two, she is certain of it, cracked beneath what may as well have been an ax buried between her brows for all the weight of it. Eyes water and screw shut against the white-hot blaze and the pain it has brought her, howling around gnashed teeth and a leather gag which remains the only reason she has not already severed and choked on her own tongue. The agony only grows, climbing higher and higher with each passing second, until she would gladly beg for death if only she could find her voice.

It is then that she screams, the sound clawing its way up her broken throat as something buried deep within her mind shatters. There is a final brilliant flare of pain, rage, despair, regret – a deep, rasped laugh, a smile meant only for her, green eyes which say with ease what words never could – and it is gone.

Marian Hawke feels no more.

They come for her in the dead of night.

Hawke stirs from dreamless sleep, woken by the sounds of a scuffle and the stifled grunt of the templar standing watch at her tent's entrance. She sits up slowly, watching with impartial focus as a dark silhouette draws one hand away from the man's mouth and the other from his neck to lower him to the ground. Branches of the nearby bushes rustle quietly, a second shape toting what appears to be a cumbersome weapon moving from the shadows to stand beside the first. Intruders in the camp, it would seem. Ser Varlen will not be pleased to learn of this.

The newcomer is shorter than their companion, so much so they must crane their neck upward to regard them properly as they begin speaking with one another.

The taller of the two, a woman, speaks first, low-timbered and tinged with a well remembered accent. "You're sure she's in this one?"

"Has to be," her companion says. Male, throaty, a voice worn smooth from countless tales told over a pint of cheap ale. "Why else would they post a guard out front?"

"Varric," Hawke says flatly as she pulls herself closer to the edge of her cot. Not a question, but a statement of simple truth. "Isabela."

Both of the intruders' heads snap up in unison to stare into the darkness of her tent, their faces thrown into deep shadow as Varric pulls a small lantern from his belt and lights it. Hawke squints at the candle flames, the sudden appearance of light a mild discomfort, though she does not think to complain. Instead, she remains silent and seated on her bed while the dwarf steps through the entryway, watching as the stiffness at the corners of his eyes ease.

"Well, look who it is. Just the Champion we were hoping to find," he says, a pleased smile drawing itself across his face as he slings Bianca back into her holster. The crossbow's plating catches in the light when he turns to look back at Isabela, the barest hint of urgency hidden beneath the lightness of his words. "Go round up Aveline and the elf, would you? We should make ourselves scarce before Broody's patience runs out and he starts hacking his way through."

She nods her agreement as she wipes her daggers clean and sheathes them, taking enough time to throw Hawke a wide-mouthed grin of her own before she spins on her heel. Varric comes closer as she disappears into the night, the lantern held low at his side.

"Sorry about the delay, Hawke," he says with a warm chuckle, "but your friends here certainly know how to cover ground when they want to. Took us four days to find a set of tracks worth following, then another week of playing catch up before we got anywhere near close enough to spot them. Hope you didn't think we'd forgotten about you."

"I admit, your arrival is unexpected," Hawke's hands fold neatly in her lap as she looks to her friend, impassive towards his evident relief. "After the captain, Ser Varlen, brought me here, I was certain I would not see any of you again. It seems I was mistaken."

"'Mistaken'? What, that's it?" he asks in mock affront, "No tearful reunion or heartfelt appreciation for trekking through half the Vimmark to find you? Do you have any idea how hard it was to convince your elf not to put a hole through Blondie's chest when we figured out it was the last of Meredith's men who took you? I'd wager that deserves at least a half-sincere 'thank you' if nothing else."

"You have my apologies," she says, the words falling from her lips with no regret behind them. "It is not my intent to offend, but your efforts here have been unnecessary. There was no need for you or any of the others to come."

He lifts a thick brow, amusement shifting to incredulity. "Just how hard did they hit you over the head when they knocked you out? Last I checked, a mage getting herself kidnapped by templars was plenty enough reason to launch a rescue mission."

"Your purpose here is admirable, Varric," she says, gaze steady and unwavering in the face of his growing concern, "but I do not require your assistance. Ser Varlen intends to bring me to the Circle in Val Royeaux. I am content to oblige him."

"Hawke," his eyes turn serious, tinted gold by the lantern as he raises it level with her face, "what in the name of the Ancestors has gotten -"

A sharp breath as horrified realization darkens the man's face. The flame's light has fallen against her skin, drawing his focus up and to the center of her forehead where behind thick strands of bed-tousled hair a sunburst now rests, as red and hot and angry as she is bereft of all things similar.

"Hawke," he says again, aghast and blinking, a waver in the dwarf's ever-smooth bearing she has not witnessed since his brother's break from sanity, "by the Void - what have they done to you?"

"Only what the Maker wills," she says, unbothered by the way her friend balks at the words. "After everything that happened in Kirkwall, I was deemed a threat to the safety of the people of the Free Marches. The templars saw a need to remedy this and have acted accordingly."

Varric moves as though to step closer to her still, a wide hand outstretched in the space between them, when the murmur of hushed conversation sounds just outside of the tent.

"Which one is it?" a new but still familiar woman's voice asks in a whisper, its usual hard edge giving way to disquiet.

"This one, just here," Isabela answers, the words barely heard over the chirp of crickets. "Only had one guard watching her, too. Don't know what idiot thought that was a bright idea. Not that I'm complaining. We'll have Hawke halfway to Ostwick before the rest of them even realize she's missing."

"And you're certain she's unharmed?" another asks, low and coarse, made tight by anxiety unmistakable even from this distance. "She seemed well enough to travel?"

"So far as I could tell. No open head wounds or anything like that, at least." They are close now, the sound of footsteps near enough to hear as they shuffle through the grass. "But she did seem a bit, I don't know, out of it I suppose. Probably hasn't had a decent night's sleep since they nabbed her."

Varric's face turns to stone at the sound of their approach, the corners of his mouth pulled taut as he spins in place. He mutters to himself as he hurries towards the opening in the canvas, a repetition of shit, oh shit nearly too quiet for her to hear. He reaches it just in time to block the newcomers' way into the shelter, the first of them sent reeling backwards at the sudden appearance of both dwarf and his high-hoisted lantern. Its light spills over the jostled man, turning a shock of white hair amber and casting the already dark expression he wears into deeper shadow. He scowls down at Varric once righted, annoyance plain in the way his brows knit themselves together over the green eyes that once held so much importance for her. Such an odd sentiment now.

"Broody! Good! Nice to see the lot of you could make it," Varric says with what Hawke can easily tell is false cheer. He nods to Isabela and a tall, red haired woman she recognizes as Aveline, the both of them meeting his overzealous congeniality with confused glances. If the dwarf notices this or the elf's aggravation he pays them no mind, his bearing still determinedly light as he jabs a thumb backwards over his shoulder. "Listen, Hawke here's a bit more banged up than we thought when we first found her. Nothing serious," he says quickly when his words spur Fenris to attempt a second breach of the barrier he has made of himself. "just some scrapes and bruises mostly, but I don't think it would hurt to give Blondie a heads up so he can be ready to take a look at her."

Hawke's head tilts to one side, eyes trained intently on the man's back. She is untroubled by his determination to remove her from the templar's camp - if he and the others insist she join them then she will do so without protest. What has her curious is why Varric would feel the need to tell their friends such an obvious fallacy. With the exception of the still-tender brand, she carries no injuries worthy of note, the marks from her restraints during the ritual tended to most efficiently with salve and herbs and the bruises at her jaw and temple having all but disappeared in the time since her capture. Minor abrasions all, none of which would have necessitated the use of healing magic even at their worst. It is a most peculiar lie for the man to tell, particularly when she knows he has seen her brush off wounds far worse to continue on in their travels without any great hindrance.

Her pondering does not last long, however, her train of thought interrupted by Varric as he continues to speak with Fenris. "I say you and Rivaini head back to camp and fill him and Daisy in on what's going on. Aveline and I can stay behind to get Hawke up and ready to move."

"Isabela is more than capable of delivering your message without assistance," Fenris says shortly, irritation seeping into his words as he tries a third time to skirt around the dwarf's wide frame.

Varric quickly steps to the side and back into his path, lantern swinging in hand to make its flame flicker over the line of his rigid shoulders. "Come on now, elf. You know we shouldn't send someone traipsing through the woods on their own. That's how we wound up in this mess in the first place."

"Then accompany her yourself." His temper is rising, voice taking on a sharpened edge in his frustration. He reaches out, clawed fingers curling into Varric's arm to force the man to the side. "Now out of my way, dwarf."

"Broody, wait. I really don't think -"

He gives no regard to the man's words, shoving past to bring himself fully into the tent. Varric turns with lantern still in hand, sudden apprehension twisting what little Hawke can see of his expression before he is hidden from her behind Fenris' back. The candle's glow casts his shadow long and lean before him, clawing its way across the floor until it falls over her like a shroud. He is all stiff movement and rigid limbs, the whole of his body drawn taut as an archer's bow when his eyes find hers in the darkness.

"Hawke."

His voice is rasped as he lowers himself to a knee before her, cut through with what must be near a fortnight's worth of worry and the sudden relief of trial's end. A long, unsteady breath leaves him as he reaches out to gather her hands within his own, his grip around them tightening as though he fears she will slip away through the cracks between his fingers. Tension drains away from him like water poured through a sieve at their touch, the hard lines drawn across his face easing into something far gentler. Hawke watches in polite silence as the beginnings of a smile turn his mouth, the affection she sees glinting in his eyes a stark contrast to the deep circles which lie beneath them. It is a look she knows well, the same once shared in secret over the tops of ale flagons and card-strewn tables, then again in the early hours of the next day as they had lain together in a nest of tangled sheets.

But these are memories belonging to a different time, a different life. One which is no longer her own, the recollections faded as though painted across a damaged canvas too far gone for her to gather any appreciation of their significance. There is no tear-filled joy in their reunion for her to find, no choking swell of emotion as he moves to cup a tender hand against her face or a smile for her to return in kind.

There is nothing.

"Your ability to find yourself in the thick of trouble will never cease to amaze," Fenris says, still smiling with voice pitched low enough for only her to hear. He draws his thumb along the top of her cheek, a slow, repeated caress she feels no affinity for. "Never frightenme like that again. I did not enjoy it."

"I apologize for having worried you," Hawke says, her words as smooth and polished as his are rough, "but as I have already told Varric, your concern for me was not necessary. The templars have done me no real harm."

Tension reappears in the span of seconds, the man's back snapped straight and hand halting mid-brush along her skin. His eyes widen as they sweep across her face, their warmth disappearing beneath a surge of panicked disbelief faster than a stone thrown into murky waters. She watches, sedate and indifferent, as his focus rises to the center of her forehead. The lyrium lining his throat shifts as he swallows, his hand at her cheek giving the slightest tremble as it reaches to sweep away the loose strands of her short-cropped hair.

There is a stab of pain at her wrists as the hand still around them tightens, steel claws digging into soft skin. She makes a noise of discomfort, its sound masked by the sharp intake of his breath as he stares into the Chantry sun and the reality it affirms.

"No," the word cracks in his mouth, feeble as his rejection of the truth. "No! Hawke – Marian – please, speak to me. Say – say anything." Both of his hands are at her face now, holding her eyes with his own. He is frantic, desperate, the grip he keeps too harsh for kindness, though Hawke supposes he is not of a mind to care. "My name. Hawke, say my name."

Her head tilts to one side within his palms, brows pulling together ever so slightly. "That is an odd request of you to make. You know your name as well as I."

He does not back down. "I need to hear you say it."

She regards him a moment longer in silence, intrigued to see how fiercely he refuses to accept the truth for what he must know it to be. Fenris has never been one to deny realities, no matter how much he or anyone else may have wished to reject them. It is strange that he should begin doing so now, of all times.

No matter, it makes no difference. Her voice is still just as neutral, just as impassive when she speaks as it was before.

"Fenris."

For an instant he crumbles before her, a glimpse of a sorrow more potent than she has ever seen him display flashing across his face, his hands limp as they fall to rest at the tops of her shoulders. Then it is gone, overshadowed by fury and hate and the flash of lyrium which ignites to cast him as more a demon of rage than man. In a burst of movement too quick to follow he has risen to his feet and turned, sword half-drawn from its sheath on his back as he storms towards the tent's entrance.

"Broody – Fenris, wait-"

Varric's outstretched hand is shoved away, the man too set on his course to be dissuaded. Isabela moves to join him without a word or moment's hesitation, face blank and blades freed, moonlight silvering their edges as they stalk side by side towards the center of the camp. A pale-faced Aveline shoots a glace in Hawke's direction before meeting Varric's gaze, her eyes damp but jaw set as she offers him a curt nod. He returns the gesture resignedly, just as grim, before his lantern is set down and Bianca's freed lath creaks into position.

"We'll be back for you, Hawke," he says without looking at her, his back already turned as he follows Aveline out and into the darkness. "I promise."

By the time Hawke has risen from her cot and walked the short distance to the tent's door the camp is in utter chaos. Already the last of the men assigned for the night's watch lay slain upon the ground, lifeless eyes staring while blood pools beneath throats cleaved mid-call for aid. One of the matched tents which had been used as sleeping quarters for all save the captain and herself has been set to flames, no doubt the result of a lantern overturned in some templar's haste to join his fellows' sides. The fire burns bright and angry, illuminating the scene before her in a haze of smoke and the unsteady blaze of orange-tinted light.

Varlen's men fight well, their skill unquestionable and loyalty as steadfast as the oaths their order demands. But honor and skill offer little more protection from blades and grief-fueled rage than the cotton sleeping tunics they had not had the chance to cover in plated steel. It is not long before the fight becomes a massacre. Hawke watches on with the same analytical indifference of a scholar poring over the casualties of some ancient war long since consigned to history, unstirred by either guilt or vindication at her keepers' slaughter.

There is a high, pained cry, and her eyes shift in time to watch the sharp-faced woman who had first bound her, Ser Eleanor, she has come to learn, fall with sword half raised, an arrow shaft buried to the fletching in the center of her breast. From behind her Varric pulls Bianca's spring back with a metallic twang, brows knit and a second bolt fired into the neck of a blonde youth whose name she does not recall before he skirts the edge of the encampment, his focus trained on the three familiar shapes planted in the center of the fray.

Aveline holds the middle ground, solid and unmoving as a stone golem and just as intimidating. She lashes out with shield in hand, her full weight thrown into the blow aimed for a templar's chest. The man staggers backwards and nearly topples under the weight of his hefted broadsword, his momentary distraction all the time needed for Aveline's blade to sink itself between his ribs. Two more die in quick succession by her hand, sword and pommel striking with a wet thudding crack loud enough to be heard over the clatter of dropped swords and shouting voices.

By the remnants of one of the evening's cooking fires Isabela dances circles around a red-faced mountain of a man, the vicious grin she wears growing as her swift steps and well-timed parries leave her unscathed by his attacks. Roaring in both frustration and effort, the man heaves his sword in a long reaching sweep aimed for the rogue's midsection. She ducks and the blade flies overhead, crouching low enough to the embers to set the jewelry about her throat and ears ablaze. In the time it takes him to recover from his swing, Isabela has plunged one of her daggers into the middle of the glowing coals, a flick of her wrist sending them flying up and into his eyes. The man screams, sword dropped to bat them away from his face, but the sound is soon cut off by the thick, gurgled choke of a slit throat.

Before the man can drop to his knees, Isabela has dashed back towards the center of the fight, Hawke's eyes following her until her attention is snared by the living storm Fenris has become. Already the man has cut his way through half of the encampment, a trail of broken bodies all that remains of those left in his wake. He is swift and merciless as the death he brings to those caught in his path, all bared teeth and blurs of metal and blue lyrium. A smooth-faced youth, reckless in his fear, shouts as he charges from the elf's left while another of his brethren moves to flank him from behind. Fenris twists away from the poorly executed lunge, his own sword brought down to cleave the boy's shoulder in two before he turns to snarl in the face of the woman behind him, her eyes widening as a glowing fist tears her heart from her breast. Another man drops to his knees while he grasps at the stump left where his blade-wielding arm had once been, Fenris' growl barely heard over the man's screams as he finishes him. Again and again he rends flesh and bone, the twisted rage which mars his face growing while blood paints his arms and armor ever darker shades of crimson.

It is only once Fenris has carved himself a path through what few templars remain that Hawke realizes the purpose behind his drive across the camp. There, looming before the opening of his tent clad in hastily-adorned armor, stands Ser Varlen.

Even from this distance she can see his jaw is clenched, eyes burning with some mix of sorrow and righteous indignation as he looks out over the ruin of his men to find Fenris waiting, blade raised and pointed towards him in open challenge. He answers with a deepening sneer, his own weapon freed and drawn aloft as he rushes the few feet needed to close the distance between them. There is a great clash as Varlen's attack is easily caught and parried, the weight he has thrown behind it making him stumble while Fenris pivots around him. The knight steadies himself in time to turn and dodge a thrust aimed for his stomach, cursing when the point barely misses the gap between the plates of his cuirass and greaves.

Their swords meet in a cacophony of shrieking metal, the men too well-matched in both skill and fury for their bout to be brought to an easy end. More than once it is not Varlen, but Fenris who barely skirts disaster, each hit he lands against the templar quickly matched by wounds of his own. A low, sweeping blow catches him by surprise in the back of his right thigh before he can turn out of its path. Another swing not ducked away from quickly enough grazes across the back of the opposite shoulder. Pain begins to show behind the fury in his face, the favor he places on his injuries hidden but not unseen. And yet Hawke watches on, heart still as the grave while Fenris bleeds.

In the end, however, it is not he who falls. Eventually, the templar begins to show signs of fatigue, the power behind his blows lagging and his breath labored while their fight drags on. Fenris remains relentless as he presses forward, no mercy to be found in the hard glint of his eyes as more and more of his attacks begin to find their target. Finally, a long upward swing from his broadsword catches Varlen full in the side and sends him flying backwards, one hand pressed firmly over the quick-spreading stain of his own blood. He spares the wound a short glance, brow taut and breath drawn through clenched teeth as he stares down both Fenris and what Hawke is certain he sees to be his ruin.

The strain in his jaw becomes a glower, anger and pride overcoming agony to take one and then two short steps forward. Until, with a sudden roar and burst of what little of his strength remains, he charges, sword held fast between his hands and raised for a final attack. Fenris feints to one side at the last moment, his own blade brought down hard with a harsh growl into the man's back to send him sprawling to the dirt.

Varlen has barely enough time to raise his head before the other man is on him once again, sword abandoned to take hold of his cuirass and drag him bodily across the whole of the camp. They reach Hawke in a matter of moments, the templar thrown violently to the ground at her feet. He groans into the dirt as she gazes down at him in bland curiosity, the gash at the small of his back already caked in a thick layer of blood.

Fenris drops beside him without a glance towards her, his mouth a jagged line as he fists a hand at the back of the man's neck. He snarls, each word dripping with malice. "Look at her."

Varlen's eyes are distant as his head is lifted for him, the effort needed for focus too much for him to muster. The grip Fenris keeps in his hair tightens before he smashes him forward into the ground with full force, an agonized moan shot through by the crunch of bone. Blood runs from a mangled nose when his head is raised again.

"You will look at what you have done," Fenris says, voice barely more than a venom-laced hiss.

A long pause, several deep, ragged breaths, and Varlen's eyes open to stare up into Hawke's face. For a moment she sees the barest hint of sadness, resignation at an unavoidable fate as steel-clad hands shift to either side of his jaw.

The snap of his neck is like thunder in the silence that follows.