(The scenes in this chapter are out of order so as to match the flow of the lyrics. Song can be found here: watch?v=VbloXQeuNCc )
Fenris,
That was all he needed to see.
His name.
His name, scrawled in Varric's spidery lettering.
His name. Varric had written his name.
But the words that followed didn't fit right, didn't work like cogs in his mind, they hung, meaningless, suspended in disbelief. The sounds and words that Hawke, his Hawke, had so lovingly, so carefully, so diligently taught him... Those cursed loops and curls were betraying the man who had unveiled their secrets.
And Fenris didn't believe it for a minute.
Upon his return from Skyhold, Aveline is the first to visit, and he supposes that makes sense. With the dwarf gone and Isabella long since vanished he figures she was the only one left to care.
For a long while they sit in heavy silence, her eyes trained on the fire, one hand resting gingerly on the table, as if, if she touches anything too firmly the whole place will come crumbling down around her. Fenris sneers at this idea, who's to say it won't? Who's to say it hasn't already.
Finally her throat works up the courage and clarity to speak, "It's not your fault."
"Spare me." His reply is harsh, immediate and sharp. And seeing her visibly flinch as if he had out right slapped her doesn't give him the sense of satisfaction he thought it should have.
Instead she backs up, tries again, "I often think of Wesley. I think-"
"I said spare me, woman." His bright eyes lock on to hers and she recoils at the intensity, the pain, the loathing she finds in their depths. He doesn't want her pain. He doesn't want her pity, or her advice, he doesn't want her opinions, judgements or dreams. The storm of his own emotions are already tearing him apart, he can feel himself already getting lost, already ripped from his mooring and set upon a turbid path in a black, merciless water.
Aveline seems to deflate a little, not that there was much in her to begin with. Fenris must remind himself that this is her loss as well. He should apologize. He should reach out. He needs this. He needs someone. The water is creeping in and crushing him, drowning him. The last tatters of his hope, his faith that this is a life he can walk alone are being ripped away by wind and rain. He looks away from the fire-haired woman, withdrawing into himself.
What feels like hours later, she leaves. There are no parting words, no final goodbyes, she knows he will find her if he wants to, there is nothing for her left to do in that house of death and decay and the walking corpse that seems to inhabit it.
He is alone.
Hawke charges forward, with spell and blade the Nightmare staggers. But muscles are weak, mana is tried and all thought of survival is gone. The ending blow, a strike across the abdomen that has blood and intestines pouring across the floor of this twisted, fucked up world, leaves The Champion with but one last thought. The final vestiges of a poor mage's life are thrown out to the only one who matters. If these words could ever reach him it would be here, in this horrid fade.
Danarius tried. He tried to ruin you. He may have broken pieces of you but you are stronger in those places. You are stronger than you know, and I know you have cared more than you've shown. You have others who care. Don't withdraw, don't hide behind your spikes and armor. I'm sorry. I'm so-
Fenris awakens from a dream and goes. He shivers through the rain, pushes past snow, gazes across the mountains and sees the breach. He sees that great tear in the sky that will end them all with no less mercy than- he doesn't finish the thought.
Hold on. Hold on hope.
When he stumbles into Skyhold few spare him a second glance. Refugees have been pouring in for weeks and it is not an unusual sight. "Where is the dwarf?" He half gasps, clutching at a knight dressed in leather.
"Which dwarf would that be?" His eyes are bland, as if he has better things to do than deal with wide eyed and haggard elves.
"Varric." Fenris spits out and follows, with his eyes, the quick jerk of the man's thumb up a curving set of stairs into the main hall of a the castle.
He manages to heave one of the heavy wooden doors open and his wild, green eyes scan the room, immediately spotting the stout man standing by a fire. "Dwarf." There is no sorrow in the word, no begging, no pleas, just a demand.
"Broody..." To his credit, Varric only seems a little surprised by the intrusion.
"Tell me...-" The roll of parchment is thrown with disgust to the floor. When all Varric can do is close his eyes and turn his head away Fenris knows. Varric has no words for this, no stories to tell, just silence and resignation.
With a vicious cry that rips from his throat, clawing it's way out with a violent passion Fenris launches himself at the other, one hand wrapping around his throat and suspending him against the wall. The other flashes powerfully as he thrusts it into the dwarf's chest and holds it there, growling in rage and pain.
Varric does nothing, just hangs, face twisted in pain, mouth agape gasping for air, hands limply clutching at the elf's wrist.
"I'm sorry, Broody. I should have-..."
With a roar Fenris drops the dwarf to the ground and whirls around, markings pulsing at the sight of a dozen guards surrounding him. In an instant he is in motion, sword flashing in the glow of his lyrium tattoos, body phasing in and out of existence in an intricate dance as half of the guards fall. He is fighting and killing, screaming and killing, fighting and screaming and crying. He is crying and as the tears rush in a waterfall down his cheeks the energy drains out of him and he crumples in a heap to the ground, blood covering his hands and sword, ten dead soldiers littering the ground around . All he can feel is the pain, is the weight of the reality crushing down upon him. The hall is so quiet he is deafened, the space around him too small, much too small, his lungs can not expand, he can not breathe. Nor can he stay, to be still is to be in pain. He scrambles to his feet and runs, with ragged breaths and leaving a bloody trail behind him he streaks from the encampment, his chest swelling up and crumpling down around his heart all at the same time. He clutches at it, wishes to rip it out himself so that he might be rid of the hurt, the loss, the horror of it all.
It takes all of his self to keep running. And even as his legs begin to buckle and his body screams in protest he just keeps running.
He thinks, this is all there is keeping me alive, keeping me going. this purposeless, destinationless sprint.
"Don't go." It is all he can think to say.
"I must, they need me! Their hero! The only one who knows about the hellish evil they are facing!" Hawke's voice is filled with wit and charm.
"Do you? What could you possibly know?" The words were cruel and the boisterous smile immediately fades from Hawke's face.
"I don't know. But something, I'm sure. I'm the only one who's faced him before." The mage's voice is weak, soft, pleading.
"It is they're mess, Hawke. You don't need to save the world. This isn't your fight, this isn't your cause. They have people enough, let them deal with their problems. I beg you, Hawke, don't go." All it takes is one look at the Champion's face and Fenris knows he is wrong to ask this. The heavy silence crushes Fenris and he growls out his surrender, "Fine, but I am coming with you."
His emerald eyes rise to meet Hawke's ocean blue. "There is red lyrium... I'm not sure what it'll do-..." Fenris understands immediately and turns his face away, nodding slowly.
"Promise me," He says, looking back, "Promise me you won't die." The words echo in the still air around them and Hawke's breath falters, and they press their foreheads together.
"I am yours." Hawke's voice is quiet, barely loud enough for Fenris to hear.
"Yes, and when you return to me you will mend all the things you've hurt and broken, promise me. Promise me, Hawke."
Hawke's eyes close and open slowly, hands cupping Fenris's face as their eyes lock, "I am yours, Fenris. Always."