"I'm gonna leave my body, moving up to higher ground. I'm gonna lose my mind, my history keeps pulling me down."
- 'Leave My Body', Florence + the Machine
He hadn't realized how much he treasured his memories until he lost them.
It was an aching emptiness, not just in his heart but in his mind. Blank spaces where something should have been. It cried out inside of him, and he thought he would never find happiness again.
All he remembered now was the pain that had consumed him, that burned from the inside and the outside and everywhere all at once. Pain that both burned and chilled at the same time. The pain that had been so intense that he had drawn inside his own mind to hide from it, only to be trapped by the pain there as well. He knew then, that it was a pain that will echo in his body and mind till he took his very last breath.
It was his first memory; his rebirth.
He wished he had died.
There was blood everywhere, made starker by the whiteness of the room he was in. White floors, white walls; all awash with scarlet blood. He knew that some of it had been his own. But now it was interspersed and mixed with the blood of all the ravaged bodies littering the ground.
Rage; that was something else he remembered. Waking up in agony… and rage. Seeing the people he knew instinctively had done this to him. And then… seeing only red. At first, the red of blinding anger, then the red of blood.
All of which had led to this moment; him standing alone in what looked like a previously immaculate lab chamber.
He clung onto every vestige of memory he had, because he had nothing else to cling onto anymore.
So he racked his brain for more, every little detail, forcing himself to remember even the pain to try to make sense of the wreckage that was this room, that had become his life.
He had a name. A name that had been whispered to him over and over again while he had been engulfed in the pain. It had almost been buried in the haze of the pain, but he remembered now.
Fenris. His name was Fenris
He caught an image of himself in a shard of mirror on the floor. He picked it up, almost reverently.
A man with impossibly green eyes and hair as white as pristine snow stared back at him. Then he lowered the mirror to his neck and saw the reason for the pain. Pale blue tattoos formed what looked like the veins of a leaf on his neck, ending in two curved lines at his bottom lip.
He looked down on himself, as naked as the day he was born – except he couldn't remember the day he was born; no, no, don't dwell on that, it hurt too much – and saw that those tattoos continued all across his torso to his arms, from his lower body to the ends of his toes.
They may have looked like normal tattoos, but they were ridged and thick and Fenris – that was his name, he was sure of it – could feel whatever substance that was underneath those tattoos swirl and pulse alternately inside his body.
Another wave of anger threatened to tide him over – these monsters had done this to him! – but the tattoos flared into an ethereal, brilliant blue and the mirror slipped through his hand even though he was still gripping it tightly. The mirror shattered into minuscule pieces on the ground.
Fenris stared at his hands, which were still glowing. His anger subsided to be replaced by shock, and the tattoos dimmed in tandem.
What the hell had they done to him?
Florence Amell – or Hawke, to her friends, because that was her real last name, damn it – was drunk. She wasn't even trying to deny it anymore. The others had taken at least as much alcohol as she had, if not more, and they all stumbled out onto the streets together. She saw that she was not the only one who was swaying a little on their feet. Aveline though, stood as ramrod straight as ever, evidently sober.
Aveline always volunteered to be the designated driver. She shrugged, Aveline's loss was her gain; she never had to restrain herself from imbibing ridiculous amount of alcohol whenever the gang went out together.
Just as Hawke was about to declare her love for mojitos, Aveline informed Hawke that she was going to go get the car and that she was going to leave her in charge of making sure nobody wandered off in a drunken stupor. Hawke tried to regain some semblance of sobriety as she attempted to do a head count.
There was Anders, who was so tall that Hawke could easily see his blonde hair bobbing near the entrance of the club. And beside him was Izzy, whose rich and throaty laughter could be heard from at least two miles away.
Then Hawke caught sight of Merrill, who was standing dazedly on the corner of the sidewalk, staring at something only she could see. Her enormous green eyes were half-lidded and Hawke knew that her innocent-looking friend was not only drunk but stoned as well.
It took Hawke a little longer to find Varric, who was shorter a few inches in height when compared to most people but had multitudes more charm than almost anyone Hawke had ever met. He was still talking to the bouncer, who was seemed to be entirely engrossed by whatever Varric was talking about. Hawke saw a couple of boys who couldn't have been a day older than fifteen sneak into the club while the bouncer was distracted. She snickered; Varric had that effect on everyone.
She heard the familiar smooth purr of engine draw up on the road behind her. It was a limousine. She groaned. Why had she handed Aveline the keys to this monstrosity of a car again? It was so conspicuous; especially when all Hawke wanted was to spend a slightly drunken night with her friends and a normal club with normal drinks and normal people.
She was so sick of the uppity clubs that practically grovelled over her, with those pretentious drinks and all those other stuck-up, spoilt rich brats who only fawned over her because she was an Amell. She huffed; she wasn't even a real Amell, not really, or at least she certainly did not consider herself to be one.
She suddenly remembered that her car was at the mechanic's, since she crashed it the other day. To be fair, she had not expected there to be a house at the end of the road. She could have sworn the house ambushed her.
Aveline came out of the car and helped everyone into the limousine, leaving Hawke for the last. The bouncer and the other people still lining up outside the club were openly gawking at them now.
Hawke groaned again. "I hate this fucking car," she announced. It was her turn to be guided into the car and Aveline growled, "I hate driving this car."
The black-haired woman thought that was positively the funniest thing she's heard all night and could not stop giggling all the way while being guided into the car.
Aveline, ever so trustworthy, dutifully dropped everyone back home safely. Some of the places she drove the car to had the residents still out at three in the morning staring at the opulent car. Even Aveline herself griped at having to drive the car.
Finally, after dropping Varric – who had not been as drunk as he seemed; Aveline suspected that the man could hold his liquor much better than he often pretended to – off at his so-called luxury suite situated above his beloved bar, The Hanged Man, Aveline drove Hawke home.
Leandra Amell was already at the doorway waiting for Hawke when Aveline pulled into the driveway. She carried Hawke, who was half-asleep, out of the car.
"Hello, Leandra," Aveline greeted Leandra, who smiled back at her in acknowledgement.
"I'll just help Florence up to her room. You don't have to stay up for that. I'll let myself out after that," Aveline told Hawke's mother.
"Thank you, Aveline, for all this," she replied softly.
"No, it's the least I can do, after what you've helped me with," Aveline insisted. Leandra's eyes became downcast, but she didn't say anything else.
Aveline was rather glad about that, to be honest.
Hawke woke up to a pounding brain, even though her eyes were still closed.
'Fuck, I think my brain's trying to tell me something. I think it's trying to tell me: OW.'
She heard her room door creak open and the pounding in her brain increased. This time, she said it out loud, "Ow."
Her sister's distinct laugh reached her ears. Normally, it sounded tinkling and pleasant, like listening to tiny bells swaying in a gentle breeze. Right now, it sounded like fingernails scratching on a blackboard.
"If you know it'll hurt, why do you always go out and drink yourself blind?"
"I think this time, I've really become blind," she moaned.
Bethany laughed again, and it only increased the pounding of her brain once more.
"What are you waiting for, Bethany? Do something about this," Hawke rasped, her throat dehydrated.
She heard rustling of clothes and then felt her sister sit down gingerly beside her on the bed. Her sister put her hands on either side of Hawke's head and she felt coolness flow towards her brain. A few moments later, the pounding had ceased, and noises stopped being so irritating anymore. She finally opened her eyes.
"That's why I always go out and drink myself blind. Because I get all the alcoholic fun, and then I can get rid of the pain just like that," Hawke grinned at her younger sister.
"I'm moving away soon, you know, and then you won't have me to cure every hangover you get," Bethany warned ominously.
Hawke shrugged, "I'll still have Anders."
Bethany rolled her eyes and started to leave the room. Just as she reached the door, she turned back to Hawke and said, "Oh I forgot, Varric called earlier today. He said to return his call immediately. It sounded pretty urgent." And then she left. Hawke reached for her phone and dialled Varric. After three rings, he picked up.
"What's up, Varric?"
"Jesus Christ, Hawke, what time did you wake up?"
"Uhm," she glanced at her clock, "one in the afternoon? Which was… five minutes ago?"
"You're impossible, Hawke. Anyway, you might wanna swing over to The Hanged Man now. Everyone's here already. Well, everyone except Aveline and Sebastian."
"Varric, I think I need to talk to you about your drinking habits–"
"We're not drinking, Hawke," he said.
"What?"
The man coughed uncomfortably, "I think you should just come and see for yourself."
About fifteen minutes later, Hawke was at The Hanged Man.
She stared, unimpressed, at what Varric was making such a fuss about. One of her eyebrows was raised questioningly.
Sleeping on a bed in the back room of The Hanged Man, a relatively popular bar that is mostly owned by Varric in everything but name, was a huddle of clothes.
Well, a man in a huddle of clothes, but he was so completely covered from head to toe that you could barely make out the man inside, if it weren't for his shock of white hair.
"It's an old beggar," she pointed out.
"He's not old, and I don't think he's a beggar either," Anders disagreed.
"Look at his white hair, and the state of his clothes," Hawke argued.
Varric silently and gently pulled down the jacket that was covering the man's face and Hawke's jaw dropped.
Anders was right, it wasn't an old man! Despite his white hair, the face revealed a younger man, perhaps the same age as Hawke herself or maybe a few years older.
The man stirred in his sleep, and Varric hastily moved away. The odd-looking man opened his eyes so fast that everyone took a step back in surprise.
The man, just as surprised to wake up to a bunch of people staring at him sleeping, jumped out of bed and looked at them warily.
"Hey, hey. It's me, remember? I offered you a place to sleep last night?" Varric stepped forward, his hands held up to show that he wasn't holding anything dangerous. Everyone else followed his stride and held up their empty hands too.
The white-haired man snarled, "I am not an exhibit to be stared at."
Varric looked guilty and he apologized, "I'm sorry. These are… people who might be able to help."
The man continued to glare suspiciously at all of them.
"I do not need assistance," he said stiffly, as if he's forgotten how words sound. He adjusted the clothes he was wearing. Suddenly, Hawke saw a flash of blue glowing through the layers.
"What's that?" she gasped, without thinking.
He snapped his head to look at her. Green eyes that looked very much like Merrill's – except fiercer - stared at her, trying their very best to throw daggers at her.
"What's underneath your clothes?" Hawke asked bluntly. The eyes were intimidating, but her curiousity overcame that.
"You know what it is?" the man asked, a hint of surprise and – hope? – in his voice.
"I'm not sure," she admitted.
He narrowed his eyes, but he started shedding off his clothes.
Izzy clapped her hands together in lascivious delight, "Strip show at lunchtime? It isn't even my birthday today!"
Merrill shushed Izzy with a wave of her hand. Her attention was rapt on the man, though her eyes traced the lines of light hungrily, as opposed to Izzy whose brown eyes traced the man's contours with lust. The dark-skinned woman pouted at the chiding but she kept quiet.
As the man shed off layer by layer of his clothes, the blue underneath started to glow more strongly. Hawke wondered if maybe she had been wrong, maybe it's not what she thinks it is, because she doesn't understand how it can exist.
Then Hawke saw why he was glowing blue all over his body. Something was embedded inside his body, in the guise of tattoos.
She stared, half-fascinated and half-horrified. She heard Anders and Merrill both gasp.
"What happened to you?" she blurted.
"That is what I am trying to find out," he said.
"Is that…" Merrill left the sentence trailing.
"Well, there's only one way to find out," Anders said.
"What?" the man demanded, evidently confused by the whispers of disbelief and wonder.
"Here, let me just…" Anders moved closer to him, his hands outstretched, wanting to feel the tattoos under his deft fingers.
The man flinched.
"I won't hurt you. I just want to find out what it is," Anders assured him.
He chewed on his lower lip and nodded slowly, though his entire body went taut visibly, like he was bracing himself for pain that did not come.
Anders, whose tall frame belied a man with gentle hands, ran his hands softly over the tattoos, barely touching them. The tattoos flared to life under his ministrations, reacting to his touch. A few seconds later, he pulled his hands back with a murmur of awe, "I think it is lyrium."
The man seemed agitated, "What's lyrium? What do you know about it?"
Hawke hesitated. How much should they tell him? They didn't know anything about him to begin with. They didn't even know his name, for Christ's sake.
"Hang on, we've answered your questions so far. I think it's time you answered one of ours," Hawke said.
The man shifted on his feet uncomfortably before clearing his throat, "That seems fair."
"What's your name?"
He blinked once slowly.
"I am Fenris."
"Fenrir? Like in Norse mythology?"
"No, Fenris."
"Okay, Fenris," Hawke crossed her arms, thinking swiftly. This man may not be old and he may not be a beggar, but he certainly looked like a man who had lost everything. There was a haunted look in his eyes that she found to look out of place in those otherwise enchanting green eyes. She decided to tell him the truth.
"We… don't know much about it, to be honest," she mussed her short jet black hair with one hair, frustrated at not being able to describe lyrium properly.
She tried again, "It's some sort of… myth, I guess. Some years back, some archaeologist or something found a bunch of bound manuscript in a lost language. They deciphered them and found tons of references to a substance called lyrium. It's supposed to have many fantastical properties. The scientific community's been going crazy about it. There are theories about it, but no one has actually proven anything about lyrium."
Fenris arched a dark eyebrow, "So how did it get under my skin?"
"I don't know! It's not even supposed to exist," Hawke resisted the urge to run her hands through her hair again.
"It's supposed to be amazing, able to enhance powers," Merrill breathed, her accent distinctly Welsh.
"Like this?" the white-haired man narrowed his eyes in concentration, and suddenly his hand started to glow. It looked almost…not opaque. To everyone's disbelief, he stuck his hand through the wall.
"What the–"
Then he pulled his hand back through the wall – so that's why it looked almost not opaque – and it coalesced back into a very solid-looking hand.
"I can only do that when the lyrium comes alive," Fenris explained.
"You can phase!" Hawke managed to blurt out the obvious.
"The lyrium allows me to do it, I think."
"So… you weren't… born with this ability?" Anders asked.
Fenris' eyebrows scrunched up and he frowned, "I… don't think so."
"You don't think so? But powers always manifest since birth," Anders probed.
"I don't… remember anything. I only remember waking up with these," Fenris gestured at his tattoos almost disgustedly.
Then he seemed to realize something. "What do you mean, powers always manifest since birth?"
"Mine was discovered by my aunt, when she found me making snow above my cot," Merrill giggled.
"Making…snow," Fenris repeated, not quite a question, but not quite a statement either.
"It's not the only thing I can do!" Merrill shrilly exclaimed, thinking that Fenris was belittling her.
She braced her knees and did a sweeping motion with her hands. Smokey green tendrils rose up almost lazily around her. Some curled around her legs, tracing their way slowly up her body. Others reached out to the air aimlessly around her, as if they were grasping around for something to cling onto.
The others, knowing all too well the consequences of stepping into the radius of the harmless looking green smoke, quickly retreated to the far end of the room.
Varric, however, who had been standing in between Fenris and Merrill, did not move quickly enough and was snared by one of the green tendrils. Suddenly, several other green tendrils shot towards him, having found something to latch onto. The tendrils turned a sickly green, and wherever they touched on Varric's skin caused the skin to turn the same colour as well. Varric's eyes bulged, "Daisy!" he choked, hands grabbing uselessly at the tendrils of smoke.
Merrill swept her hand almost negligently at the tendrils again and all of them instantly dispersed into the air. Varric slumped to the ground, not quite knocked out, but definitely greatly weakened. The green patches on his skin turned an ugly yellow. Merrill dropped to her knees, "Oh, I'm so sorry, Varric. I thought you'd moved away."
Anders knelt down beside Varric, checking him thoroughly to see the extent of damage those tendrils had done. Then he laid his hands, which had started to glow an incandescent blue light, on the patches. He moved his hands from patch to patch, the light never flickering even once. Eventually, all the patches were gone and Varric seemed to be rejuvenated.
Both of the men stood up, but the taller one snapped at Merrill, "How could you be so reckless!"
"I-I'm sorry, Anders. I just wanted to show Fenris–"
"Who are you people?" came the question.
Hawke grimaced. She still doesn't feel comfortable just telling any Tom, Dick and Harry who they really were, but then again, as she glanced at the lyrium-tattooed man standing before her, he's not exactly any Tom, Dick or Harry.
"That's… complicated," she said lamely, her hand automatically reaching for her jet-black hair. She forced herself not to muss up her already messy hair and dropped her arm to her side.
His stare was unflinching and unnerving as he said, "I have plenty of time."
She sighed in defeat.
"To understand who we are, you have to know several things first," she began to explain. She held up her hand and started ticking off her fingers.
"First of all, I'm Hawke. You may hear some people call me Amell, but be assured that that's not who I am," Hawke said bitterly, still seething when she remembered how her mother had so quickly fallen into despair and hopelessness after Father's death.
The twins were only ten years old at that time, but Hawke was already old enough to know what was happening. She had tried to make things better; taking on part-time jobs, taking care of the twins, etc. Trying to keep together the life that Father had built for them.
But within half a year, her mother had 'tearfully reconciled' with her elder brother, Gamlen, the head of the Amells ever since Hawke's grandparents had passed away. Suddenly, they were no longer Hawkes, who were unknown and just making do with whatever they had. They were Amells now, proud and noble scion of the Amell family; old money, very influential and very public.
Hawke never quite forgave her mother for not working hard enough to preserve all they had left of Father, their lives together. The twins were still young, so they, especially Carver, embraced their newfound freedom with money. Hawke had remained aloof towards the money, the memory of their little apartment that Father had fixed from disrepair into a cosy home still fresh in her memory even now.
Fenris must have noticed the bitterness in her voice because he nodded gravely and rumbled, "Hawke."
"Right. Secondly, these are my friends. Varric, Merrill, Anders and Isabela."
They all made awkward gestures of acknowledgements.
"And we can all, sort of, do something."
The lyrium-tattooed man stayed silent, waiting for Hawke to elaborate.
She cleared her throat. "Well, you know, Merrill and Anders can sort of do magicky stuff. And, uh, the rest of us can do… non-magicky things," she said lamely.
Izzy laughed her deep, throaty laugh, "Believe me, I can do all sorts of magic in bed."
"What she's trying to say is that she's a duelist. An unrivalled duelist. With knives and daggers."
"I cheat, of course, but then again, I cheat at everything. I can see a little bit into the future, so I know what someone is going to do before they do it," Izzy said with a wink.
"I'm just a businessman," Varric said modestly.
"A businessman who can con anyone out of anything," Hawke added.
"And I ain't too bad with Bianca either," the short 'businessman' grinned.
"Bianca?"
"She's my crossbow," he said with beaming pride.
"A crossbow," Fenris repeated.
"Hey, don't diss the crossbow. They may be out of style, but they're still deadly," Varric defended his weapon of choice. And then he added after some thought, "And beautiful."
Then Fenris swivelled those eyes of his – why does Hawke feel apprehensive to look at his eyes, when she's fine with Merrill's? – onto Hawke.
"What about you?" he asked.
Hawke laughed and said, "Merrill says I have something called enhanced agility." She shifted her feet, "Basically, I'm very good at jumping around."
"While holding a very sharp sword," Merrill quipped.
"So… what is it that you guys do? Run around saving the world?"
"Not exactly, no. More like, we mind our own business, take up a few odd jobs here and there and out of nowhere someone or other tries to kill us and then we have to kill them instead. It's all very tragic," Hawke said.
"I see," Fenris muttered. He looked away, apparently trying to think of something else to ask.
"I… have not thanked you yet," he said tentatively to Varric.
Varric just shrugged, "Forget it, it was just a bed. Although, that reminds me why I called you guys over." He spun on the balls of his heel to face the others.
"I can't let him sleep here for another night. Corff will throw a fit to find a strange man sleeping in the back room when he gets back. And I don't have a spare bed in my house either. Anyone up for a new house-mate?"
"I would not trouble you any–" Fenris began, but Varric waved him silent, "You're one of us now; we can't have you running around, can we?"
Izzy immediately raised her hand, "I have a spare bed in my room."
"Ah, never mind, Rivaini. I still remember what happened to the last person I sent your way."
"Hey, it's not my fault he was such a prude! Who sleeps with all his clothes on, anyway?" Izzy protested.
Anders and Merrill shook their heads simultaneously. Varric understood; they barely had enough room for themselves in their own homes. Which left only Hawke.
Varric turned to look at the black-haired leader of their ragtag crew.
"Why, that's so kind of you, Hawke. What would we do without you, Hawke?" she said shrilly, obviously taking on the role of Varric.
"What would we do without you indeed, Hawke," Varric repeated with a grin, his own tenor sounding nothing like Hawke's imitation.
"Well, it's not like the Amell house is ever short on spare rooms," Hawke told Fenris brightly, "You'll have your own room and not just a spare bed!"
"I am grateful."
Hawke looked away from those eyes of his after a second.
A/N: My first actual multi-chaptered fic in a very long time. I may or may not be updating this frequently, as my muse comes and goes like a whore. But hopefully, it will be good. I have a rough idea of where I want to take this, and other than the characterization, many things will probably be non-canon and weird, but oh well, that's how an AU goes. Enjoy.