A/N: Thank you all so, so much for your patience. Hopefully you feel this chapter is worth the wait. Once I've gotten the next section of TCWAA up and posted I'll be back to working on this fic. :3


Abaddon - Chapter 2

Quiet quickly falls over the clearing, the panicked voices and violent ends of moments earlier dragged beneath an otherworldly calm. The forest has grown unnaturally still around them, hushed as though in recognition of what has come to pass.

On the edge of her vision, Hawke can see that what remains of the templar's tent has crumbled in upon itself. Now nothing more than a charred and smoking husk, its flames burn just bright enough to silhouette Varric, Isabela and Aveline as they meet in the center of the ruined camp. One of the women – Aveline, she believes, though it is difficult to be certain at this distance – says something to the others. Varric answers with a curt shake of his head, the lines of his face hard as granite. He throws a cautious glance at Hawke, his focus jumping down towards her feet for the barest of seconds before he looks away, muttering through thin-pressed lips.

Hawke's attention shifts away from the dwarf, her gaze settling on the back of Fenris' neck where he crouches over Varlen's corpse before her. Like all else around them he does not stir, hands held fast to either side of the man's broken neck; his back rigid, the rise and fall of his chest with each breath the only movement he makes. Varric's lantern, still resting just outside the doorway to her tent, throws warm light across his back, the dark spreading stain at his shoulder surrounding a tear in his leathers shining in the glow. Hawke's brows pull together absentmindedly as her eyes travel over the rest of him, finding a similar rend at his thigh where the first of Varlen's blows had landed.

Turning in place, Hawke slips back into the darkness of her tent, squinting against the lack of light as she steps towards the small chest resting at the foot of her cot. The lid's hinges protest with a soft creak, falling open to reveal a number of delicate vials tucked amongst a set of brass scales and an assortment of dried herbs. Glass clinks against glass as she bends over to run one hand along their stoppers, noticing but indifferent to the sound of movement behind her while she continues searching through the bottles. Her fingers brush against a squat, red vial, her grip tightening around its neck to pull it gently from its place between its fellows before the trunk is closed again with a quiet click. Back straightening, she crosses to the tent's opening to see that Fenris has brought himself back to his feet. Hands loose at his sides and shoulders curved forward, he watches her approach with an expression caught somewhere between wariness and a mourner's anguishshe finds most strange, though whatever inclination she may have had to give voice to the thought is dismissed as she takes in the elf's appearance.

Now closer to him than she has been since the beginning of the skirmish, Hawke spies a number of smaller nicks and injuries she had not seen before, hidden from her notice by the gore splattered over his armor and limbs. A thin cut runs diagonally along one of his cheeks, tracks of half-dried blood caked onto skin that is beginning to swell, while several shallow gashes line the length of his arms where they are not covered in leather. The wounds at his shoulder and thigh are the worst of the lot by far, the discomfort they cause him apparent now that the storm has passed and his need for bravado with it. His weight has shifted onto his uninjured leg, its fellow raised with only the ball of its foot left in contact with the ground. His shoulder he holds stiff, and what little movement he does make is painful enough to pinch his features and set the muscle at his jaw fluttering. It is impressive, Hawke notes in clinical interest, how easily a body can overlook such obvious signs of duress when placed under the influence of a strong enough combination of rage and adrenaline. Perhaps selecting a more potent draught of her elfroot mixtures had not been as inordinate a choice as she had originally believed.

"Here," she says simply, offering the vial to him in an outstretched hand, "take this."

The elf's gaze flicks to her own, then up towards her forehead and away again in the span of an instant. His eyes turn to the bottle in her hand, wounded-looking beneath the dark slashes of his brows as though the sight of it distresses him. He does not reach for it.

"It is elfroot potion," she says in explanation, undeterred by the way Fenris seems to flinch at the sound of her voice. "Your injuries are not life-threatening, but it is not wise to allow them to remain open any longer than is necessary. Infection will begin to set in. You will wish to avoid it."

A corner of his mouth rises and falls. "So you have mentioned in the past," he says, the words gravel on stone.

There is a long pause between them, Hawke left incapable of providing whatever reaction he seems to expect. "They... allowed you to continue crafting?" he eventually asks, chagrin making his voice rougher still while the question comes out as though he is unsure whether or not it is appropriate.

"Yes. Varlen saw value in my ability and permitted me the supplies to make elfroot and lyrium potions once I had healed," she says, her eyes lifting to look out over the shapes of fallen templars littering the ground. "Though it seems they have done him and his men little benefit in the end."

Fenris's shoulders stiffen. "No. It seems they haven't," he says, something hard lacing itself through his reply. He gives himself a short shake, strands of white hair coming loose to fall into his eyes as he raises a hand, sullied steel closing around the vial to lift it from her grasp. Still he does not look at her, though his words have lost the callous edge as swiftly as it came. "Thank you, Hawke. I... am grateful for your help."

"You are welcome, Fenris."

The cork pulls free without a sound; the bottle is raised half way to his lips when Fenris pauses, mouth working as though he wishes to say something. It is dismissed with another shake of his head, however, and before Hawke has time to do more than wonder if the haggard expression spreading across his face is due to increased awareness of his injuries, he has tossed back the whole of the potion in two large swallows.

He moves to place the vial back into her hand when footsteps sound beyond the doorway of her tent. Hawke looks up at the same time Fenris turns to glance over one shoulder to see their companions approaching. The three of them soon step into the glow of the lantern burning at Hawke's feet, the sword Fenris had abandoned during the last moments of his fight with Varlen now held fast in the grip of an ashen-faced Aveline.

"This is yours," she says tightly. Her eyes are puffy and tinged red, most likely because of the smoke, though Hawke finds it odd that neither Varric nor Isabela show a similar reaction. Aveline lifts the blade in offering to Fenris, who takes hold of its hilt and slides it back into place between his shoulders.

"My thanks," he says quietly as he begins adjusting the straps of its scabbard, expression turned suddenly vacant at their arrival.

For a long while there is nothing further said, a silence falling around them made up of the same wire-tight strain Hawke recalls once being unable to stand. In the past it had made her edgy, more nervous than any confrontation with slavers or the Carta ever had. Then, she would have made an attempt to lessen the tension, making some terrible pun or poorly-timed quip in the hopes of distracting herself and the others from their anxieties. Now, however, the desire to intervene is absent, and whatever discomfort she may have felt is nothing more than a vague memory.

Instead Hawke chooses to wait the moment out, her gaze passing unnoticed over the four friends clustered around her doorway. Varric remains uncharacteristically silent, thick brows knitted together over eyes that move from Hawke to Fenris and back again with a few brief glances shot towards Aveline and Isabela. Aveline rocks from one foot to the other, her focus on her boots as she scuffs them through grass and dirt, one hand freeing itself from her glove to wipe at her eyes and drag itself across her face. Contrary to the fervor he had shown minutes before, Fenris now stands in solemn detachment as he stares off into the forest surrounding the camp, expression as smooth and empty as the sea after a summer squall.

Hawke's notice drifts last over Isabela, bandana off kilter, tunic and thigh stained by blood both her own and not. A wide gash runs across the front of her leg several inches above the cuff of her boot, shallow but still enough to warrant treatment. There is a soft rustle of leather and cotton as she shifts in place, one hand coming to rest at her hip as she returns Hawke's gaze. The corner of her mouth lifts when their eyes meet, something akin to determination and sadness both glinting in her eyes as she closes the space between them, hand wavering before she reaches out to wrap one arm about Hawke's shoulders.

"Come on, Kitten," she says gently, giving her arm a soft squeeze, "Let's get your things together and put you in some different clothes. Much as I love seeing you in your underthings, I can't imagine walking through the woods in your nightgown would be much fun."

"You have been wounded as well," Hawke says, allowing herself to be escorted back into her tent.

"This little thing?" Isabela asks, glancing at her leg before she turns back to loosen the ties holding back the canvas door covering. "Hardly a scratch. You've seen me in poorer shape – threatened to give me worse yourself on a few occasions," she says, giving a chuckle which does not sound wholly genuine, the flap falling closed with a soft swish. "You always were a bit of a spoilsport when it came to cards, you know. Hide a few angels down your bodice and suddenly you're branded a cheater for life."

"It should still be treated."

"Well, you're our only healer at the moment. What do you say?" She gestures towards the empty vial in Hawke's hand with her chin. "Got any more of those lying around?"

Hawke nods before she moves to the foot of her bed again, a second vial pulled and replaced with the empty one, not bothering to close the lid as she stands and turns.

"Take only a small mouthful," she says as she places the potion in Isabela's waiting hand. "Your injury is not as severe as Fenris's were. Drinking it all would be a waste."

"If this stuff tastes half a bad as I remember, that'll be the last thing you need to worry about." Isabela uncorks it with a flick of her wrist, raising it with a flourish in her direction. "To your health, Hawke." The bottle tips back just far enough for the glass to brush against her lips, a swallow's worth of potion pouring into her mouth before it is leveled and sealed again. A shiver wracks along Isabela's back as she forces it down her throat, grimacing. "No, I was wrong. It's even worse. Bitter as a jilted fishwife."

"I apologize. I would have offered you something to improve the taste if it were available to me," Hawke says as she takes the vial from her hand, stooping to place it back in her chest.

Isabela waves a hand in her direction before moving to collect a set of neatly folded robes from a small table in the corner. "Not like there was anything you could do about it," she says, wincing as the edges of her gash begin to knit themselves back together. "Here, put these on."

Hawke complies, reaching behind her neck to undo the buttons of her shift. She dresses herself with no fuss, Isabela stepping behind her to adjust the fastenings of the robe before she pulls the tie in her braid free, combing her fingers through the sleep-mussed hair before throwing it back into a simple plait. Afterword they begin to gather what few possessions Hawke had been allowed, working silently to the hushed sound of conversation which has picked back up outside of the tent.

"Wh – hmm – what should we do?" Aveline asks, voice catching before she clears her throat.

"For now? Stick to the plan. Get Hawke back to camp," Varric answers. "Then we... Well, we weigh our options and cross bridges as they come to us, I suppose."

"And the bodies? We never planned on leaving a trail behind. The Order will get suspicious if they're expecting a report that doesn't come in. It won't be long before they send out a search party and find this mess."

There's the sound of shifting leather and metal. "Not much we can do about it at this point. Best option is to leave everything as is. If we're lucky they'll think it was bandits or a raid by hill folk."

"And if we aren't?"

"Then whoever they send will be smart enough to notice they're one mage corpse short and'll go off looking for where it went."

"Let them come," Fenris says, short and brimming with grim promise. "They can join their fellows."

"I think that's the lot of it, Kitten," Isabela says as the voices outside her tent drop away, the chest of potions braced against her hip with one hand while the other holds out a small satchel of clothes and other sundries which Hawke takes to drape across her shoulder. "Come on. Let's get you out of here."

Three sets of eyes are upon them as they make their way out of the tent, the air about them thick with a somberness Hawke imagines better suited to a funeral procession than a gathering of friends.

"Are we ready to head out?" Isabela asks as she comes to a stop, the lightness in her words bearing a forced edge. "I don't know about you lot, but I'm more than ready to be clear of this place."

"Agreed," Varric says, bending to retrieve his lantern from the ground before looking back to Hawke. "What do you say?" he asks, surprisingly mild, his tone that of someone trying to coax compliance from a frightened child. "Do you want to come back with us?"

"If it pleases you," she says flatly, absently noting the way Fenris goes rigid at her reply.

"I guess we can take that as a 'yes' for now." Varric turns, motioning at a break in the wall of trees surrounding the camp as he steps off towards it. "Let's move out. If we're lucky we'll get back in time to catch a few hours of sleep."


They do not speak as they make their way through the woods, their footfalls and the creak of shifted tree limbs the only sounds heard as Varric leads the way through the brush. Isabela and Aveline walk just behind either of the dwarf's shoulders, each with a hand wrapped around a handle of Hawke's chest.

Hawke and Fenris follow after, the elf having fallen in at her side without a word or glance, his eyes trained forward and unfaltering in their focus on the trail. His reticence does not leave him unreadable, however, and while Hawke is not ignorant to the tension he carries, she cannot fathom why it remains when danger has long since past. He maintains a careful distance throughout their journey, close enough for her to smell the blood still clinging to his armor, but never so near as to allow even an accidental brush of fingers. He touches her only once, reaching out to grasp her wrist and steady her when the hem of her robe catches against a branch while climbing over a fallen tree. His hand lingers after she is balanced again with both feet returned to the ground, the touch warm against her skin while a thumb begins to slide itself lower, tracing the inside of her palm with the pointed end of his gauntlet.

"Thank you for your help," she says plainly, neither heartened nor discomfited by the gesture. "You may let go now."

He tears his hand away from her as though burned, Hawke unblinking as he flicks his eyes up to her own and away, locked back into place on the path before them. "Of – of course. My apologies," he says stiffly as they begin walking again, and if there had been sadness in his gaze it is gone too quickly for her to find again, vanished behind the mask he has tied so firmly in place.

They travel for an hour and some time more before Varric motions for them to stop. He tears a glove free from one hand to press its fingers to his mouth, giving three short, high pitched whistles as he lifts his lantern to swing in a slow side-to-side. They wait only moments before the same signal is returned, muffled by distance but still clear, the light of a second swaying lantern just visible through the breaks between tree trunks.

"All's calm on their end," Varric says as he lowers his arm, his fingers slipped back into his glove before he continues in a muttered aside Hawke is certain is not meant for their ears. "At least, for the next few minutes."

The forest around them thins the closer they come to the light's source, trees giving way to shrubs and shrubs to grass until they stand on the edge of a small clearing not unlike the one which had held the templars' camp. A low fire burns in its center, bedrolls and packs scattered around it on all sides. A young woman sits close to the ring of rocks lining its pit, chin cradled between her hands as she stares out into the darkness surrounding them, a pair of large green eyes turned glassy from the flames. Another, this one a noticeably distressed-looking man, marches back and forth behind the woman, fingers raking through blond hair to muss the ponytail at the back of his head.

The woman's head lifts, pointed ears giving a nearly imperceptible twitch as her attention jumps to where they have moved from out of the treeline.

"Hawke!" Merrill cries, brightening at the sight of them. In the time it takes Anders to jerk to a stop and turn, she has bounded to her feet and across half the distance separating them. "Thank Mythal, you found her!" She slides to a stop in front of them, weaving her way past Aveline and Isabela without heed of the concerned look that flits between them, deaf to Varric's cautionary "Hold on a minute, Daisy!".

"We were all so worried, lethallan,"she says, beaming as she wraps her arms about Hawke's waist, her head tucking itself close to the crook of her shoulder. "I don't think Anders has slept at all since they took you. Poor thing started pacing as soon as Varric and everyone else left to find you and he hasn't stopped since. He wanted to come along and help – both of us did, actually – but Aveline didn't think it would be a good idea with all the templars around and – I'm rambling, aren't I? I'm sorry, it's just so wonderfulto have you back."

"There was no need for your concern, Merrill," Hawke says, jaw brushing against the elf's hair as she speaks and arms hanging loose at her sides, the embrace left wholly unreciprocated.

Merrill lifts her head to look up at her, her hands fisted into the back of Hawke's robes. "Are you all right?" she asks, eyes squinting as they trace the lines of her face, sunburst hidden by shadow and loose fallen hair. "You don't sound quite yourself. You're not feeling ill, are you? I'm sure Anders–"

A sudden rush of movement beside them cuts Merrill's suggestion short. Once again the veil Fenris wears has been torn away, this time replaced by barred teeth and a snarl as he storms across the few feet left between Anders and their gathering, the mage giving a startled grunt when his throat is caught between false claws.

"What in all the bloody Void are you doing?" he chokes out, voice and expression distorted as his hands scrabble against the steel at Fenris's wrist. "Let go of me, you blighted – Argh!"

Merrill spins away from Hawke, her hands flying to her mouth, horror struck at the scene playing out before her. "Creators, no! Fenris, what are you – Fenris, stop, please! You'll hurt him!"

Fenris pays the plea no mind, his grip tightening around the mage's neck to send flashes of blue light skittering up his arm. "You," he growls, and Hawke hears the same venom he had spit in Varlen's face return. "You caused this."

Anders sputters, heels raised off the ground and still struggling. "I don't – I don't even know what you're talking about, you lunatic!"

"They never would have come for her if it weren't for you. You and your precious revolution." Another rasped breath, a flash of light not of this world flaring behind Anders' eyes. "I should end you now. Grant you the martyrdom you wanted."

The threat pushes the others to action but it is Varric who reaches him first, a hand raised and dropped as closely to the elf's shoulder as their difference in height allows. Fenris's head snaps around, the glare he throws down towards the dwarf feral enough that Hawke hears Merrill breathe in another frightened gasp beside her. Varric, however, holds his ground.

"Don't do this, Fenris," he says firmly. "You need to let the man go."

"Why should I? It's no less than he deserves."

"And you're free to keep thinking that all you want," Varric says doggedly, raising both his hands in placation. "But take a minute to look at the situation we're in. If there's any way to help Hawke, Blondie's the best chance she has and you won't be doing her any favors by killing him. You know it just as well as I do."

"Hawke?" Anders wheezes, the glow behind his eyes dying as they snap to where she stands between Merrill and Isabela. "What's happened? What's wrong with Hawke?"

The question is ignored at first, Fenris's scowl slowly turning pensive and then resigned, until he bites out a foreign curse only he understands. "See for yourself," he says, his grip around Anders' throat dropping to the collar of his robes, the mage pulled and thrown toward her.

He stumbles to a halt, hand rubbing at his neck with a glare tossed back in the elf's direction before he turns to face Hawke, who sees that Merrill's claims held no exaggeration. He is thinner than he was before she was taken, his appearance peaked and bordering on gaunt. Eyes turned bloodshot from lack of proper sleep stare out at her over cheekbones more prominent than she remembers them ever having been, even during their first meeting in a Darktown sewer. His indignation at his treatment falls away within moments of catching her gaze, worry lines creasing his forehead and eyes widening.

"They didn't," Anders says in disbelief, the words more a plea than affirmation. "They wouldn't dare."

"Wouldn't dare what?" Merrill asks nervously, focus jumping from Anders' disquiet to Hawke's serene calm, until something clicks into place and she draws in a short, sharp breath. "You don't mean they – no. No, they'd never! Not after everything Hawke did for Kirkwall. She's their Champion, they wouldn't make her tran– They wouldn't hurt her."

"Hawke, tell me what they did to you," Anders says, Merrill's insistence ignored as he takes a slow step forward. What little color that had been in his face vanishes, and Hawke thinks it a sign that he is well aware of the answer to his question.

She looks at him for a moment, takes in the way the cracks in his resolve have grown, and wonders idly if this will be the moment she sees him shatter.

"I have been given peace."

Anders closes the distance between them in two short strides, fingers cold against her forehead as he sweeps the fringe of her hair aside to leave the brand between her brows exposed. Merrill makes a strangled noise at the sight of it, a sob caught halfway in her throat and forced back, fingers pressing themselves against her lips. Anders' hand falls away as he falters where he stands, a quick shift of feet all that keeps him upright.

"No... not again," he says in a voice nearly too quiet for Hawke to hear. "Karl... and now you."

His hand rises again to cup itself against the side of her face, trembling as it rises from jaw to cheek to temple, the movement slow and cautious as though she is some delicate thing he expects to crumble to dust if not handled with care. The end of his forefinger pauses no more than a hair's breadth from raised and reddened flesh, brows furrowing as he stares at the mark. His eyes are tight and troubled, brown backlit by the return of a faint blue glow. He swallows, the apple of his throat bobbing in place, and moves, a single finger drawing itself across the half-healed brand with a touch lighter than any spring breeze.

Agony, sharp and hot as broken glass thrown to flames, flares to life in the center of Hawke's head, and suddenly she has returned to the top of a rough wooden table. She can feel the bindings at her wrists and ankles, smells sweat and burning skin and hears Varlen above and beside her, his voice cool and unaffected as he calls for assistance. The iron against her head is taken away, and her eyes open in time to see Eleanor bend over her, mouth tilted in a crooked line as she dips a gloved hand into a bowl of viscous blue something, three fingers' worth smeared into her wound. Varlen returns, iron still in hand and glowing red-hot. Hawke feels her heart pound faster beneath her ribs at the sight, mouth gone dry around her gag, eyes thrown wide, knowing with the certainty of a condemned man that this is to be her end and she is frightened more than she has ever been in her life.

She is frightened.

Hands close around the tops of her arms like vices. Anders' touch is torn away and her fear flees with it, a candle flame smothered and snuffed out between two fingers. Hawke opens eyes she does not remember closing, as composed and hollow as she has ever been, a dull, throbbing ache just behind the front of her skull all that is left to her. Isabela's grasp gentles but does not leave once she has steadied herself, dark fingers twisted into the fabric of her robes. Someone curses, and Hawke turns to find Anders' wrist caught in Fenris's fist.

"What did you do to her?" he demands, voice low and threatening, gauntlet digging into the cuff of Anders' coat.

He gives a listless tug against Fenris's hold but soon relents, hand going limp in the elf's grasp. "Nothing," he says, deflated. "I did nothing."

Fenris's eyes narrow in suspicion. "What other reason would there be for her to shout like that?"

The pain behind her skull gives a heavy twinge and Hawke blinks, unable to recall making any such noise. She moves to make mention of it, the words half-formed and pressed against her lips – but Anders speaks first, and she falls again into silence.

"Lyrium," he says, and this time when he tugs against Fenris's grip he is successful in breaking free, rubbing at his wrist with his other hand. "When the templars... during the rite. It's used with the – when they use the iron. It's why it takes so long for the wound to scar over – it soaks into the skin, makes the healing process slower." He makes a gesture towards Hawke, outstretched hand shaking. "She... Hawke's brand is still fresh. The lyrium left in it must have reacted to my magic when I touched her. I – at least, I think that's what happened."

"You aren't sure though," Isabela says bluntly beside her, palms slowly sliding down Hawke's arms until they come to rest at both of her elbows.

"I'm not certain, no. But it's the only explanation I can think of. What other reason could there be?"

"How could they get away with this?" Merrill asks, her hands still raised and cupped around her mouth, eyes damp. "That man – Ser Cullen, wasn't it? He was left in charge after Meredith, wasn't he? He helped us when she wanted to kill Hawke, why would he let this happen to her?"

"The Knight-Captain had no knowledge of Ser Varlen's plan," Hawke says, earning several stares from the group. When they do not look away she continues on in explanation. "I overheard him speaking with Ser Eleanor about it one night. They assumed everyone to be asleep. Varlen believed Ser Cullen was too compassionate towards the mages and unworthy of Meredith's position. He was certain he would try to detain him should he have known of his intentions. A report was to be sent to the Knight-Vigilant in Val Royeaux to inform them of Varlen's decision to bring me to Orlais when we passed through the next port town. Your arrival prevented him from doing so."

"Well," Varric says, giving a heavy sigh as he runs a hand along the back of his neck, "at least we don't have to worry about the Order catching wind of what happened too soon."

"But why would he only come for Hawke?" Merrill asks, mouth clamping shut as soon as the words have left it, a blush rising in her cheeks. "I'm so sorry," she says as she throws a sheepish glance towards Anders, tattoosstanding out against the pink tinge slowly spreading across her face. "That was terrible of me. I didn't mean to imply – I mean – oh, dear."

Anders dismisses the apology with an impartial wave of his hand. "It's fine, Merrill."

"And yet still an excellent question," Fenris says bitterly as he turns to Anders, his mouth lifting into a sneer. "Hawke may have defended the Circle, but she wasn't the one responsible for throwing a city into chaos."

Hawke answers again, dry and unmoved. "He intended to find him as well. The day after the rite was completed Varlen questioned me. He wished to know where Anders was. I told him I had not seen him in some time, that we parted ways soon after leaving Kirkwall."

Anders blinks. "What?"

"You lied to him," Isabela says in disbelief, fingers flexing around Hawke's arms before she looks to Anders as well. "Can tranquil do that? Be dishonest?"

He gives a slow, stunned nod. "The rite... severs a mage's connection to the Fade. It takes away their emotions, not their free will. They can still think and make decisions for themselves, it's just much more... clinical. If they're going to lie, it won't be because they want to avoid being embarrassed or punished, but because they believe telling the truth would be counter-productive."

"Varlen would not have been as forgiving as he was with me should he have captured you," Hawke says, her hands folding together in front of her. "He felt you were beyond redemption and deserving of death. I disagree."

"Hawke..."

"She saved your life," Fenris spits. "Protected you again."

"Don't think I don't realize it," Anders says back with a snap, but the anger in his voice is left lacking. "I'll find a way to make this right, I swear." He turns then, facing Hawke, jaw set with the same determination she had seen him wear the night Kirkwall burned.

"I swear."