Chapter 7
"What does magic touch that it doesn't spoil?"
He flung the words at her, hating her in that moment. She stood for all mages. For Danarius. For his sister. For every mage who had ever taken what they wanted from him as though he were a tool. A thing.
The words twisted between them, slicing through the frayed remnants of their relationship. He watched. Unable to take them back, and uncertain if he even wanted to. He watched.
She froze, her eyes searching his. He couldn't look away from that penetrating gaze. Soft brown eyes that he remembered filled with mirth and desire shifted in a moment from shock, to hurt, to rage with just a hint of fear.
It was the fear that undid him. She had never, ever looked at him with fear before. Others had. Many others. More than he cared to count. Fear was his enemy as deeply as magic was. Fear obliterated trust. Destroyed his individuality. Reduced him to a weapon. A thing to be avoided. And now, her eyes were glazed with fear.
She has no need to fear me he thought to himself, even as the image of the Fog Warriors rose in his mind. They had been his friends. They had trusted him. They had never looked at him in fear. Maybe they should have. Maybe she is finally learning what I really am.
Losing any last shred of self control he had left, he bolted from the Hanged Man, running blindly.
He barely noticed the fierce blue glow as he mindlessly activated his lyrium, forcing his body to move faster, faster. It hurt. Driving power through the delicate lines etched on his body that had oh-so-recently been squeezed to edge of endurance hurt. But he welcomed the pain. It was clean. It was his own. His choice. His pain. Not hers.
He was outside the walls of the city in a moment, and racing along the wounded coast a moment after that. Though no one pursued him, he didn't stop. Wouldn't stop. His choice.
Eventually—hours later—it wasn't his choice. Shaking with exhaustion, Fenris collapsed onto the soft, wet sand of the beach. Only then did he realize that it was raining. He lay, unmoving, beneath the pouring skies. The frigid water felt good against his burning, irritated skin. His chest heaved, lungs still gasping for breath.
He flipped over onto his back, rain drenching his face, and following the lyrium lines down his chin, throat, and onto the sand below.
He realized, as he lay there, that he'd lied to Hawke. He'd lied to them all. He was not alright. He was far from alright. The world swam above him, growing foggier and foggier in his exhaustion.
He slowly sat up, eased his head between his knees and concentrated on breathing. "Fasta Vass," he swore, the words sounding far away, and empty. Stupid elf! He cursed himself. After the draining effects of Hawke's magic, he should have known better than to activate his lyrium for something as stupid as running.
His clumsy, shaking, fingers fished in his pack, seeking a stamina daught, but came up empty. He cursed again, exhaustion winning. His muscles trembled with the exertion of the past several hours, and his body shivered under the assault of the frigid torrents of rain. He needed shelter, and rest, neither of which he thought to find here.
Dragging his body, an inch at a time, across the rough sticky sand, he came to lie in a hollow between two boulders. It wasn't much shelter, but by pulling his knees tight to his chest, Fenris was able to avoid the worst of the storm. There he lay, listen to the rain, his breathing, and the relentless thoughts that threatened to drown out both.
Thoughts whirled in a maelstrom of confusion in his mind, too quick for him to catch. Tangled in emotions. Relief, despair, anger, yearning, and self-loathing. Always self-loathing. One coherent thought rose to the surface of his weary mind: Aveline. Helping him up. Taking him in a firm, but gentle, embrace. Thanking him for saving the only family she had left.
Aveline's embrace. The first physical act of friendship anyone had shown him, save Hawke (don't think about Hawke!) since he'd joined this ridiculous group six years ago. It was unexpected. But he was uncertain about whether it was unwanted.
Aveline's embrace. Touching the bare skin of his upper arms while he stood, rigid. Enduring. Waiting for it to be over. She had made no comment on his unwillingness to hug her back. The embrace with swift and heartfelt. Over in a moment.
Objectively he could recognize it as a kind gesture. A gesture of gratitude.
But his skin, so recently bombarded with Hawke's magic, had recoiled at Aveline's touch.
As reality flickered in and out of focus, lightening relentlessly cutting the sky above, Fenris stared at the lyrium encircling his bare arms, wrapped tight around his knees. What has magic touched that it doesn't spoil? Including me. He thought. Unfit. Unclean.
Unable to accept a simple gesture of gratitude. Unable to return a simple embrace.
Unable to spend a full night in the arms of the woman he loved.
Unable to love her.
The roar in his ears increased to an anguished-filled, deafening pitch. Was it his own cry? Could an elf voice sound like that? Or did nature itself lament his existence? He couldn't tell. Couldn't think. Couldn't. . .
Eyes flickering closed, Fenris gave into exhaustion. And knew no more.
