Author's Note:

Thanks to all of my watchers/fav...ers?/reviewers/lurkers, etc. You're all too awesome, and your encouragement means the world to me. :)

Also, special thanks to Deshwitat'slover for pointing out my mistake in To the Death: Part 1. I knew the duel was in the Keep when I wrote the story, but I guess I just had a brain-fart (hehe... brain-fart) in the second half when I wrote that it was in the compound. I never would have noticed my oversight if you hadn't pointed it out. ;) So, thanks!

Finally, uh... sorry for this, guys. I had other things in mind, but this evil little plot-bunny ran away with me, and this one kinda wrote itself... I apologize in advance...

*hides*

-i.I

Disclaimer: BioWare owns it. Yep.


Time Frame: Act II, after Fenris' "hasty departure"


Ambushed
Part One: Fear

The rain beat down on the hood of her cloak as they trudged through the muddy Elven compound at the foot of Sundermount. Merrill trailed behind them, utterly silent. She was... less than happy with the way things had turned out, and Hawke didn't give a fig about it. She'd had a bad feeling about this mirror from the beginning, and when the Keeper urged her not to give the artifact to the young elven girl, she found she could not forsake the older woman's experience. She couldn't fathom why Merrill wanted to fix the mirror in the first place, after knowing what it did to her old clanmate. Some things were better just left alone.

The rain certainly didn't help to ease the tension. In conjunction with their exhaustion and various states of mild injury after dealing with the Varterral, no one was inherently happy with the situation. Isabela was muttering quietly to herself, nursing a set of bruised ribs. Fenris hated the rain, judging by the way his scowl seemed even darker than usual. There was a nasty gash over his left eyebrow causing pale red streaks to mar the otherwise colorless hair matted to his forehead, and an even worst cut along his bicep, slicing through the intricate patterns of lyrium. And Merrill? Well, she just simply wasn't in the mood. That small little elf girl was surprisingly vicious when she was angry. Hawke couldn't wait to return to her estate where she could strip off her sopping leathers and soak in a warm bath to relax her fatigued muscles and the ache in the throbbing ankle that she'd twisted thanks to a failed evasion of the huge spider-like creature.

Perhaps she should have opted to bring Anders with them, but having him bicker incessantly with the blood mage just wasn't something that sounded all too appealing at the time. As for her choice of warriors? She would have taken Aveline if she could, but the woman was up to her ears in paperwork when Hawke had entered her office. She didn't even look up at her over the stacks of paper piled on her desk. Hawke noticed the stressed creases along her brow, and the Guard-Captain had simply waved her off before she could say anything, so she made a mental note to drag the woman to the Hanged Man when they returned.

Thankfully, Fenris had remained surprisingly quiet for most of the trip, despite his opinion of Merrill.

When the bandits ambushed them just outside of the Dalish camp, Hawke made no effort to suppress her agitated groan. There were eight of them. She was tired, and fighting with a very twisted, very sore ankle was not her idea of fun. The others seemed to share her enthusiasm (or lack thereof) but Fenris tore into their foes regardless, as she and Isabela rounded behind the attackers and took advantage of their preoccupation with the warrior elf. Isabela took the lead when it came to diverting and directing attention away from Merrill and towards Fenris, who cleaved massive arcs through the crowd of bandits with practiced ease. Hawke spent most of the battle shrouded in shadow stabbing her daggers into those least expecting it, occasionally stepping out into the open to take down an enemy getting a little too close to Fenris, preventing him from adequately swinging his massive sword to its full length.

Their enemies were dwindling, despite their respective injuries, and Hawke took a moment to survey the surroundings. She counted three remaining foes – two rogues and a warrior, and she was just about to retrieve a smoke grenade from her belt to conceal herself when the hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she sensed someone behind her. She ducked down and to her left, watching a the blade of a menacingly sharp dagger stab the air just over her shoulder, near enough to sever a few wild strands of deep red hair that had fallen free from the loose ponytail at the base of her neck.

Too close! Way too close!

Flipping her own daggers in her hands, she made to stab them backwards into the body behind her, but before she had a chance, a boot connected with the back of her knee, kicking it out, and she faltered. Spectacularly. Her boots lost their grip in the mud, and she lost her footing, feeling fire rip through her injured ankle as she slipped and caught herself on her hands, "Ow! Shit!"

Hawke didn't have time to say more than that. She rolled out of range of the rogue's blades, and scrambled back to her feet, gritting her teeth through the entirely renewed throbbing of her ankle and adjusting her grip on her weapons, now made slippery by their contact with the muddy ground.

They stood a meter apart, rounding each other without removing their eyes. Her opponent was a woman. Dark eyes and blonde hair. Oh, you picked the wrong day. Hawke muttered internally, and retrieved the smoke bomb she'd been trying to grab from her belt before she was so rudely interrupted. A menacing scowl twisted the other rogue's features as she suddenly leapt at Hawke, but she twisted into a dodge, pivoting on her good foot and smashed the smoke bomb at the woman's feet as she passed. She erupted into a fit of coughing, and Hawke wasted no time slipping her blade into the gap in the armour beneath the woman's arm and stabbed her other dagger through the leather and into her back. The rogue went stiff for a moment, before crumpling to the ground.

Blowing out her cheeks with a sigh, Hawke whirled and felt a rush of relief and satisfaction at seeing the last of the enemies fall to the ground. Fenris hauled his blade out of the gut of the warrior, and Isabela was making quick work of the rogue, which gave Hawke the idea that perhaps she could learn a few things from the pirate, watching how the woman manoeuvred the battlefield and swung her daggers in a graceful dance.

Wait a minute. She stopped, taking a quick stock of the bodies littered about the ground as Fenris lowered his weapon. Six bodies. Isabela's finishing one rogue off. I counted two rogues aside from the one attacking me. Shit, where's the other one?

Time slowed to a crawl, and she whirled, her eyes peeled wide for anything that might alert her to the rogue's presence if he was concealed in shadow. She studied her companions. Merrill and Isabela were both out in the open – no real shadows to speak of.

But Fenris...

Oh no.

He was standing near an alcove of trees that cast a wide shadow over him. She felt her heart double its pace within her chest, and her feet started to move, "Fenris! Get out of th–"

She was too late.

The tips of two daggers stabbed out through the leathers in the front of his chest above and below his breastplate, creating two blotches of red that spread outwards from the blades before they were violently ripped from his body. The elf sunk to his knees, his eyes wide in disbelief, the hilt of his sword slipping from his fingers.

Her heart stopped beating for a split-second that felt like hours.

Then, she was running, anger furrowing her brow, and terror lancing through every nerve in her body.

"No!" She ripped a small shiv from her belt and whipped it at the bandit with deadly precision. It hurtled through the air and embedded itself into the man's skull with a dull thunk and with such force that his head snapped backwards before he fell on his back in the mud.

Seconds later, she was at the elf's side, her knees slipping in the mud, and he was falling into her arms, open wide to catch him before he could hit the ground, "Fenris!"

She pressed one of her hands to one of the wounds, fishing in her pack for a healing potion with the other, "Merrill, go to your clan and get help! Now!"

The young elf obeyed without question and took off in the direction of the compound.

She uncorked the potion with her teeth and tilted his head up, helping him swallow as she poured the liquid into his mouth. She was hoping for a miracle, but she was not surprised to discover that the potion did little to help. It sealed the gash on his forehead, and the redness around the cut on his bicep faded, but it did not stem the flow of blood seeping through her fingers in the face of such an injury, "Fenris! Fenris, stay with me!"

The pirate's hands joined her own in the effort to apply pressure to his wounds.

He looked nowhere but into her eyes. Somehow, amidst all the pain he must have been feeling, amidst all of the grunts of effort and gurgles of blood rushing into his airway, he still managed to raise an armoured hand up, and the tips of two clawed fingers brushed lightly, gently, against her cheek. Tears suddenly blurred her vision.

With that one simple gesture, every memory the two had shared together came rushing to the surface with incredible clarity. His early (and rather poor) attempts at flattery, and dry responses to all of her joking, sarcastic remarks. The fine Antivan wine the two had shared, and that one bottle that was decorating the wall of his mansion. That one touch that had started it all as she told him he didn't need to leave. The rush of heat that fluttered in her belly as he pushed her against the wall, and then looked at her with such sorrow in his green eyes when he realized what he had done, and then... well.

A choked sob forced its way out as she took his hand in one of her own while keeping pressure on one of the wounds with her free hand.

"Help is coming, Fenris." She muttered, "We're going to get you to a healer, you hear me? You'll get through this, you just have to stay with me!"

His eyelids began to close and his grip loosened slightly. Fearful, she shook his hand to retain his attention, "Fenris! Look at me! You have to stay awake, okay? Stay awake!"

They fluttered open again, briefly, before drifting closed a second time, and utter terror tore through her heart.

Oh, sweet Maker, no!


Author's Note:

I know! I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Please don't hurt me!

I thought, giving Hawke's reaction to Fenris getting seriously injured would be a nice way to contrast their behaviours and personalities. As I was writing this one (well actually, it kinda wrote itself...) I really got a sense of the difference between the two. Fenris reacting in that concerned, quiet intensity when she was injured in To the Death: Part 1, as opposed to her much different reaction in this short.

On the plus side, this is only part one. Let's hope my plot-bunny decides to give them a (relatively) happy ending, shall we?

P.S. In the future, I shall endeavour to come up with a few more positive shorts. It's not my fault, I swear! The bunnies! They have minds of their own!