Chapter Warnings: KNIFEPLAY. Body modification (scarification).

Disclaimer: The characters, background plot, and setting all belong to BioWare, excluding the specifics of Fynnea's characterization. Penny Arcade coined the name Barkspawn for the mabari.


Temper, Temper

"What do you mean, I'm not coming with you?"

They've fought back the darkspawn as far as the gates of Denerim, and Eamon's men are holding the line, rebuilding barricades. They're trapped in the city with the remaining darkspawn, now, and the Archdemon who is sweeping overhead in sharp arcs. Zevran is staring her down. Her head is screaming, and this is the last thing she needs. But it's the most important thing in the world.

"You're going to stay here," she says, and her words are soft enough to almost be lost in the shouting and the crash of burning timbers. "You'll take command, and-"

Zevran shakes his head. "No. No, I am fighting at your side," he says, sweeping his hands out away from his body. "I refuse to leave you. I will not."

She's almost taken aback by the anger, the protectiveness in his eyes, but it's matched by her own warring desires. She wants him at her back, and yet- she can't have him with her. She can't make him watch her die. And she can't have him throw himself at the Archdemon to sacrifice himself when it will do nothing.

"I need you to stay here, Zevran. I-"

"I will storm the Black City at your side, Fynnea," he shouts, and he so rarely raises his voice that it stuns her. "Never- never doubt that. Ever."

"I need you to stay here,"she repeats, weakly.

He shakes his head, swallowing hard, and she can tell he wants to keep fighting. But she won't break, and he knows that.

She looks away, unhooking a sheath from her belt and holding it out to him. He looks at the long dagger suspiciously.

"My mother's," Fynnea murmurs. "Adaia's. I-"

"No. This is yours."

"I want you to use it for this battle," she presses. "It- she'll keep you safe. She's named Fang. I never had a chance to use her, and she won't help me now, but you-"

He looks between her and the blade and then takes it. She can see his hand trembling. "I doubt your mother would approve of this."

Fynnea laughs, weakly. The Alienage is burning just like the rest of Denerim. She swears she can hear the sap of the Vhenadahl exploding in the distance, even though she knows that's impossible. "You didn't know my mother," she responds.

"She seems like a remarkable woman," he agrees, stepping closer. "You must tell me about her. Later."

And she nods. "Of course." The lies are thin and empty, but they're all that they have. She rises on her toes to kiss him, and he traces his thumb over the still-swollen skin of her tattoos. She hisses, but smiles as she pulls away.

"Come back to me," Zevran whispers, and she has to turn away because his expression is tearing her heart into shreds.


She's not herself through the battle of Denerim.

She's fighting fierce and strong, and Loghain, Wynne, and Leliana can follow her orders, predict her movements. She's somehow calling in her allies when they're most needed and least at risk. They're pushing forward through the Market, through the Alienage, with little trouble. But she's not there. She's buried somewhere deep in her body, and it's her body channeling her anger and grief into her weapons. She's not overwhelmed by it. She's not controlled by it. And it's all because she's not there for it.

Generals fall before her blades. Ogres topple. She sends Shianni and Soris and Cyrion, without any tears or anything more than a yes at their being alive, back behind her advancing line, and they go without much protest. They've both seen the look in her eyes before, at least parts of it. They've seen the anger and power when she killed Vaughan and all his men, and they've seen her honed determination when she took down the Tevinter slavers. There's that new element there, now, that control, along with the raised red and brown line curling over the side of her face and the lack of a tanned Antivan assassin as her side, that make them step back. She passes, and barely marks when the bridge behind them is destroyed by the Archdemon except to change her tactics.

They press on through the Palace district, and she spares only a glance wondering if Alistair, Teagan, and Anora were able to get out before the horde arrived. And then they're pushing up the stairs through waves of emissaries and shrieks, into the courtyard of Drakon, and that's where she begins to return.

Dragon thralls and grunts and emissaries and alphas fall before them. They're unstoppable. The Legion of the Dead is all around her, and the mages are following close behind. Some of their number have dropped back to tend to injuries, some have fallen, forgotten by the forward push, but they're holding together.

They climb the tower.

Leliana is the one to unlock chests filled to the brim with poultices, but Fynnea doesn't accept them, directing them to her soldiers instead. She doesn't trust them, doesn't trust herself to be able to use them. She keeps them from exploring the torture room, keeping them moving even though Leliana complains that they're likely missing equipment. Loghain's glare quiets her.

Up and up and up to the top of the tower, and the scars and memories of Drakon are burning through her. Get over it is repeating over and over in her mind, first in her memory with Loghain's voice, then with hers and Zevran's. She has to get over it. If she's going to die, she's going to die with her blades buried in the Archdemon, not trapped by genlock snares, not pinned by emissary prisons.

She knows Riordan is dead. It's down to one out of two, either her or Loghain, and while Loghain is strong in battle, he isn't fast and he doesn't take down the most enemies. He's a rock around which they orbit. So it's one out of two, leaning her way.

She opens the door to the roof.

She's herself by then, but she still isn't sure what happens. She only knows she ducks and weaves and strikes, spells exploding all around her, the screams of soldiers ringing in her ears as blue flames lick at them from the Archdemon's maw. She rolls and tumbles like Zevran taught her after Orzammar, moves fast and low, takes advantage of her short height and lighter armor. They clear the roof of everything but the Archdemon as fast as they can, and only then do they begin to press the Old God, trying to trap it between walls of sharp steel and ceilings of ice. So many people draw its blood that the roof is awash in it, their feet slipping, unable to gain traction. The Archdemon seems to laugh, barely affected by its myriad injuries, flying up and coasting over to a secondary tower that they can't reach. The mages continue to fling spells until the darkspawn burst through the doors, and the frenzied rush to clear the roof is on again, soldiers sliding and falling and screaming as the Archdemon's blood finds its way into their skin.

It's Leliana who draws her attention to the ballistae, and they rush to one of them, beginning a shoot-tension-reload-shoot-tension-reload rhythm while Loghain guards them. The Archdemon thrashes, but its fire can't reach them and soon, just as the remaining darkspawn fall, it flies back to engage them up close.

Her head is spinning and all she can think of is I have to do this right, for him, for everybody. Alistair, Zevran, Cyrion, Valendrian, Adaia- everybody is clamoring for victory in her mind. Every bit of anger she's ever felt, every drop of wounded pride, fills her and is turned into focused, calm power. Her fear drains into the same sense of Yes, and by the time the Archdemon staggers, she's almost at peace. She's determined. The Archdemon will fall, and she will not run. She will not panic. She will not let her anger at losing Zevran, at losing everything she's found since stepping out of the Alienage, overpower her.

She's riding high atop the beast that is her temper when she rushes forward, dropping her blades in favor of the two-handed greatsword lying on the stone before her. She raises the heavy weapon high and doesn't hesitate before bringing it down to sever the beast's head. She feels the rush of victory and the deathly pull of the Archdemon's collapse. She falls forward into oblivion, her last thought how wonderful the throbbing of her tattoo feels against her rapidly chilling skin.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Fynnea wakes up.

The sky is a riot of colors, the smoke and clouds reflecting red, orange, yellow while the early evening sky peeks through in bursts of rich, velvety blue. She can't see the stars for all the fire below her, but the painted heavens above her are more than enough. She's on her back in a pool of cooled, sticky blood that smells of rot and ashes. She can feel it in between the joints of her armor and smeared and dried upon her face.

She's awake.

She's alive.

The hum of darkspawn has quieted. She never thought she'd hear silence again, and while it's not close, it's approaching. It's close enough to count. She breathes deeply.

There's the sound of talking, the sound of dying, the sound of pained groans. It's all around her. She hears the creak of heavy plate. The murmured words of healing spells. Footsteps.

She's alive.

Slowly, she rolls onto her side, gains purchase on the slippery, sticky stone, and pushes herself up to her knees. Every inch of her aches, and there are hundreds of points of brilliant pain. Her cheek throbs. Darkspawn blood, Archdemon blood, on her cheek, dried on her still-raw tattoo, she thinks, but she's immune. She's a Grey Warden. She's supposed to be dead.

There's a cry that seems far away, and then running, and a weak but familiar spell running down her spine and soothing those points of pain. She looks over in the direction of the shouting, and Leliana and Wynne are stumbling towards her, exhausted and blood-streaked and alive. Leliana slides to her knees in front of her, drawing her hard into her arms. Fynnea tenses and Leliana releases, but not before she plants kisses over the few clear spots of her skin.

Wynne offers her a hand up and Fynnea takes it, releasing a shaky, strained breath. It's hard to stand. Her ribs ache, her lungs burn, her legs protest- but that's normal, after long hours of pushing and pushing and pushing. She ignores it as much as she can, her eyes instead scanning the roof and seeing-

Loghain.

He's standing by the edge of the roof, looking out over the city, and she breaks away from Wynne's light, supporting grip to stagger towards him.

"What happened?" she coughs, and her voice is only loud enough to get him to turn. He looks relieved and maybe a little guilty, but it's hard to tell because she's falling forward. He manages to catch her before she hits the ground, and she repeats, "What happened?" before she even begins to steady herself again.

He frowns, then says, "Zevran told me to follow Morrigan, that night in Redcliffe."

"Zevran?"

"After I left Riordan, I saw Morrigan leaving your room. Your assassin slipped from the shadows and had the audacity to give me an order."

"What-"

"Morrigan said that there was a- ritual. That would allow neither of us to die. I performed it."

It's her turn to frown, the expression deepening as she tries to stand and pain lances through her again. "W- I don't-" she croaks.

"I intended to die in your stead," he says, slowly, voice dropping in pitch. "It was- the least I could do. But I also knew that you would never allow me to and would likely strike the last blow before I could stop you. Which, I might add, is exactly what happened."

"Why."

"Because my story is over, and I deserved to die when you won the duel. Ferelden needs its hero, not its destroyer." He shrugs, armor creaking and grinding. "... So I did what I could, and it has, apparently, worked. The Archdemon is dead. And you have lived."

She's about to press him about what kind of ritual this was, anyway, when there's more shouting from the direction of the main stairs. There's something that sounds like an argument, and then a gold and brown blur is darting out from the doorway and pulling her into his arms with a sob and a hiss of, "Never leave me behind again, my Warden."

"Never," she agrees, and sags against him, exhaustion catching up with her once more. He eases her to the ground and cradles her against him, stroking her hair and pressing kisses to her skin, wiping away the dried blood to reach every inch of her.


She still doesn't know what Morrigan and Loghain did that night. Morrigan has disappeared, and Loghain refuses to speak of it except to say, "The Archdemon is dead. Completely dead. The Blight is over," and while she doesn't understand how it can be true and Zevran threatens to pull the answers from him with blades, she knows he isn't lying. Her only nightmares are lingering, infrequent images of Drakon, but her near death has eased even those, at least for now. The Archdemon is gone. She's alive. Zevran is with her.

Alistair and Anora also live. They returned to Denerim as soon as the city had been cleared. They'd retreated to one of the few ships the disused, haphazard Ferelden navy still possesses, staying safe out on the water, and it was Bann Teagan who'd made the call to return to land. A week after the Archdemon's death, the two are wed and crowned. Fynnea watches from her spot nestled against Zevran's side.

They haven't left each other for more than a few minutes since he embraced her on the roof of the fort, and their fingers are always entwined. She keeps touching the band on his finger with wonder and joy and he keeps laughing and kissing her tattoo, which is healing perfectly despite being covered in the blood of the Archdemon for what turns out was over an hour as she lay insensate on the stone. Sometimes, she asks him if she's really alive, and he grins and proceeds to demonstrate just how not dead she is.

They sit and talk and laugh for long, relieved hours with her father and cousins, who are staying now in the palace. Fynnea finally feels their safety in a way she couldn't during the battle. She finally cries and hugs and whispers apologies for not coming sooner. Her father smiles, and says that he always knew she would come. And, of course, her mother would be proud. He's no longer angry, as he had been when he first heard the news that she spared Loghain. Instead, he thanks the Teyrn for protecting his daughter, and Loghain, in turn, offers deep, honest apologies. Through it all, Zevran is by her side.

Zevran's been forced to let go of her hand and her hips now, though, because she's standing before Alistair's throne and he's announcing her to the whole room as the Hero of Ferelden. She'd argued it, but Alistair was clear that while all their companions had been instrumental in carrying out their quest, even he and Zevran had to step back for this moment. He's praising her and glossing over her multiple acts of violent rage, her childishness, her Fynnea-ness, but she lets him, rolling her eyes while only Anora and Alistair can see it. Anora's fighting back a small, pleased smirk, glad to know the Hero knows her limits.

When Alistair asks what she would like as a boon, the answer comes easily.

Shianni becomes the first Bann of the Alienage (and a far better Bann she'll be than Isolde is an Arlessa, she thinks, with a smug little smile).

When Alistair asks her what she will do next, that answer is equally clear - clean the land of the Blight, and search for new Warden recruits. She can't stay in this castle, for the same reason she couldn't become Bann Fynnea. She'll hurt somebody very quickly if she has to be stuffed into their tight gowns and made to sit still.

Before she can turn away, Alistair reaches out for her. He doesn't touch. He knows better. He does offer a small smile, which she returns uneasily. They haven't spoken since-

"Loghain explained what he did. The ritual. That he saved your life."

"... Yeah. About that-"

"The Orlesian Wardens are bound to ask what happened, and why you aren't dead. I shall tell them I don't know, and they can ask the great Loghain Mac Tir about it. We'll see how they respond to that, hm?" Alistair grins.

"... You're not still mad at me, are you?"

"Well, yes," he says, after a brief hesitation. "I mean, I don't like him. I hate him, actually. But Anora's quite- happy about it. And he did come through, I suppose. Still, I'm going to be sending him on duties far from the capital, and from Ferelden, if I can help it."

"Of course, Warden King," she responds, and he laughs, then shoos her down the steps.

"You've got the public to keep happy. Go, go."

She nods and retreats down the dais stairs, and begins to make the rounds of everybody waiting in the Landsmeet chamber. She accepts the well wishes from friends and companions, but joins Zevran again as quickly as she can.

"Continuing the adventure?" he asks, quirking a brow, and she nods.

"You'll- be there, right?"

He hums thoughtfully, then shrugs. "Oh, I suppose. There are worse fates in life than serving a deadly sex goddess." And then he grins, a wicked little smile that makes her toes curl.

She leans in and whispers, "I have an idea, for tonight. You're going to hate it."

"Oh, do tell!"

"I have an adoring public to see," Fynnea says, gesturing to the door. "Sadly."

"Sadly," he agrees. "They shall adore you too much, and you shall leave me for the entire city of Denerim!" She rolls her eyes, and he laughs, giving her hand a squeeze. "Destroy them with your glory, my Warden. They will fall at your feet, I guarantee."

"Please don't gas the Market," she groans, but she groans through a smile that he returns.

"The thought had never crossed my mind."

"Never?"

"... Well."


When they're alone and it's quiet and they've talked the day over with colorful expletives and choice comments and little sneaky jokes, when she's finally shed her armor that she donned for the parade, she beckons him close. He obeys with a little smirk that she knows means he's excited and curious.

"You said you had an idea I'll hate?" he purrs, and she nods.

She reaches to his belt and his grin widens, until she slips Fang from her sheath and holds it, hilt out, to him.

He frowns, taking it gingerly. "... Yes?"

"Remember what you said? At Redcliffe? That making sure I could handle pain kept your own demons at bay?" He nods, slowly, eyes never leaving hers. "And," she continues, feeling the bare start of a blush, "remember when Loghain said I should get over my hang-ups?"

He nods again.

"You," she says, smiling, "are going to play with me tonight. With Fang. Because," she continues, before he can object, "I trust you, and I know it will feel good. And I want it to leave marks. I love it when you leave marks."

Zevran sighs, finally looking down at the blade, meticulously cleaned and sharpened after the battle of Denerim. "Are you sure?" he asks, running his finger along the edge of the blade, testing it.

She nods.

"It would- be easiest if I tied you down. So you can't move enough to make me cut too deep."

Fynnea shakes her head at that. "... No. That, I'm not pushing. Not tonight." They've played rough and they've played gentle in the week since the Archdemon fell, and this has been dancing at the edge of her mind the whole time. It's a whole mix of heady things - trust in Zevran, harnessing their demons, pushing past her weaknesses. Punishing herself for leaving him behind, for not dying, for- everything that's gone wrong this whole journey. But, most of all, it's because she knows Zevran will know a way to make it feel good. And she knows he'll leave marks that will last.

And, "This will prove to you that you're not going to snap and kill me," she adds, softly.

He lets out a breath she didn't notice he was holding, and he smiles.

"... You want it to leave a mark?"

"I do."

"Any mark in particular?"

She shakes her head. He hums thoughtfully, then carefully sets the blade on the bed and moves to his pack. He pokes around inside of it, then comes up with a jar of white powder. "Pigment," he explains when she frowns. "For tattoos. What I used on your face was like this, but mixed with water and some herbs. White doesn't show up well in tattoos, but if we want this to leave scars- well. Something needs to go in there to give the healing process some trouble, yes?"

"And I scar white."

"Exactly." He stands up and comes back over to her, setting the jar down on the bed as well. "... This- this is dangerous, you know. Even if neither of us panic."

"I know."

"And it will hurt. And my idea- it will take a lot of strength from you."

"I can make it."

"Of course you can," he murmurs, remembering a day long ago on a mountaintop where she killed a dragon, drank its blood, and discovered the most holy of artifacts. She can do anything.

They go over the rules. Safe words, the sort of pain she can expect, what rhythm of cutting he will use, where he will cut. He tells her about how sometimes, when in pain, the mind can go elsewhere, and she nods, because she thinks she understands. She doesn't want to go back there. But he shakes his head and explains that if she trusts him, if she's not scared, it's a wonderful place to be. A post-climax high, but better, and he'll be sure to make it good. He'll be here when she comes down.

They set out bandages and poultice and Zevran goes over aloud where in the palace Wynne is staying. Only then does he ask her to undress, and it's a question, not an order. They play with orders from time to time, but not now- now, it's an exchange of trust and gifts, not of control or power.

She asks if they'll use the bed, but he says no. The floor is more stable and easier to clean. She stretches out on her stomach on the cold stone, and his fingers rub and massage at her back to warm and relax her. She melts into his touch, the contrast of cold and warm enticing and lulling.

She feels his fingers tracing curved lines, thinks she hears whispered numbers.

"Are you ready?" he asks, before he even touches edge to skin.

She stops herself from answering immediately, instead closing her eyes and thinking. Her nightmares have grown easier to handle, and she remembers the thrill of the scabbard, the exaltation of battle. She remembers him pulling her into his arms and asking her to never leave again. She remembers the ring on his finger, and how much she trusts him.

"I'm ready."

The first cut is unexpectedly both excruciating and tender, a quick swipe of the blade, not very deep at all. It's surprising, how fast he moves, how sure, but she still twitches and cries out. The blade is set down and he strokes along her spine, fingers warm and sure. When she settles, he begins pressing at the wound, working the pigment in, and that hurts, too. It reminds her almost too much of the feeling of fire beneath her skin because of the poisons forced down her throat, but he's kissing the prominences of her spine, telling her how good she's being.

She relaxes again.

The second cut is both harder and easier. She knows what to expect, and her fingers scrabble at the floor to keep herself from moving or lashing out. She's exercising control over herself, keeping herself quiet except for whimpers, still except for small muscle twitches. She does it for herself, and she does it for him.

This is Zevran, cutting curved patterns into her back, staying well away from her spine and cutting only as deep as he absolutely has to. This is Zevran, countering the worst of the pain with light touches to her thighs, her shoulders. Every four cuts, he sets the blade and pigment aside, and presses kisses all over her, runs his fingers over her back, her legs, her sex. He draws out little whimpers of pleasure between the whimpers of pain.

Instead of getting more bearable, the sensations become more intense the higher he works up her back, and there's one or two points where she loses control and bucks, but he has the blade well away from her by then, and she only makes him repack a few of the cuts with pigment. She's on the verge of thrashing again when she feels herself beginning to float, edging towards that escape, and his fingers have a rhythm that make it easier to find. It's that same beautiful alignment of the exhilaration of battle with her Reaver's blood pumping through her and the bliss of orgasm that she's known from the first night she drew him back into her tent, but it's stronger, all-consuming, and she lets it take her after only a moment's hesitation.

The pain falls away and she's left with nothing but blissful stillness, the warmth of him nearby, the thrumming of her body. She moans, cries out under his hands, wanting him to touch her all over but being utterly fine with the light touches and soft laughs she can feel and hear somewhere in the distance. She knows he's working his way up her body, but it doesn't matter as much as the smell and sounds and feel of him does. He's there. She's flying. Drakon is gone, and so is all the shame and guilt and anger and fear that have kept her tense and tight even during this last surreal week. She melts beneath his touch, skin parting easily beneath her mother's dagger, and it all feels so right.

It's perfect.

She comes down wrapped in bandages and a blanket and Zevran's arms. He's whispering how much he loves her, how he never wants to leave her, how she's the first person to understand him and accept him and not want to use him. She smiles. She murmurs his name and he kisses her forehead. He lifts her up and carries her to the bed, then settles her down in his lap again. She snuggles close, because she's cold, so strangely cold, and he seems to understand. He draws her tight against him.

"What happened?" she yawns several hundred heartbeats later, when words have returned.

"You went flying," he responds with a smile.

"And now I'm cold."

"That happens," he agrees, and he strokes her covered body. "You were so- I can't describe it. I don't know if I want to see you quite like that again, with all the blood, but-"

She nods. "Yeah. It felt-" She can't find the words, either, so she shifts subjects. "And you didn't kill me."

"I didn't," he agrees. "And I never once had to fight the urge to."

"See, I was right."

He rolls his eyes. "You," Zevran says, "are right about altogether too many things."

"'s my job. Kingmaker. Blightslayer. Other two-part words."

Zevran chuckles and begins unwrapping the layers around her. "Before I let you fall asleep, I should make sure you haven't loosened any of the powder with your squirming, my Warden."

"Oh," Fynnea says sleepily.

"And besides, don't you want to see what I've created?"

She nods, pliant in his arms, standing shakily when he asks her to. She leans against his chest as he works, and he positions them so her back is to the mirror. When the last of the bandages falls away, he murmurs for her to look.

He holds her hair away from her neck, and she can see, on either side of her spine, seven horizontal, almond-shaped leaves, and a final leaf upright along the line of her neck. Each leaf is made of two cuts, one curving up, the other down, neither quite meeting.

"Deathroot," she murmurs, and he nods, holding her gaze in her reflection.

"I must admit, I first thought of a rose. But I'm no bastard Princeling. Deathroot seems more appropriate from a Crow to his mark, no?"

She smiles.

Her father once told her that her temper would be the death of her, but she's still not so sure about that. True, it's taken many things from her. Threatened many others. And it's only been through learning how to ride the beast that is her temper that she's managed to keep what she has. But she can ride atop that beast, control it, learn to make it work for her.

No, it's not her temper that will be the death of her. It's how strongly her heart beats for this, for the arms of an Antivan Crow around her and the delicious stinging pain of his marks upon her skin. But, she hopes, that death won't be for a long, long time.


A/N: And now all that's left is a post-Awakening epilogue, coming next Wednesday! Thank you to everybody who's read this far - I'm still amazed every time I look at my viewership statistics! I hope the fluff of the final few chapters hasn't put anybody off, haha.

Reviews, as always, are much appreciated! :)