NOTICE: This chapter was revised Sept 19, 2012
In which Alistair shines and Fenris re-equips.
*squirms more* I... Have an unhealthy love of weaponry. Or something.
Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe
Chapter Twenty-five
Fenris startled awake at the sound of the tower door banging open. He was struck, immediately, by the blades of light from the window and an immense throbbing in his head. A moment later, his stomach tried to rise up in acidic rebellion. A moment after that, he remembered where he was, what he had to do, and who was about to barge in.
He tried to slither away from Zevran, but the assassin clung onto him. "Just a little longer," Zevran muttered hoarsely.
There was no graceful way to extricate himself. Fenris probably exerted more strength than necessary to tear Zevran's arms away and clambered up, discovering belatedly that one of his legs, from hip to floor, was numb from the assassin's weight.
When Teagan and three Fereldan guards entered the room, Fenris was standing unsteadily by the chair, hand braced on the back and waiting for the room to stop spinning. Zevran was curled into a miserable ball, leather-sheathed legs at his chest, arm crooked over his face to block out the light.
"Well," Teagan said loudly, observing the empty bottles and the ragged elves. "This should make things easier for the Orlesians."
Fenris winced and pressed a palm to his brow.
The Bann continued vindictively, "Get up! The king awaits. Time for breakfast and mortal combat!"
"I will stab you with a fork," Zevran moaned, muffled, and curled even tighter.
"Lovely," Teagan replied happily. "You're going to get a reputation for running around and forking people, elf."
He clapped vigorously and both elves hissed. Two uneasy servants dragged in a tray of dishes that clattered more noisily than it should have, each clink like a tiny knife in Fenris' temples, and the scent of spiced meat and fresh bread assaulted Fenris' nose.
Maker, help me.
The Maker had no mercy for Fenris' ilk. The elf was promptly sick in a decorative bronze vase.
Bann Teagan was unrelenting. He gave the elves a mere few minutes to force food and drink down and prepare for battle. Zevran generously doused Fenris with cold water, leaving the Tevinter shivering, but slightly more awake. The Fereldan and his guards then escorted their unsteady captive deeper into the bulk of the castle, and out into a bright courtyard.
Fenris' skull felt like it was about to crack open. He squinted and tried to shield his eyes. The morning sunlight streamed in from the east and reflected off of windows and the bright figures of nearly a hundred Fereldan and Orlesian nobles. His stomach lurched and the dusty ground under his feet slanted and rolled; it was worse than wearing shoes.
The courtyard looked like a training field. Around the outside ran a shaded gallery, where the majority of the aristocratic audience enjoyed the morning's entertainments. Many were seated in elaborate folding chairs and accompanied by their own minstrels, adding to the general din. Dummies and straw bales were shoved to one side and there were racks of weapons against the walls. The ground had been pounded to yellow dirt by many years of booted heels.
Alistair waited in the centre of the field with his councillors, the Orlesian Comtesse Bouchard, and a handful of soldiers. The king wore light armour of his own; part ceremonial, part functional. When he spotted Teagan and Fenris, he immediately and briskly strode over. His circlet and mabari-influenced shoulder guards glinted in the light, making Fenris wince and avert his eyes.
"Are you ready?" the king asked urgently.
Teagan snorted.
"Hn," Fenris shrugged, looking away at a shady spot.
"The Orlesian champion has chosen the weapon for the fight. You'll be wielding a sword and shield."
The Tevinter frowned, but didn't object.
"And the rules?" Zevran prompted.
"There are none," Alistair replied unhappily. "Fenris, they want you dead."
"Did you tell them to get in line?" Fenris rasped. He brushed past the king and stalked onto the field.
"Hey! You need armour!"
The Tevinter ignored the king's call. The last thing he wanted was to be weighed down by Fereldan plate.
As he approached, Fenris stretched his arms and neck and cracked his spine. He was stiff, still slightly intoxicated, and nauseated. However, beneath those surface complaints, he felt... enlivened. Invigorated. Fuzzy memory told him that he had confessed to the Warden's murder and been forgiven. That was one less burden to carry, one less reason to slip gently into the night.
I will not die, he determined, his hard green eyes finding the Orlesian champion. Not now. I have too much to do.
The other combatant was of average size, slightly taller than Fenris. He wore a helmet and the elaborate, obnoxiously floral armour of a noble chevalier. Through the slit in the visor, Fenris saw little more of the man than glittering eyes and the bridge of his nose. Beside the Orlesian champion, Comtesse Bouchard eyed the oncoming Tevinter.
A Fereldan squire held Fenris' weapon and shield. The Tevinter took them both and grimaced with distaste. The sword was of fair quality; stripped of enchantments and too short for his preferences, but sharp and properly balanced. The shield was so much useless steel and wood. He hefted it and sneered. Only a fool stood still and accepted an attack.
"We'll be done before lunch," Comtesse Bouchard observed, a smirk of her own playing over her wrinkled, painted mouth.
Fenris stared at her. "Yes," he said stonily.
Briefly, the Orlesian's arrogant expression faltered. Then she lifted her chin and regarded her champion. "Don't make it too quick, Ser Bon," she hissed. "Make him suffer."
The chevalier nodded and saluted his superior.
Alistair, flanked by Teagan and Zevran, came up to the two fighters and the Orlesian noble. "All right, then," he said awkwardly. "May... May the best man win."
Zevran crooked a smile at the Tevinter; Fenris wasn't sure how to respond, beyond hoping that the assassin could see the gratitude Fenris felt.
After a small pause, Fenris offered a small salute of his own to the Fereldan king, fist to his shoulder and a slight flex at the waist. Perhaps his hangover made him soft or sentimental, but he felt a small stirring of respect for Alistair.
He wasn't given the chance to ponder that thought, though, as the Orlesian chevalier attacked while Fenris was still saluting.
The elf reflexively flinched, ducked and slid sideways, suffered a bad stomach cramp, avoided the sword, but took a strong bash from the man's shield that sent him scrambling backwards to keep his feet under him.
The world—the field, the chevalier, the retreating squires, the sun, the sky and the aristocrats thirsty for his blood—swam in his vision. The unfamiliar sword hung in his hand and the shield dragged at his forearm.
The Orlesian stomped forward like a wall of steel.
Fenris started to activate his lyrium, but stopped himself. He was no tool, no mindless lyrium warrior. Today, he chose to be a man. He chose to set aside the weapons given him by his Tevinter masters.
Once, he had fought on his own merit, for the sake of his mother and sister, in his search for greater strength and power. He had received that power and it was nothing but another collar.
So he bared his teeth and braced himself for honest battle.
The Orlesian was unimpressed with the infamous Black Dog of Kirkwall. Fenris soon found out why: Comtesse Bouchard's champion was a proficient warrior and Fenris, for the first time in a long time, was at an immense disadvantage. He suffered multiple shield bashes that left his shield arm numb and heavy. His own attempts were turned aside with ease, leaving significant gaps in his defence that let the other man's sword through. When he tried to strike with his truncated blade, it simply shrieked off of metal. It was infuriating, and Fenris became more and more enraged with every sting, with every drop of his own blood that soaked into the dust.
The crowd roared its approval, demanding more. Fenris didn't dare to look at them. He didn't want to see Zevran or Alistair, their disappointment.
Finally, Comtesse Bouchard mockingly called, "Finish him! Finish the dreaded Black Dog!"
Ser Bon lifted his sword. Fenris moved to block, but the hit didn't come. Instead, the man struck with his pommel on the Tevinter's white head.
Fenris stumbled backward, dazed, feeling like his hangover had returned ten-fold. He wavered unsteadily and blinked at the approaching Orlesian. The man was close, so Fenris skittered further back, much to the amusement of the audience. His shield dragged. He glared at it in desperation. It was a piece of shit, it did nothing but slow him down.
The elf licked sweat from his upper lip and braced his feet wide, toes digging into the dirt. In an act more irritated than strategic, he twisted and hurled the shield at the oncoming Orlesian.
The unexpected projectile took the other man off-guard and took his legs out from under him. Ser Bon, unwieldy in his heavy armour, toppled like a stack of pots and pans.
The crowd groaned.
Fenris leapt at his chance, his only chance. He sprinted to the fallen Orlesian as the man tried to stand, threw his weight on the chevalier's shield and crushed it against the warrior's chest, pinning his arms.
Ser Bon tried to throw Fenris off, but the elf clung to the shield with fingers and toes, riding out the Orlesian's struggles. Before the man could do much else, the tattooed Tevinter brought his arm back and struck.
The tip of his borrowed blade slid into the helmet's visor and stopped. Ser Bon went very still. The crowd was silent, holding its breath.
"I will not kill you," Fenris growled under the faint whisper of a breeze. He stared at the one visible eye. The other glittered just beyond the steel in the elf's hand. "Because I am not the Viscount's general and I choose not to kill." The elf looked up at the horrified expressions of Fereldan and Orlesian alike. "Do you hear me?!" he roared. "I will not!"
Disgusted and weary and aching, he climbed to his feet and tossed the sword down into the dirt. He limped toward Alistair's shining figure, amongst his squires, courtiers and guards. The elf's slave garb fluttered in blood-stained tatters and the tattoos glimmered on his skin, but they were dormant, unused. He had won without death and by his own strength.
Alistair stood to meet him, a slow smile growing on his open human features. Fenris stopped at the edge of the field and saluted, fist to his breast.
"The fight is not over!" Comtesse Bouchard's objection rang as loudly as the battle, carrying over field and audience. She hurried from the clump of Orlesian nobility, magenta skirts lifted. Her gloved and bejewelled hand carved a violent slash through the air. "It was to the death!"
Fenris did not lift his head from his salute, but he slanted his gaze toward her. "No," he said firmly and coldly.
"You have no choice," the Orlesian hissed.
Ser Bon, judging by the clamour of steel plate, had collected himself and gotten to his feet. There was the rhythmic thud of heavy boots.
Before Fenris' pounding head and weary body could react, Alistair surged forward, startling the Tevinter into wincing sideways. In a smooth motion, the Fereldan king grabbed the shield from the nearest squire and drew his own royal sword.
The crowd gasped.
Alistair met the oncoming Orlesian shield-to-shield with a crackthat reverberated from the courtyard walls. Where Fenris had had difficulty managing the unpredictable shifting of the other man's shield, Alistair had no such problem. Both men braced themselves, bent their legs, and laboured forward. Ser Bon's face could not be seen, but Alistair's head was bare and revealed his exertion. His face went from red to purple, tendons stood out from his neck, and his breath came deep and steady.
Fenris was sure the king would lose against that heap of heavy plate, but, slowly, Ser Bon was forced back, first at the torso, then at the heel.
Abruptly, the Orlesian gave way and swept to the side.
The force of Alistair's effort took the king forward and to one knee.
Ser Bon brought his sword down.
Laughing, Alistair had already lifted his shield, as though he had expected and pre-empted the move. The sword slid harmlessly away. Alistair angled his own weapon under and behind the other man's shield, up under his skirt, and through the gap between thigh and breastplate.
The chevalier released an agonized cry, muffled by his helmet, and crumpled over. Alistair yanked his sword out, the blade red and dripping, and smoothly stood. Breathing hard, he watched as the other man collapsed to the dirt.
"Barely a gut wound," Zevran commented with a sniff, where he had sidled close to Fenris.
The Tevinter nodded. Ser Bon probably would not die. Not unless he was left on the ground to bleed out.
"Does this satisfy you, Comtesse?" Alistair demanded as he returned to the sideline. He flicked drops of blood from the edge of his sword with each step. "Your champion lies dying."
The Orlesian noble stiffened and her cheeks flushed through the powder on her skin.
When she made no sharp reply, Alistair continued. "I look forward to meeting you at dinner. Then we will discuss our alliance." He turned and summoned his squires. "See to Ser Bon," he directed, gesturing to the fallen chevalier. "He will live to fight our true enemies." The three young and earnest Fereldans saluted and hurried away. Of Bann Teagan, Alistair asked, "Uncle, please care for the general. Healing and outfitting. I think Fenris has proven himself worthy of arms and armour."
"Of course, majesty." Teagan nodded deeply. When his gaze found Fenris, there was an expression of curiosity, perhaps respect, on his face. "This way, general."
"What a pity," Zevran sighed. "I am quite fond of this stylish outfit." His lifted eyebrow and shameless leer encompassed what was left of Fenris' insubstantial spirit hide.
Fenris ignored the assassin and followed Teagan's broad shoulders through the crowd of Fereldans. Many moved aside and their attention was heavy on the Tevinter, disapproving or afraid.
Retreating into the cool, quiet, and comparatively dim castle halls was a relief. Fenris' head swelled and retracted with his heart beat, his stomach was crawling up his throat, and the rest of his body was starting to realize just what it had gone through. Without the added strength of the lyrium, he was having trouble just putting one bare foot in front of the other.
When they were away from the crowds, Zevran commented, "According to the stories, you could have defeated him easily."
"Yes," Fenris replied.
"But you did not."
"No." The Tevinter stared straight ahead at the stone walls and mabari tapestries, but he saw fire, blood, and a thousand dead and staring eyes. "I killed enough for Hawke."
"Ah." Wisely, the assassin let that rest.
Bann Teagan took them to a small set of rooms low in the castle, full of mages and herbs, each about equally as dry. A kind, hooded woman with skin like parchment looked Fenris over, cast spells that soothed away the ill-treatment and made his lyrium itch, and admonished him to eat and sleep.
"Magic can only do so much," she said gravely. "You need to rest."
"Hn," the Tevinter replied, frowning. Is there such a thing?
"He will take your advice, I am sure," Zevran spoke up. The assassin's lean body rested against a scarred counter top, boots crossed at the ankle. He toyed with a bottle of some ingredient or other. When the healer looked to him, he smiled. "Can I have this?"
Bann Teagan, after a whispered chastisement from the healer, refused to take Fenris anywhere other than a bed chamber. "I'll have the tailor come to you," he said, uncomfortable under Fenris' disapproval. "Once you've had a chance to eat and sleep."
"I'd rather have the armour," Fenris grumbled.
"Have no fear, my friend," Zevran said. "I will watch you sleep." Fenris wasn't sure if this was reassurance or a threat.
"He doesn't need a guard anymore," Teagan protested.
"Perhaps not, but I did say I would watch him until his oath was fulfilled."
The dark elf was too tired to argue, so he nodded.
"We're going to keep you in the tower until the Orlesians have calmed down," the Bann continued. "I hope that won't be too great an imposition."
That suited Fenris very well. He relished the idea of solitude.
Then, when the Bann left them at the tower door, he said, "I think it would be wise not to let the assassin pour your drinks tonight, general. The Grey Wardens will arrive tomorrow and you'll want your wits about you."
The elves stared at the Fereldan dourly until the Bann sighed and departed.
"Come," Zevran said when they were finally alone. "Let me help you scrape some of that dirt away..."
/.\./.\
After a bath, a meal, some sleep ("Get out, Zevran." "But I said I would watch you." "Watch from out there. I sleep alone." "Perhaps later, then..." "Get out!"), another meal, and a morning session with a nervous-looking tailor, Fenris had achieved a state approaching good health. Though his clothing, for the moment, was borrowed finery, the tailor promised that there would be the supplest of leathers sheathing his lyrium-sensitized skin by the evening.
"Morrigan will bring your armour, as well," Zevran added, shaping the air over Fenris' shoulder. "Soon you will be back to your spiny self."
Fenris fidgeted with the puffy white sleeves and the hem of the snug waistcoat. When he shifted his weight, the baggy Fereldan pantaloons brushed the skin of his thighs uncomfortably, itching and tickling the lyrium. He missed his second skin, even the mockery in which Hawke and Danarius had clothed him. This outfit reminded him a little too strongly of Hawke, though the vibrant blue and crisp white were far from the Viscount's favoured red, black and silver. He scowled at the long mirror.
"You would make a fine lord if you wore boots," the assassin commented helpfully. He had quickly learned to keep his hands off of the Tevinter, but his gaze roved freely. "You have nothing to be nervous about."
Fenris wiggled his toes thoughtfully. The tailor had, once Fenris had expressed his immense displeasure at the idea of soles, given up on the boots and, instead, wrapped the elf's legs from knee to ankle in dark gold fabric, to suit the Fereldan style. "I'm not nervous," he replied after a long moment.
"Of course."
The Tevinter frowned at his companion. "I've seen too many fools in pomp and finery. I don't want to do the same." He reached up and tugged the high collar away from his neck.
There was a timid knock at the tower door.
"Excellent. If we leave now, you will not have time to fidget out of your costume." Zevran hummed in consideration. "Though, when I think of it that way, perhaps we should stay..."
Fenris stalked away.
A nervous servant led them back to Alistair's meeting room. The girl, a pale elven waif with faded tattoos, shied away whenever Fenris moved too quickly and she wouldn't even look at Zevran. Most of the Fereldans they passed kept their distance from the elves and a fog of muttering voices followed their progress. Finally, a set of guards admitted them into the chamber, bright with morning light from the tall eastern windows. This time, Fenris was relieved to note, no one immediately pointed him out or drew a weapon on him.
As before, the Fereldans and Orlesians were situated on each end of the long table, staring at each other mistrustfully. However, there was now a quartet of dusty, uniformed men and women in the middle; Fenris assumed they were the Grey Wardens.
Alistair stood to greet the elves and the Fereldans hurriedly jumped to their feet. The king rolled his eyes at their formality, but did not object. "Fenris," he warmly greeted the Tevinter. "Thank you for joining us."
"This is the Black Dog of Kirkwall?" drawled one of the Grey Wardens, a severe, elaborately tattooed Dalish elf. His dark hair was in tight braids, close to his skull, giving him the appearance of a sleek bird of prey. "I was told the Viscount's general wore human skin and drank the blood of orphans. You're just another court dandy."
The other conversations in the room immediately stopped. Alistair stared, aghast, at the Grey Warden.
"Tears, actually," Fenris replied flatly. "Slaughter the parents to make my armour, then drink the tears of their children." He twitched a brow. "I have a system."
The two elves regarded each other levelly.
"Ser?" interjected one of the other wardens, a female dwarf. "Ser, I remember him from the battle of Lindburg's Field. It's him." She stood, thudding to the floor with a jingle of armour, and her fury shone from dark eyes. "The duster owes me for the men he killed."
"Woah, now," Alistair interceded. "That was all the Viscount's doing, warden. Fenris wasn't responsible for his actions."
"Responsible enough," Fenris argued. He nodded at the dwarf. "If we live through this, you'll have your chance at revenge."
She stared hard at him for a long moment. Then she nodded once, shortly, and slid back onto her chair.
Aggrieved, Alistair shook his head. "Right, that was a nice start. I remind you, all of you-" Here, his gaze covered the Fereldans, the Grey Wardens and the sullen Orlesians, "-that Fenris is our ally and we need to trust each other and work together if we're going to survive until winter." He paused, waiting for objections. When there were none, he continued. "Fenris, please take a seat. This is Warden Commander Evrett."
The Grey Warden elf bent his neck in acknowledgement.
At Alistair's prompting, Fenris took his place on Teagan's right, with Zevran next to him. Then the king sat, the Fereldans settled down, servants brought in drinks and maps, and the Orlesians muttered amongst themselves. Amidst the noise, Alistair leaned across Teagan to tell Fenris, in an undertone, "I'm pretty sure Evrett hates me."
"Only because you're human," Teagan interjected quietly. "A king of humans, at that."
Alistair sighed. "Sometimes I think our worst enemy is each other, not the Viscount."
"That was his intent," Fenris said solemnly. He couldn't remember much, but that part was clear. Chaos.
"If that's so, he's done a good job of it." Alistair rubbed his brow, under the circlet. "It took most of yesterday to get Comtesse Bouchard to agree to anything and she's as much at threat as we are." He glanced sourly toward the other end of the table, where the lady in question was fanning herself and speaking to a handsome, blond youth. Fenris followed the king's gaze and was startled by the heat in the strange man's returning stare.
Ser Bon, I presume, the Tevinter thought disdainfully, and turned his attention back to Alistair.
"I miss the early days," the king sighed. "Even fighting the Archdemon. It was so much cleaner than... than this." A short wave of his hand encompassed the table, the castle, Denerim, Ferelden and, presumably, the undead army of a madman. "I miss having the enemy in front of me and a friend at my side."
Teagan leaned back and clapped his nephew on the shoulder. "You're doing a fine job, Alistair," he said.
Alistair replied with a half smile and a shake of his head. Then he cleared his throat and called for attention. "Please," he said. "Commander Evrett, we want to hear your report."
"No, you don't," Evrett retorted. "The darkspawn are on the move. They're coming to the surface in Nevarra and Orlais."
"What?!" Alistair nearly leapt out of his chair. "Are you saying there's another Archdemon? I haven't heard a call!"
"We don't know." The commander shuffled some papers and lay them on the table. There was a considerable stack. "We've received multiple reports of attacks."
"No," Alistair moaned. "Thedas can't handle another Archdemon. Not now."
"It's not an Archdemon," Fenris argued quietly. "It's Hawke."
Judging by Alistair's expression, this was worse. "He does not have that power," the king said, a hint of desperation, of pleading, in his voice. "He can't control them!"
"No, but he can herd them. He knows the Deep Roads under the Free Marches and he has Carta in his army. Now that he has the undead, he can push the darkspawn out."
"You can't just go into the Deep Roads and push the darkspawn around," Evrett snapped. "No one can!"
"The Viscount can," Fenris replied stonily, unflinching. "And he would. He's going to tear Thedas apart to get what he wants. The darkspawn are merely another weapon at his disposal." He shrugged as the rest of the table stared at him and grimaced at the unpleasant sensation of fabric moving over his skin.
"And what does the Viscount want?" the warden commander demanded.
"I don't know." Fenris kept the emotion from his own voice, the residual horror of being so intimately bound with a monster. "I guarantee that he wants no earthly treasure or crown, no country, no empire. And I know that this—" He indicated the entire table and tenuous alliances. "—This is part of his plan. He's going to have you scrambling and fighting enough that you won't even see what he's doing."
"The Tevinters-" Comtesse Bouchard started angrily.
"Created something they cannot control," Fenris interrupted. "Something more terrible than they could have imagined."
"And what do we do about it, exactly?" Evrett asked. "The wardens won't let darkspawn rampage over the countryside."
"And we can't sit by while the Viscount's armies burn Nevarra," Alistair added. He held up a hand to forestall Comtesse Bouchard's response. "Dear lady, you know that when Nevarra falls, Orlais is next. Besides which, there are a lot of angry mages in Hawke's power who bear a very real grudge against the Chantry. They would destroy Val Royeaux for that reason alone."
Teagan shook his head. "Surely, now that Hawke has shown his true colours, his allies will not stand by him!"
"The Free Marches are completely in his power," Fenris reported. He had ensured that, himself.
"The Queen of Antiva is still missing," Zevran added. "Kidnapped to an island somewhere, I think. Without her, they will do nothing. They have enough trouble keeping the pirates off their coast."
"And the dwarves haven't responded," Alistair sighed.
"They must, if the darkspawn are active. We have the treaties." Evrett tapped the table.
"Hawke is connected with the Carta," Fenris informed them. "I... Don't know any details, but he may support them. Help them rise against the dwarven government."
Alistair groaned again. "This is a nightmare."
"You can't beat him this way. It's what he wants." Fenris waved at the map, at the figurines marking where Hawke's armies had crawled, where the land had been razed. Before Evrett, Alistair or Bouchard could protest, he added, "He can't sustain these attacks, though. He's planning something and he has to do it soon."
"We... don't have many options," Alistair said, regarding the Tevinter.
"No," Fenris agreed. "You don't. But you do have me."
Alistair nodded. The Grey Warden Commander's expression turned speculative. Comtesse Bouchard snorted.
"I suggest you consolidate your forces," Fenris went on. "And prepare for a storm. Something you cannot stop, but that you can withstand."
/.\./.\
Despite Fenris' additions, the three leaders were deep in discussion until late in the afternoon. The Tevinter stopped listening about halfway through, when the conversations started to go in circles. Fenris had no interest in Thedas' struggling political sphere, anyway. He had seen enough from both sides of the battlefield to know that the war would propagate itself and quickly become as out of control as Hawke. Though, by that time Hawke intended to have fulfilled whatever it was he was trying to do.
Zevran shifted, fidgeted, muttered to Fenris about the attractiveness, or lack thereof, of the other attendees, and generally made a nuisance of himself until Fenris pushed back his chair and stood.
The people around the table looked up at him.
"My part in this is over," he informed them.
"Right," Alistair replied. "I'll send someone for you when Morrigan returns."
"Duralt is expecting you in the armoury, general," Teagan added. "You can re-equip yourself any time."
Fenris was startled by the surge of eagerness he felt at the thought. He missed the comfort of a weapon. So he nodded his white head and departed, Zevran at his side.
"I do not envy Alistair," the Antivan said as they walked the halls. "Even if he wears a shiny hat."
"It's no easier on the other side," Fenris replied. "Hawke spent most of his time in meetings. I'm still not sure how he kept it all organized. Obviously, though, he was successful." He nodded at the chaos behind them.
Zevran nodded thoughtfully, but had no response. He led the way to the armoury and greeted the aged, scarred caretaker with easy familiarity.
"Duralt, my friend needs a weapon," the assassin said warmly. "And I need to ease my boredom with sharp things."
"You know where the knives are," the Fereldan said, waving the assassin away like an annoying insect. "We got a few sets from Rivain since you last been here, and a few Orzammar finds."
"Ah!" Rubbing his hands together, Zevran strode away into the gloom amongst the dozens of shelves that filled the low room.
"And what will you have, serah?" Duralt asked, addressing Fenris. His eyes were in a permanent squint, nearly a scowl. It was difficult to pinpoint his impression of the Tevinter.
"Two-handed," Fenris replied. "Great sword, maul or axe."
The man's eyebrows, one of them mostly missing under a snarl of scar tissue, went up. He looked the slender elf over, taking in the Fereldan finery, the bare feet, the pale tattoos. He held his tongue, though, and indicated that Fenris should follow him.
The two-handed weapons waited against a long wall, held in heavy, polished racks. They were all of high quality, ranging from ornate and bejewelled great swords, wielded by nobles and kings, to immense mauls, to wicked axes with a variety of sharpened heads and spikes. Fenris paced along the racks, performing swift mental exercises to determine weapon balance and effectiveness. Most, he did not even touch. Once, he hefted a sword, performed a few practice swings, and gave it up as inferior. Two of the mauls were intriguing, but uninspiring, and none of the axes piqued his interest.
Duralt followed quietly behind him, or as quietly as a booted, heavy-breathing human could be. When Fenris reached the end of the line empty-handed, the man grunted. "Don't see anything you like?" he asked.
"No," the elf replied flatly.
"Good."
Fenris blinked and tilted his head toward the man.
"I give these sorts to the nobles that come through," Duralt explained. "No offence, but you're dressed like one."
A smirk slowly curled Fenris' pale lips. "No offence taken," he said.
"The real weapons are over here." Duralt ushered the elf into a side room, leaving behind the shelves and Zevran's cheery, disembodied crooning.
The much smaller side room contained only a small rack with maybe a dozen weapons. They were as scarred as their caretaker, scuffed and abused, but clean and sharp. Each sword, maul and axe bore a personality, a history.
Now, Fenris did not touch because it would be disrespectful. One would not find an ally by fondling or handling them. One looks another man in the eye, looks at his past and his heart, before deciding that they are right to walk with, to fight alongside.
Slowly, the elf moved down the rack. When he reached the end, his breath caught. He stared. Finally, gently, he reached out and took the axe in hand.
Duralt's gravelly voice spoke from the door:
"Our hero strode the winding road,
Defiant of the vile.
Uncertain pause for home and cause,
When met the monster's smile.
A man his kin through blood and sin
A bastard of the gloom.
A rising cut through bone and gut,
An awful skyward bloom."**
"Yes," Fenris murmured. For a moment, Bloom rested quietly in his palms. Then he moved the haft, shifted the jagged, red-steel head, and Bloom became an extension of his own arms, a living piece of him that had been missing since he lost Hawke. Its innate enchantments caused a distortion in the air and dropped the room's ambient temperature. "Where did you find it?"
"Some bloke from Highever brought it in with his yearly tribute." Duralt stumped over and crooked a finger at the axe's head. "You gonna want some enchantments on there?"
"Yes." For a moment, Fenris tried to remember what Hawke had had Sandal install. Then he shook his head. He would make his own blighted decisions now. "You have runes of devastation?"
Duralt's squinty expression seemed pleased. "I do."
"Devastation and spirit, then," Fenris decided.
"Very good, serah. May I?" Duralt held out his broad, creased hands.
Reluctantly, Fenris gave up the axe. He felt bereft as soon as it left his possession, but at least he knew he wasn't abandoning it in some wet gully. Again.
"I'll send it up when it's ready," the weapon master assured him as they walked together back to the main room.
"Thank you."
Zevran joined them, a grin on his face and a long dagger in his hand. He held it up. "Can I have this?"
/.\./.\
Fenris' new clothes were waiting when the two elves arrived back at their tower. Zevran, as was his wont, generously offered to help Fenris change, possibly with a prolonged break in the middle between finery and leather under-armour.
"Get out," Fenris snapped and tried to propel the assassin through the door, fingers splayed over the thick belts crossing the other man's chest.
"Surely, there are ties in the back that I can undo for you," Zevran purred. He reached up and folded his gloved hands over the Tevinter's.
"There are no ties at all!" Fenris raged, snatching his arm back. He was beginning to discover that Antivan Crows really were worse than Fereldans. Neither Hawke nor Anders had been quite so forward about what they wanted.
Of course, neither Hawke nor Anders were quite so graceful when they encountered resistance. "Very well," the assassin conceded, bowing his head very slightly and glancing up through his pale lashes. "But only if you join me in a few drinks later." He leered, turned and swaggered away, down the spiralling tower stairs.
Maker, Fenris swore internally once he had securely closed and locked his chamber door. Zevran's friendship, once earned, seemed to immediately lead elsewhere, without any prompting from the Tevinter. Again, Fenris felt the bite of scorn, wondering how the other elf could pursue anyone so soon after his lover, the Warden, had perished.
Fenris paused in removing his shirt, catching on a thought. He could hazily recollect the sensation of huddling with Zevran in a warm ball, as though fighting off the cold sorrows of the world around them. There had been nothing in that moment but simple comfort. Perhaps that was what the assassin was trying to recapture. Perhaps he fell back on blatant sexuality merely as a means to that end.
The Warden had been playful, but also dangerous, moral, wise, and devoted. If Zevran had been drawn to that kind of man, there was something inside of him that needed... protection?
The Tevinter shook his head and chuckled toward his new, sleek trousers. The leather was a very rich dark brown, a shade or two darker than his own skin, and soft. When he slid them on, the itchiness of his tattoos quickly subsided.
"Who am I to try and understand?" he wondered aloud. "I can tear his heart out, but I won't figure out how it works."
The sleeveless, supple leather jerkin fit exceptionally well, tight to his chest to reduce shifting, loose at the hip to allow for movement. He fastened it, smoothed it down, examined the golden trim that set off the mahogany hue of the leather. The belt was heavy, solid, complete with pouches. Once he was assembled, knowing that his armour and his favoured axe would soon be in his possession once again, he sighed deeply. It was a sigh of relief, as more and more of the black despair from the previous months lifted.
Fenris regarded himself in the chamber's mirror, seeing himself for the first time since... since he could remember. Perhaps since Hawke had forced him to look, had forced him to see the creature that followed Hawke's terrible bidding. The Black Dog truly was no more. Now, Fenris glimmered at the edges from the golden trim, and the brown leather rippled and glowed warmly under the lamp light. He clenched and unclenched his hands at his sides, watched the light on his skin, on the rivers of lyrium, and felt some measure of satisfaction.
You are strong, he told himself silently. And you are free. You are not the thing he created.
When he joined Zevran in the main room, the assassin already had a glass of amber liquor in one hand. In the other were several slender throwing knives. Fenris watched from the stairs as, in quick succession, a half dozen of the silver objects flicked through the air and imbedded themselves in the doors of the fine wooden sideboard.
"I'm amazed Alistair lets you keep your weapons when you're in his castle," Fenris commented, descending the last few steps.
Zevran lifted his drink to the Tevinter, drained it, and then moved to collect his knives. "He knows he would have to search me personally," he remarked slyly. "I like this." He gestured toward Fenris' slender figure with the empty glass. "You look... rich. Like chocolate. Hot chocolate. And cream." Smoothly, the assassin crouched and tugged his knives free. For all that his throws were so quick and deft, the force behind them had been great. Most of the thin blades had imbedded themselves a good three inches, all within the space of about a man's palm... or heart.
"Thank you." Fenris couldn't think of much else to say. He folded his bare arms and watched the assassin, watched the man's careful demonstration of easiness, casualness.
"Here." Zevran took a bottle from the cupboard and handed it up before brushing bits of wood off of his thighs and standing.
Fenris snorted and lifted a brow. "You're going to give me a reputation for being sick all over the Fereldan king's castle."
"Is that better or worse than your current reputation?" The Antivan smirked. "I notice that Alistair's guardsmen are less frightened of you now."
"Are you trying to justify giving me a massive hangover?"
"...Is it working?"
Fenris couldn't help but chuckle. The chuckle grew into a laugh when Zevran grinned at him, his hazel eyes bright. "Give me your glass." Shaking his head, Fenris poured for them both. "And show me how to throw like that."
The assassin held up two of the tiny stilettos between his gloved fingers and twisted his hand, making them glitter in the light. "Like all good things, it's all in the wrist."
"Really?"
"...No."
/.\./.\
The elves were in fine spirits when Alistair's messenger informed them that Morrigan had arrived. The servant, a very clean woman with a hard look to her, tersely told them that the king and the witch were waiting in Alistair's private study. Then she noticed the fresh sawdust on the carpet around the sideboard and her eyes widened in horror.
"Thank you," Zevran quickly said and slid past the woman.
Fenris smoothly followed and kept the amusement from his face only with great difficulty.
** From "Song of Old Marches: The Death of Goodman Ser Austice at the Hand of the Reaver Shius," incriptions collected by Philliam, a Bard! —From Codex entry: Bloom