Chapter Twenty-Six: Never Let Me Go
'Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, as under a green sea; I saw him drowning' (from Dulce Et Decorum Est)
'Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls; from whose emerald waters doth life begin anew' (from the Chant of Light)
AN: Fenris and Hawke finally get together (my first attempt at writing m/m). Trigger warnings for flashback/panic attack and memories of rape, child abuse and torture (Danarius and Alrik are trigger warnings by themselves!) The chapter is upbeat and not graphic but it would have been dishonest to shy away from the darker elements.
Lambert and Fenris rented a room above Slubberdegullions and created a bolthole deep in the marshes. This duality was their first defense against House Danarius and Meredith's Templars. Also, Castillon's remaining men. Lambert, Fenris and the barkeep were now full members of Isabella's gang. Lambert had, in fact, spent a ridiculous amount on clothes that showed his allegiance. He was wearing high boots, tight trousers, an oversized shirt, and a poncho in her colours: red, blue and gold. Fenris rarely changed out of the armour he wore; its wicked edges and clawed bracers defined him. No other item of clothing moved with him as he phased (why Isabella was always going to be wrong when she tried to guess the colour of his underpants) - well, except for the piece of red cloth he wore around his wrist. People assumed the colour was to show his allegiance to Isabella, and Lambert did not let on that he had seen it long before. Never asked but...wondered.
They'd had a visitor from Kirkwall. Bodahn and Sandal Feddic did not like working for Gamlen and had decided to move on. Varric had set them up as a merchant caravan between Kirkwall and his cousin Thorold in Qarinus. He had given them a message to take to Lambert and Lambert's share of the Deep Roads assets. Bodahn and his boy had stayed one night on the island, then left with Ella and Alain. Maevaris Tilani had agreed to take the teenagers as apprentices. Ella had begged Lambert to come. Lambert knew finding a powerful patron in Tevinter was the only way he would ever be safe from Templars: Meredith could send men to Llomerryn and they had his phylactery. Yet, as an adult man, he could not swear loyalty to a person (however well-intentioned) who owned slaves. Nor swear allegiance to a nation where slavery was legal. It would be to take part in it.
So, he laid a worn red carpet over the stained wooden floor and organized unmatching crockery. The ceiling showed a grey and brown coastline of damp. Outside, he could hear the sea: sometimes chuckling, sometimes hissing against the rocks. It made him laugh, this new home, since its ugliness and optimism echoed the aesthetic his father had raised him to value. It was so like the series of threadbare rooms and hovels his family had settled in after each middle-of-the-night move. So many shitholes they had lived in during their lives on the run – so many places Malcolm had made beautiful and Leandra loved because she was with her man and their children. The Amell estate: that had been the damaged woman's attempts to regain her girlhood after the deaths of her husband and daughter. It had never been who they were: the woman who had thrown away nobility to be with the love of her life and their roguish son who loved people. Lambert had dreamed of satin sheets – fed on her stories of the high life – but here he could be himself. He put hand-drawn pictures up and painted the walls pink and didn't particularly care if they spilled red wine on the carpet.
Fenris returned on a wet morning, having been out that night helping Isabella against Castillon's men (every time Lambert offered to help it had been clear neither wanted him involved – he didn't know whether to feel touched or insulted). He smelled the rain on Fenris, could have drowned in his hard green eyes. Something – not so much a smile as a softening – passed across Fenris' lean hungry face like clouds changing the sky. Fenris took in Lambert – and took in Incognito, who was purring softly.
"It's alright for some," Fenris said, deadpan.
"I'll make you a cup of tea."
In the kitchen it began to dawn on Lambert there was still an awkwardness between them. Not emotionally – they were bonded for life. But they were physically clumsy if both tried to pass the same doorway or pass each other a cup of tea. A previously unseen dynamic – both of them shy of intimacy, both edging around it.
He returned to the bedroom to see Fenris stripping off his armour to clean it. He took in Fenris' dark skin and honed body, ignited by the mineral eyes and white shriek of hair. Maker's balls – he had the most amazing physique! Those abs... Lambert swallowed, suddenly dry-mouthed. He was on the point of telling Fenris he had the sexist abdominals he had ever seen but stopped himself just in time. There was nothing Lambert could say about Fenris' body he had not first heard from Danarius. The only compliments Fenris could accept as compliments were for the person he was: his courage, his honour, his soul.
Lambert was different. Being raised by parents who had inculcated a lifelong sense of his own value had allowed him to enjoy being objectified – it never occurred to him being eyed like a prize cut of beef could have anything to do with his worth as a person. Fenris' life had been darker – the chill inside him too deep for that reassurance. The self he was building was fragile as glass: Lambert was scared his clumsy hands might shatter it. He was very very careful not to destroy it in a moment of lust – by some careless comment that made Fenris feel he was being eyed by a human mage, that Lambert's admiration was only skin-deep. He told the simple truth about how much he admired Fenris' soul - and closed his mouth on the fact he admired the body too.
Danarius had enjoyed Fenris' body and gloated over his physical abilities, but the qualities of mind and will and courage were something he had built on his own, brick by brick, since meeting the Fog Warriors and learning such qualities existed. He had been driven to such lorn heroism by the need to honour them, to prove he had been worth saving. Bright jewels on a dark sea, given life by Brother Sebastian's attempts to teach him he had worth: intrinsic worth in the Maker's eyes and not because some human happened to desire him. Lambert couldn't fully understand – he knew it was priceless. He would do anything to let Fenris know it was real – that he saw him in that way too.
As a mage growing up in Andrastian lands, Lambert had been considered a dangerous freak by society – but the acceptance he had enjoyed at home had prevented that sinking in. He knew what it meant to have been surrounded by his parents' treasure chest of love in those early years. It had provided security – even before he was old enough to register his surroundings. It was what had made him confident in himself and other people – sometimes too trusting – it was gold in his emotional bank for the rest of his life. It was almost impossible for the vicissitudes of adult life – Danarius' sickening sadism; Alrik's black and malignant hatred – to destroy. The hour with Danarius and the long night at the Gallows seemed to have happened to someone else, or in a dark dream; they were too cut off from the rest of his life. Only when he caught sight of the scars peeking behind his tattoos - death peering through a mask of life - or when odd things (a certain slant of light the colour of the Gallows candles) reminded him, the world would ripple for a moment and then cohere. The rest of the time he didn't think of it, which struck him as odd but welcome.
For Fenris it had been the other way round. Lambert had been a fully-formed adult before the darkness – for Fenris the nightmare had been his childhood, his teens, his life; moments like this the unreal interludes.
Lambert knew what it was to have to sell sex – knew what it was to be tortured. He knew nothing of racism, of slavery, of growing up as property. Even then, an Elven slave might have had a family – but Lambert had realised (having seen Varania's assumption she was entitled to sell her brother back to Danarius) that Fenris' mother had sold him like meat so her daughter (the mage in the family) might be free. Still, Fenris had wanted to build a relationship with Varania as soon as he had learned of her; this was why Danarius had offered to make her his apprentice. It was one more piece of sadism. He also knew – had seen the notes Isabella had scavenged from the corpse – that Danarius would have wiped Fenris' memory: had wanted to take away the Fog Warriors, the lessons in reading, the knowledge he had once had friends. He had planned to destroy Fenris as Alrik had planned to destroy him – except while Alrik's methods were messy and crude, Danarius' had been subtler. To take away everything Fenris had – everything he was - while leaving him physically healthy and of use. Even knowing Fenris as he did now, there was nothing Lambert could say to him about his past. He could not tell Fenris he understood because he could not. He could not ask Fenris how he felt because Fenris could not possibly tell him.
Unaware of Lambert's introspection, Fenris said, "Let's go to the reed mats."
Lambert scooped up Incognito and placed her in his backpack. She mewled, once, but did not seriously object.
"Shhh - love. I promise you'll like our new place."
Llomerryn, Lambert thought, was like an impressionist painting of lush bay magnolias and flowering hibiscuses. Green mosses and old man's beard dripping from trees. The land was swampy and treacherous – there were huge marshes where you had to get around on boats – it made him think of a partially solid lagoon. Reeds taller than a man – miles and miles of flatness where you could get lost. Croaking frogs and wading birds: storks and herons and kingfishers.
This was why Llomeryn was the ugliest port on the planet. Nothing was built to last: the pirates knew whenever their raids got too bold the Chantry would burn every building down to try and flush them out. While they had gone to the reed mats to wait the authorities out. The older sea dogs would grumble but to Lambert it was an awfully big adventure. He wondered – but did not dare ask - whether for Fenris this carried memories of hiding in Seheron with the Fog Warriors.
Fenris chose to build their hut on the highest ground on the island – perfect for spotting enemies. The rain was not long over and everywhere glistened with wetness. Vapour rose from the vegetation and swirled between bushes. There was a drumming song of drops falling from the high ground onto soft earth. The air was warm and wet as bathwater. Spotted gums stood in rows, shedding layers like veils upon the ground, droplets glistening on warm silver skin. Lambert's ears – not as keen as Fenris' but keener than a full-blooded human's - appreciated the bellbirds' solar pulse, the drone of cicadas, a thin avian voice that whistled a melodic falling scale. He heard the honk of geese and smiled.
There were endless, endless reeds. These could be tied in bundles to make huts, or dried and burned to make fire. One species of fern had slightly fuzzy croziers that expanded into elegant fans. There was a bush he had never seen before and did not know: with huge spilling limbs and spear-tip scales and pale petal trumpets. Armour-plated millepedes cruised the leaf-litter. A red crab skittered from the undergrowth and between his feet before vanishing into vegetation. Far below them a clear river ran. He could see the river as a sickle moon – a narrow sparkling band. The tidal water was partly salt and there was pushback twice a day from tide. The mud was sticky, silty, gooey. There was a glossy-leaved, extravagantly floral bush that grew to seven feet and Anders had taught him released a noxious burning sap...
Anders...
Guilt and regret were haunting echoes. You were about to use the body I rebuilt for you to cheat on me...
He had allowed himself to get carried away: filled with friendship for Fenris and so happy Isabella had wanted them both – had wanted him, even though she had seen his scars. It was embarrassing to admit – wrong on several levels – that part of him had wanted to sleep with a woman just to prove he was still a man. Isabella had deserved better. Anders' comments about her, "she's a side-dish. She comes with the meal," had been bad enough – for Lambert to have wanted to use her to shore up his own insecurities was even lower.
Anders had deserved better too. It was no excuse to say theirs had been an open relationship: Anders had specifically asked him not to sleep with Fenris. What he had been about to do was a betrayal of trust. He should have put a stop to things before they got that far: allowed Fenris to experience his first time with Isabella while he retired to Anders' cabin. Then Anders would still be reading Danarius' letter; Lambert could have persuaded him to change sides – come with the three of them and help them defeat the Magister. Instead, he had given him the last straw – the final push needed to take a path from which there could be no turning back.
Anders was doing what Lord Amell should have done and hadn't: fighting for those wretched prisoners still in the Gallows. Mages as real, as valuable, as himself, who right now were being raped and tortured: punished because Lambert had been saved. Alrik was dead but Meredith would recruit other monsters to take his place. It was...bitterly unfair that the best part of Anders – the part that thought of others before himself – was what Justice had hooked into. Over the eighteen months they had been together, Lambert had noticed when he and Anders were talking about other things – joking or lusting after each other or sharing household concerns – Justice was almost wholly absent. But as soon as Anders became concerned for his fellow mages – when he was most unselfish – Justice took over. Anders had become an abomination – truly and irrevocably bonded to what was now a demon – because it was the only way he had to save them.
Lambert loved Fenris completely, irrevocably; knew his relationship with Anders was over, yet he would always worry about him, always wish him well. He had written to Varric (a letter given to Bodahn that would only find its way to Kirkwall on the return journey) asking him to look after Anders, to not let him go off at the deep end, but he knew deep down that was a forlorn hope. Vengeance was a basilisk that killed what it saw as injustice and could only see by killing.
Thinking of Anders would always hurt. He had unwittingly betrayed him by writing to his cousin and setting in motion an unstoppable train of events. He had learned – through Fenris' strength of character – that you could not 'fix' another person they had to 'fix' themselves; but that did not excuse his carelessness or his infidelity.
His dark thoughts were broken by a sudden spark of colour. A lacquered gleam among the ferns... He knelt. The swamp flower – here! The same flower that grew in the Korcari Wilds, that the Warden-Commander had shown him could cure taint. He harvested it with exquisite care, determined to send a sample to Rillian in Arlathan Forest. Lambert wanted desperately for his own life to have had worth. All you'll do with your life will be play pirates and warm Isabella's cabin. To be more than a cheating ex-prostitute who had been as bad for Anders as Justice had been.
He packed the sample in his bag and placed Incognito's water bowl in a sheltered spot. He cupped leaves whose droplets of rain filled it to the brim, and she lapped thirstily. He sank back on his haunches and simply watched her.
Fenris, Lambert noticed with a guilty start, had already stripped to the waist and was using the tools he had brought to start building their hut. Lambert stripped too and joined him. He was not a particularly practical person – Carver had been much better at the 'man skills' their father had taught them – but he figured so long as he followed instructions he could not go far wrong. They worked until the midday sun filtered through trees then took a break.
They sat on stones dressed in felted green, while all around them ferns jostled for spaces in shadows. Thyme scrambled over the rock and ponds formed in the craters, home to newts and yellow-bellied toads. A clove tree – huge and bushy and untamed – offered handfuls of its bulbous green seeds. Nutmeg hung heavy with baubles split apart by mace like scarlet petticoats: racy flashes amid the emerald. Black pepper grew as a vine, curled like a python about the trunk of a rose apple. Its seeds hung in bunches like grapes. Thick greasy light fell like green rain.
Lambert unwrapped pork scratchings and travel bread and poured them both glasses of small beer. They clinked glasses as if toasting their escape.
Incognito was loving this new place. Lambert's cat had been quiet since Ser Pounce-a-Lot had left to be with his human – but once in a home she sensed would be theirs a long time she did what Lambert was doing and made it her own. He put out clothes and she made them into hidey-holes, he fed her pork scratchings and she chewed hungrily. Then settled for the night with her legs tucked under her body, reminding Lambert of a little furry loaf.
Their hut was smothered in mosses and topped by a velveteen, flat-leafed fern. Muscular roots of trees spilled over its sides. Succulent stems of cardamon were wrapped about its waist. Their secret place was dense with fifteen different species of fern and noisy with the croaking of a hundred frogs. No one would ever find them here: Lambert felt as if he and Fenris were alone on a world with a green sun, perfectly safe. Their private world was created out of loyalty and trust and friendship. Lambert felt the astonishing fortune of living in such a beautiful and endlessly forgiving world; felt that the Maker might, after all, be merciful. When the marsh was ceaselessly recreating itself on every side, it was impossible not to feel that they, too, were being cleansed and made new.
By the time evening descended the air was thick, heady, mulled like wine. Peace descended upon them, courtesy of salt-flavoured air and madly constellated sky: a deep pleasure in the feeling of full bellies and warmth and the smell of each other's skin. They stank, of course. They smelled of life outdoors, tobacco, pork scratchings, grime, and sweat. They smelled – incredibly – good to each other, but surely bad by the standards of Kirkwall's salons.
As one, they moved into the hut. Fenris lit a candle and Lambert spread sleeping bags on the floor. Reed mats would be more comfortable, but neither had the patience tonight.
"Hold on," Lambert grunted, fumbling in his trouser pocket for a vial of magebane. He winked at Fenris, "Bottoms up." Fenris' arm shot out – blindingly fast – and gripped his wrist.
"Don't," he said, "It's different with you. I want you as you are."
Lambert blinked. Taking magebane to avoid triggering the brands was no different to taking birthbane before sleeping with Isabella - it was just polite. Was it true or was Fenris trying to spare his feelings? Was it different because Lambert was a healer – or a not very powerful mage? The brands were quiescent, less noticeable than he had ever seen them. Did Fenris smell faintly of Apostate's Friend? Then Fenris' mouth was on his, his predatory green eyes blazing, and Lambert lost all questions.
The night air trailed over faces and throats and fingers and wrists. The world was urgently and at all points on its scale alive. Kissing, touching the body he had admired for so long... Lambert was occupied with the reconstitution of Fenris in his scheme of things. Now that his body was something he touched – now that his mouth didn't merely talk to him. This new assimilation progressed by degrees as they kissed. Now he was touching Fenris – discovering the alignment of bone, the undulation of muscle, the privacy of pulses – the taste of mouth, fingers, ribs, midriff, throat...now that touch and taste were liberated, he saw how limited his previous view had been.
The callused hands touched Lambert's bared chest – exploring every ridge and hollow. The skin-on-skin contact was strange: the places that bore tattoos subtly different in sensation to naked flesh – the scars themselves curiously void of feeling. Beyond his arousal, a detached part of Lambert's mind registered weariness: a stone weight in his heart. The signature in flesh that wasn't him but Alrik. He mentally flinched away from the compressed, exhausted horror – knowing if he didn't then he'd feel nothing else...that the delicious physical sensitivity – wrists, throat, eyelids, thighs – would be gone.
Something moved across Fenris' face, indefinable as a change in the weather. Instinctively, Lambert ran his hands down that taut, controlled body, feeling the scars of too many battles cross the silver brands. Fenris carried the marks of combat from a scar across his forehead to one across the instep of his left foot. And they had hurt less than the brands. The endurance of this warrior was that of a tree that has grown up in the teeth of a storm. As Fenris caressed the scars, Lambert put his own hands over the fingers – careful to avoid the brands – in a mutually-intuited need for allegiance.
Then Fenris found his nipples and tweaked them, sending a delicious shudder coursing through Lambert.
Two can play at that game...
He sent his hands down to skate over taut, hot skin as his tongue plunged deep into Fenris' mouth, to spread over his chest as he found the hardened nubs of his nipples. Pinched, rubbed, pulled.
Fenris broke the kiss, flinging his head back as he let out a sound that was almost but not quite a whimper.
Lambert pressed kisses to the hollow of his throat, over his sculpted chest, and then to the nipple he had rolled between his fingers. He took it in his mouth, heard a gasp.
Then pulled back and looked at Fenris. At the feral face, the panting mouth, the eyes glittering with lust.
Lambert slid one hand into his trousers to cup him. Fenris was hard as steel, but something touched his eyes: a shadow, an old scar. Quick as thought, Lambert removed his hand and dropped to his knees to take Fenris in his mouth: because he was quite certain Danarius had never done that. Fenris was making naked little sounds...reaching the point of no return. Lambert felt his suspense, shudder, capitulation, and a visceral part of him felt the satisfaction of a predator that Fenris was his – that Lambert was the first and the last.
Perhaps out of guilt, perhaps love, he responded by pulling Fenris down on top of him, raising his knees and ankles so he could trust him with everything – take the most intimate position and look into his eyes the whole time. Fenris' green eyes were darkly-sparkling and his lips parted in a purely carnivorous grin.
But hideous shadows congealed around him like droplets of blood. Not Karras – contempt and even grim amusement had got him through that. But after Alrik had broken his kneecaps he had pushed him back and by then he wasn't even a person, just an open sewer screaming in pain...
Maker's balls! I am not giving up my favourite position just because...
But Fenris had already pulled back – impressive, considering how close he'd been. Unwilling to see it end like this – to be a victim who needed careful handling – Lambert rose to his knees and concentrated on finishing the best blow job he had ever performed. He had never seen Fenris so abandoned, so trusting, so much himself.
He could feel Fenris' body heat rising – the completely helpless, naked sounds he was making...could actually feel his balls tighten and back muscles harden just before he came straight down Lambert's throat. He himself was hard as steel by then – any moment...suddenly Fenris rolled onto his side and pulled Lambert down behind him. He reached back, took hold of him, guided him in. Not laughing; not nervous. Breathing deep, sibilant breaths of genuine, brutal desire.
Lambert was shocked, because he had imagined...after Danarius...Fenris couldn't possibly want this – that he had no right to take this...
"Are you... sure..." Lambert's breaths came fast and deep, like a horse running a race.
"Yeah. Ah. Fuck. That's it..."
Orgasm rushed up and took Lambert by surprise. Without meaning to, he let out a helpless, distressed completely naked little sound as his mind and vision blanked with the wet explosion of music and colour and feeling. It closed over him, swept him up.
Shattered him.
Lambert came round to see Fenris cleaning himself up as matter-of-factly as after a fight.
"Fen...that was...I mean, do you...are you okay?"
"I liked it, Hawke," Fenris said, amused. "Shattered all your romantic illusions now, have I?"
"No!"
"And I can tell that you liked it. So: there's more than one way to grope your grinder. Oil, next time, though. It's a lot to take in."
Lambert sank back in a happy daze.
The two collapsed together and Lambert blended his body to the slow, driving rhythm of Fenris' heart. Fenris gave off heat like a banked furnace. One muscular arm came up, hugged him, and Lambert breathed him in: sweat, sex, grime, tobacco, pork scratchings, the metallic rain of lyrium and – below that - an elusive masculine tang like leather or salt or wild sage. He hugged him back, luxuriated in the affection. His skin tingled; he felt alive, awake, in a way he hadn't since...how long? Since before his arrest, before Leandra's death – before Danarius, even... Sensory memories played about his skin like half-forgotten musical notes. Fenris made an inarticulate grumbling sound and Lambert gazed at the lump of softly-snoring male beside him. The candlelight was half-green, as though they lay underwater.
Nothing will ever make me let you go...
Peace spread in all directions and carried him away.
Lambert lurched awake a few hours later, eyes snapping open in a kind of soundless scream.
He was drowning in dark green light and saw the world dissolve like a painting left in rain. He felt the scars open up: dozens of red mouths that screamed agony – ribs, kneecaps, hipbones, thighs – all seemed to fracture. He frantically wrapped his arms around the pieces of himself, trying to hold them together. He was alone.
Then all at once the pain turned in a sudden lurch to visceral horror. Alrik was here – had survived his friends' attack on the Gallows dungeon (Lambert had never seen the body) - had booked passage to Llomerryn – had followed his phylactery to their hideout. At this very moment he was about to force his way into the hut.
Once he admitted it to himself, it escalated. Became a certainty. The knowledge Alrik was here, was looking for him, was almost in the hut. There was nothing to keep him away.
Nothing made sense except the certainty Alrik would get him – take him back to the dungeon – as if everyone around him had conspired to lull him into an insane sense of safety when it must happen all over again. It was as if nothing had happened since the long night. It was as if that night were all nights.
It took perhaps five seconds for the transformation to complete itself: from anxiety to fear to terror. Alrik was here. He was close. Tearing himself out of the bedroll, stumbling, pulling his clothes on, he could hear himself whimpering, gasping, struggling for breath. He had to cover his mouth with his hand to muffle the sounds of distress. His lungs tightened, his legs were unsteady, the blood in his ears thudded. The air was thick - hot and heavy as a sweat-soaked shirt - the air of nightmare that fought every forward movement.
He reached the door, lungs giant with an unexpelled breath. Alrik's face recreated, blooming over and over in repeated lightning flashes in his mind: the gelid eyes – the merciless mouth - the filthy and malicious hands...
...Come on, you little whore. Does that hurt? Shame. No, don't make me come yet, you filthy little bastard – don't you dare! For that I'm going to punish you...
His hand found the makeshift door handle – flung the piece of wood open. For a fraction of a second he saw Alrik standing there. All the world's air rushed into him, burst his lungs in an explosion. Then he knew Alrik was not there, not real.
He reached the edge of the high ground, feeling the dream-membrane tearing at last, the night air flowing over him like fire.
The sky was like black glass scratched by thin, sharp needles of rain. He stared down at the inky river – cold as space - the dark immensity of water like an offer of unimaginable weight. He heard Fenris' steps behind him – turned and saw he was already armed and armoured: Fenris didn't sleep any better than he did. He thought how minutes separated being able to make love with being unlovable, forever.
"Don't!"
"I wasn't going to jump, Fenris," he snorted – half-way between a laugh and a sob.
Fenris eyed him carefully. Lambert flushed, uncomfortably lanced by the hard, pale-green eyes – the eyes that had seen so much. Lambert could feel himself filling up with shame – it was unconscionable to do this to Fenris, of all people. Their lifetimes were in no way comparable: Lambert had been an eighteen-year-old man when he had worked as a prostitute for four months – two years later he had been Alrik's prisoner for one night. Fenris was twenty-two and had lived only the last five years free of torture (and even those on the run, in constant pain from the brands).
"I was just realizing how lucky I am – how very lucky you and the others saved me when you did. A few minutes later and I would be as Alrik promised: a lipless, noseless eunuch; blind and doubly incontinent... all this would be just a Fade dream. At least I wouldn't be able to see your pity and disgust."
It was saying it that made Lambert realize his true fear: that all this was a lie, if it could be so easily torn away – that beauty and sex and love were a façade worn by chaos to hide the derisive nothingness beneath, banal as graves in a row.
Fenris grasped his elbows, pinned him with his gaze like a butterfly to a board, shook his head in exasperation. "Do you think that could make you less? The man who taught me to read – to name the stars - who saved my soul in the Fade? It doesn't matter what you look like: that is all I see." He paused, one corner of his mouth quirking upward as he quoted Lambert's own words back to him, "What a shame you don't know."
Silence. They didn't move. Lambert felt the sweat cooling on his skin and swallowed embarrassing knots of tears. He couldn't swallow them. They fell on the leafy ground between them: putt, putt...
"Sorry," he said, in the air-speech of crying, "Sorry, sorry."
He didn't know what to do with the strength of his feelings for Fenris; was completely unmanned by the weight of his love and his memories. He suddenly knew he was going to do what he had always feared to do with Anders: lay it all out in front of him; give everything he had, everything he was.
"If you are having aftershocks from your experience we should practice sword-forms," Fenris said briskly, "That always works for me; plus, if we are to evade Templars, you will need to become a better fighter. I'll die before I let them take you but you shouldn't be dependent on me."
Lambert stared at him a moment as though he had suddenly grown two heads then burst out laughing - utterly delighted by the stolid earnestness and unfailing pragmatism - by everything that made Fenris who he was.
"We should," he agreed, snorting, "That or dance from hideout to hideout, choreographing routines. Let me feed Incognito, and we'll begin."
Hours later, Lambert was dripping with sweat and bonelessly exhausted (he had noticed Fenris was still breathing normally, remorseless as an iron golem). Fenris' training had been thorough. He could not teach him magic, but he had shown him how to weave the spells he did know into a gestalt with swordsmanship. He had even told Lambert to cast on him to be sure he had it right. Lambert had been scared to try this, but Fenris had assured him the brands made him resistant. Afterwards they had towelled each other down – help that required a lot of flourishes and much improvisation – and Fenris had decided to hunt. Lambert had never seen him use his abilities to scent blood and phase to track and bring down an animal and was a little curious, but Fenris had told him he would not be able to keep up. Lambert knew this was true, but also had the feeling Fenris didn't wish to be observed. Silly – there's nothing that could make you less to me... But he didn't say it. Not yet. Their relationship was too new, too valuable, to risk by clumsy words. Instead, he had promised to have the hut presentable when he got back. This was their home and Lambert a natural homemaker (Carver had teased him, of course, but in his opinion gender roles were silly).
He had the feeling Incognito was enjoying homemaking just as he was. She was Queen of all she surveyed. All the lovely hidey-holes and comfy nests were hers.
Lambert set up makeshift bookshelves upon which he put the only two books he had taken from home: the priceless tome Keeper Marethari had given him after they had saved Feynriel and 'Hard in Hightown.' The latter was the more well-thumbed of the two. Fenris – he was absurdly touched to discover – had brought 'The Tale of Despereaux' Lambert had made and illustrated for him. He gave that one pride of place.
And then – determined Fenris was not going to be the only hunter in the household – he trekked down to the river to try the electricity trick Anders had taught him. His father had used electricity spells to stun fish in Lothering river. The three of us are going to eat well tonight...
The morning rain had released tiny air-bubbles from the clay soil that had risen upward like champagne and formed aerosols of scent. Yellow-coloured oil secreted by plants oozed down rocks like ichor. There was no smell like rain, and Lambert inhaled its lush promise, savoured the verdant luminosity.
He would never regret not turning a blind eye to slavery - never regret he was here instead of with Magister Tilani – but he knew the Gallows Templars would always be able to get him. They had his phylactery. He struggled to master his fear and anger, the stone weight of always having to look over his shoulder. He realized this was what his father had had to do. Anders had never surrendered either – for twenty years he had tried to escape, no matter how many times they brought him back. Even after his year in solitary.
...No mage has ever dared fall in love. This is the rule I will most cherish breaking...
He would remain here, with Fenris and Incognito, and dare to love in the teeth of terror – as his parents had done, as Anders and Karl had done - knowing that at any moment (perhaps this moment?) Templars would come for him.
Fenris was even braver. He had followed goodness when he had had no idea what that meant or even that he could disobey Danarius. Spent five years being hunted - the first three completely alone.
You'll never be alone again. You are my husband and you are my oppo – like we said in the Blight. And I will never surrender.
Until he lost, Lambert Hawke would live.
The Hanged Man was closed for the night.
Upstairs there were only three guests. And these weren't paying guests – they were members of Varric's extended family. He didn't trust them, of course, but he knew when they tried to kill him it would not be at the behest of one of the warring factions in the city.
He slouched against the long stretch of mahogany bar, bored. Things had been dead since the Arishok's failed takeover of the city. A takeover stopped by the man who had duelled the seven-foot-tall horned giant toe-to-toe. It was a duel that would live in history – and in the memories of all (Varric included) who had been watching. Varric's life had not hung in the balance – the Qun had a place for dwarven merchants - but his livelihood certainly had. After fighting for several hours, Nathaniel Howe's body had been wet with his own blood and that of his opponent. Neither had given quarter. Nathaniel had beheaded the Arishok then collapsed atop the corpse. Nobles – who had done nothing to help him – had scrambled to claim the glory of caring for 'our brave Champion' - only to be stopped by an assassin who had looked at them like he wanted to kill them. Nathaniel and Zevran, the rumour said, were more than employer and bodyguard. And Zevran must be more than an assassin, because he had managed to keep his lover from death. A week after the duel – yesterday morning, in fact - Nathaniel had made his first public appearance. Pale, cool, composed. It had been short – Varric guessed he was more injured than he let on – but he had accepted the title of Champion of Kirkwall and the position of Viscount from his adoring public. Knight Commander Meredith had looked like she'd swallowed poison – which, after what the cow had done to Sparky, did Varric's heart good.
A crumpled bit of parchment lay fallen and unforgotten atop the bar. Varric had quietly put away, 'The Tale of the Champion' (after a murmured warning from Zevran had convinced him his patron would not be sanguine about the notoriety) and was instead working on: 'Spotlight: an expose of the Gallows.'
Nathaniel must have countless secrets... Varric could not help be curious (though he knew curiosity had killed the proverbial cat). Nathaniel had hired Varric's friend Gerav to work on outfitting his men with versions of Bianca that fired gaatlok. Gerav had also let slip – after many free drinks at the Hanged Man - the place where these experiments were being conducted: the old mine in the Vinmarks. Zevran had known the location because he had been there with Rillian and Sparky, and he had told his lover. He had also told him – Varric was almost certain – of the location of the Qunari dreadnought Merrill had defeated: a ghost ship floating in the Waking Sea with no-one living but all its military secrets intact. Varric's contacts in the Carta had reported pieces of the wreckage being moved to Nathaniel's hidden fortress.
Bianca was behind the counter and his troops were outside. Varric's bodyguards were certainly earning their pay – the worst storm in fifty years was howling in hollow harmony with the flames in the black stone fireplace. Hailstones were tap-tapping against the glass, thunder was grumbling and rumbling and chasing fallen branches down the road.
When the dark figure suddenly appeared in the room, having bypassed all the guards without a whisper, he froze. Blank shock prevented him embarrassing himself. He collected his wits – wouldn't want his last words to be embarrassing – and called out, "I can pay you more than the person you're currently with."
"I don't doubt it," said a familiar gravelly voice with a hint of amusement, "Hawke left Kirkwall with only a dead man's clothes."
"Broody!"
The wraith materialized and sat with lithe decisive grace on a bar stool. Fenris' hands were by his sides – leaving room to defend himself – the greatsword Lethandralis at his back.
"Is Sparky okay?! Is Blondie with him?"
Varric hadn't seen Anders in a while. His clinic was being run by the girl, Jessa. She was not as talented a healer but at least she didn't burst into roiling, glowy glory every time something annoyed a Fade spirit. He had no idea if Anders had come back or not. Nor had Anders written. Varric might have been disappointed – Anders had been part of his found family and he had spent a fortune paying folks in authority to leave him alone – but he had not felt the same since hearing Anders' reasoning for saving Sparky: "If Lambert cracks he will reveal the location of the clinic – endanger the cause." Anders had changed – or had had his mind changed for him – and either way Varric was not sorry they had lost touch.
"Anders is out of the picture as far as Lambert is concerned," Fenris said in an unmistakably smug tone, "He thought he would have a little chat with Danarius, only it didn't turn out the way he expected."
"I... see. I'm surprised he's still alive."
"For now."
"You might want to reconsider that, Broody. Sparky may not be in a relationship with him anymore but that doesn't mean he's indifferent to his fate. Even if he wasn't sure it was you, it would play on his mind."
"You're probably right," Fenris agreed. "Fortunately, I am not hunting the abomination. I am hunting Hawke's phylactery."
"You're going to destroy..."
"Not destroy – that would send Seekers after Hawke and see every Gallows mage punished. A few drops of Quiet Death will kill the blood cells. The Templars will think he is dead and destroy it themselves." In response to Varric gaping like a landed fish he added, "The Chantry did not invent phylacteries. Magisters all use them to keep apprentices on a leash. I have tracked mages before and I... have seen enough of Hawke's blood to recognize his trail." Involuntarily – the first time Varric had ever seen him make an uncontrolled movement – he brushed his armour as if to rid himself of the memory of those nine pints pooling on the dungeon floor. "He doesn't know, of course. I'll tell him when I get back."
"He'd beg you not to try. This is bloody risky. I've heard the doors to phylactery chambers can only be opened by a Templar and mage, working together. And there will be wards... I'll help you, of course. I mean: right in Meredith's backyard? It's so crazy I have to do it!"
"My ability to phase and magic resistance will bypass these defences. It is best I work alone."
Varric sighed. "So I'm the one who has to explain to your lover what happened if you don't come back? You are lovers, aren't you? Come on: I want details for 'The Flight of the Hawke'! Did he sweep you off your feet or you him?"
"I will say only this: there was no actual sweeping involved."
"Every little helps."
Fenris was suddenly on his feet, about to leave as silently as he had come.
"Wait! Before you go...here..." Varric fumbled behind the counter, fetched a rolled parchment. An intricate series of diagrams snaked like a lined filigree; a black spiderweb of hidden chambers and secrets. Varric had several people inside: Ser Thrask, whose mage daughter Olivia they had not been able to save - Keran, Paxley and Ruvenna, who owed Lambert after Tarohne and had been appalled by what had happened. Even Samson had helped him compile this in return for free lyrium. "It's a map of every level – including the phylactery chamber. I was saving it for Blondie but I want you to have it."
Fenris actually smiled! Varric hadn't even known he had teeth. He had to admit, he was a little worried by the relationship between the mage hunter and the apostate – Sparky would be vulnerable now and Fenris had issues – but this was sodding romantic. It would have made a great chapter in his book – except Varric would never be stupid enough to write it. He sighed. First 'Tale of the Champion' now 'Flight of the Hawke' - brilliant ideas now swirling down the drain. Let the Chantry think Lambert dead – so he could live.
The wraith vanished through the wall; a perfect darkness against the storm.
Knight Captain Cullen headed for the phylactery chamber, Orsino at his side. The Senior Enchanter had offered his full support in tracking the abomination who had murdered twenty Templars and released four detainees. Cullen had been about to hunt them the day they fled, but events had overtaken him. The day the prisoners had escaped had been the day the Qunari had attacked. Cullen had – by an ironic twist of fate – found himself defending mages.
The job of a Templar was not to defend mages but to protect ordinary people from mage predation, yet the Qunari had been going to cut the mages' tongues out and sew their mouths shut...nobody deserved that. So he had fought for them and felt clean doing so. As if this time he had washed away the murky sense of shame that had followed him since the Tower. He had taken a wound – he had plenty of scars from mages but this was his first for them – and yesterday morning Meredith had declared him fit for duty. He had been going to fetch the phylacteries of Lambert, Ella and Alain straight after – but the Maker-damned storm had delayed him by a day. He knew he would not have to worry about Corinus – Decimus' ally had been found amid the detritus in the Gallows – the dead abomination still half-recognizable.
He and Orsino walked over to the plates on opposite sides of the vault, placing their hands upon them. Orsino channelled mana into his plate – Cullen the metallic rain of lyrium...the reddish glow changed to blue and the air began to shake. It felt like a gathering storm. Each metal layer – mechanisms intricate as iron lace – shifted until the plates aligned.
The vault's handle revealed itself; Cullen pulled, and the massive doors swung open. Orsino left, robes swirling on dark stone in a heavy whisper.
The phylactery chamber was high as a cathedral. Glittering pillars reached to the roof. Thousands upon thousands of red vials – the blood of every mage in the Gallows. Dark energy pulsed, and Cullen shuddered.
Mere Knight Captains were never told how phylacteries worked – but Meredith was grooming him to take her place when she succumbed to lyrium dementia (it would be soon - there were no old Templars). She had explained that, ordinarily, wet blood samples had a short shelf life and had to be kept at temperatures far below freezing. This was at room temperature. Lyrium kept the cells from congealing but it took more to keep them alive...and forever linked to their non-consensual donors. Cullen had felt sick when Meredith had told him it was a form of Blood Magic.
"How?" he had asked, stricken, "There is no such thing as a 'tame Blood Mage'! The very words are an oxymoron. How can we rely on..."
"Because these Blood Mages are Tranquil," Meredith had told him calmly. "Think about it: the Rite of Tranquillity prevents normal spells because it severs a mage's connection to the Fade. Cuts them away from the source of their mana, their dreams, their emotions. But why should that also sever the ability to cast from their veins? Darkspawn emissaries cast spells without mana, emotion or dreams...why should mages be different?"
Revulsion had hit him. It was knowledge he had never asked for...more than he had ever wanted to know...
"But do not worry – as we only use Tranquil Blood Mages we do not need to worry about emotions or ambition...they obey our orders, nothing more. But you can see the public – the ignorant, romantic public – would not understand us..." And at the word 'us' Cullen had felt an invitation – to be initiated into the inner sanctum – the temptation of being trusted and wanting so very much to prove worthy... "It's knowledge I must insist does not leave this room."
He had agreed, and now stared up at the liquid brilliance of rows upon rows of phylacteries. The vastness of the chamber was a dark, sparkling jewel around him; a monstrous chandelier that winked with a thousand eyes. He approached the large central pillar. He knew where the phylacteries of Ella, Alain and Lambert were kept because he had put them there. They filled the rows from top to bottom and as these were recent he would not require a ladder. Blue-flame candles along each row ignited glass, picked out dust and etched labels. Cullen carefully searched the directory and matched it with each vial:
Alain Trevelyan...born DA 9:16 to (unknown) and Philliam Bernard Aloicious Trevelyan. Known grandparents: Lord Maxwell Trevelyan.
Ella Thomas...born DA 9:19 to Brigit Duncan and Geraint Thomas. Known grandparents: Eleanor Duncan.
Lambert Gadriel Amell Hawke...born DA 9:12 to Lady Leandra Amell and Malcolm Hawke. Grandparents: Lord Aristide Amell and Neria Surana; Gareth Hawke and Deshanna Lavellan.
The continuous flicker of light-rings over dark red vials reminded him of the Red Lantern district on a rainy night. There, blood from street fights pooled into black-foaming gutters running to sewerlike seas. The lights were the hollow pearly whorls on ocean waves. Blue flames darted like reptile tongues. The iridescence of flame on glass - the dark blood beneath...all blurred in Cullen's vision so he felt he was trapped inside a stained-glass window. The chamber was chill as a sea of ghosts – each phylactery a spark of life adrift on a frozen dark sea. They glinted like stars in space.
An unwanted memory touched him: he and Mia had counted the stars visible from Honnleath...
Concentrate, Knight Captain...
The first two phylacteries were faintly glowing with life trapped within. Their dark radiance writhed and shifted. Cullen sent a blue tendril of lyrium to awaken it. Very faint...so faint he was certain the teenagers were far away as Tevinter. That would be a problem.
He studied Lambert's phylactery and a shiver hit him that was nothing to do with the chamber. Lambert's phylactery was like black ice: cold, dead, forgotten. He snaked a tendril of lyrium outward to reawaken it but it remained black and empty of light and life. Like oil, like sludge.
Lambert was dead.
Cullen was startled – ashamed – to feel a punch to the stomach. A strange, hollow ache of loss. The cold breath of grief. Somehow, the world seemed dimmer – a less colourful place – without Lambert in it.
Get a grip! He was an apostate shielding an abomination...
Still, Lambert's death bothered him. How – when Lambert had been alive only five hours before the escape? Cullen knew that because he had talked to him.
Had the Qunari killed Lambert during the flight from the city? That would be strange, because the Qunari hadn't pursued any fleeing boats – they had been much more interested in getting to the capital. He might have thought something had happened at sea but Ella and Alain were alive...
How?
Cullen determined to speak to the Templar who had seen him last – the one man among Alrik's interrogators who had left before the abomination had attacked. He carefully attached the three phylacteries to his belt and exited the chamber. The steel mechanisms ground into place behind him.
He found Ser Karras in the canteen – stuffing his face with the speed and efficiency of a soldier.
"Knight Captain," he grunted with his mouth full and carried on eating. Cullen didn't mind that – he was a veteran of the Fifth Blight – simply asked, "Can you shed any light on Lambert Hawke's death?"
Karras grunted, "Well - not to speak ill of the dead but...c'mon you've seen Alrik! After five hours of him, I'm only surprised Hawke lasted that long. Must've been stronger than he looked."
He knew and did not know.
He tapped words into the silence like coffin nails. "Tell me everything."
Karras swallowed a lump of mystery meat, belched, and shrugged.
"Well - it didn't take long to make him talk. A couple of broken fingers and he was singing like a canary. After he confessed, I had him – Alrik was generous, I'll give him that..." He smacked his lips.
Cullen wanted, quite simply, to kill him. But rage was contained by the simple and shameful realization he ought to have known...
… "I wouldn't even let Alrik have Quentin. Oh, I'll kill such men, but I do not enable rape and torture. If you do, I pity you." ...
Cullen had been so enraged by the accusation – just one more attempt by mages to sow dissent among good men – he had never stopped to wonder. Oh, he had heard unseemly conversations - "Phwoar...look at the tits on that robe!" - guessed Karras took unwholesome pleasure in interrogations – but he had seen Alrik as an ascetic: chill, pale, intense, not given to lust. Far more interested in writing his manifesto advocating the 'Tranquil Solution' than in raping mages (the 'Tranquil Solution' was harsh – but as Divine Beatrix III was being guided by Grand Cleric Iona it was not impossible she would sign it – and if implemented twenty years ago Uldred's depravities would never have happened. It's funny: some philosophical questions just dissolve after it happens to you). As Alrik had been placed in charge of the interrogations Cullen had assumed (if he had thought about it at all) he would rein Karras in. But he had never been to check.
… It's all your fault. Mages. Destroyed me. My friends. You pretend to be so good, so kind... you led me on! You know you did. What an unscrupulous liar you are...
Yes, he had said those things. Shameful. As a prostitute, Lambert must have been used to seducing men, but he had never tried to seduce Cullen (whether that had been fear, or the knowledge Cullen would have never willingly coupled with a mage, he wasn't sure). He wasn't to blame for Cullen's guilty desires.
Something warned Karras. "Oh, come on! Lambert was a whore who'd fucked an abomination and a walking corpse – gave anilingus to a desire demon – he wasn't going to faint over my sword of mercy! And Alain – what he gave to Decimus he could just as well give to me... Bastards burned down Starkhaven Circle. He wasn't an innocent."
"That's it...that's all the justification you need to disgrace your uniform?" Cullen's voice was furred with rage.
Karras' small eyes narrowed. "Whining over the robes won't change the fact you outranked us. You could have stopped it and you didn't. Knight Captain."
"Tell me the rest," Cullen said dully. He had no will to fight Karras. He was too full of sick anger at himself to worry about anyone else.
"Alrik put him through the Harrowing – warned him if he didn't accept the demon's offer he'd cut pieces off him. Wanted evidence for his 'Tranquil Solution.' Lambert didn't turn – guess he didn't fancy that demon – so Alrik shattered his kneecaps." A curious look touched the bovine, self-satisfied, lascivious face. It took Cullen a moment to realize his features were struggling to express shame (he didn't have much practice). "That's when I left – hadn't signed up for that... what!" he muttered, as if apologizing for his unaccustomed delicacy, "I liked him on his knees. Good memories. Anyway: if Lambert had turned either the phylactery would still work or we'd have seen the remains. He didn't, which means Alrik was working on him for another five hours. If he didn't die during the escape he'd have died soon after."
Cullen rose to his feet: the abrupt, jerky movement of someone who must – at all costs – move or jump out of his skin. He had to get away or he would kill Karras – destroy the mess hall – this whole filthy place. He wanted to tear off his insignia and be free of everything. The disappointment that was himself.
"Knight Captain," Karras was saying – as if from a long way off - "you should be more worried about the abomination. A creature that could kill twenty of us – or take out half the city – if we don't hunt it down Kirkwall will burn."
Cullen's lips twitched in something that looked like – but wasn't - a smile. It forced Karras to look away.
Oh, I'll hunt it down. But I don't need you or the Order to help me. Thanks to Lambert, I can cast the Litany.
That was the worst. That Lambert had actually helped him – healed him and other Templars during the Blight - taught him and the recruits a means of defeating Blood Mages and abominations (the Seeker Order hadn't seen fit to teach them but Lambert, a mage, had). Rescued Keran from Tarohne at a time when he might have been forgiven for putting his feet up and sleeping for a week. He had been a good man (oh, not an innocent one – Cullen didn't believe his 'confession' for a second but Lambert had been covering for an abomination – but good) and he had died in agony. All because Cullen was a coward who would rather blame his victims than face up to the truth about himself and the Gallows.
...You deserve whatever happens...
Cullen left the Gallows in a blind fugue of rage and shame. He knew he was never going back but lacked the courage to confront Meredith. Not because he was afraid she would arrest him (although she might) but because he was afraid she might talk him round. In a moment of clarity, he realized he was not a strong character. He had been able to hide behind duty and tradition and physical prowess – but now these had been revealed to be so much dross, only his character remained. And he did not trust himself.
Nobody questioned him. He took a small boat across the bay (the physical effort was a welcome distraction) and wandered through the docks. The morning after the storm, Kirkwall glittered like a clamshell. He found himself standing by an overflowing gutter. He took the three vials – two glittering with fragile life and one dank, dark, and dead – and read the names.
He could have saved all three. Alain: Meredith had signed papers releasing the boy! Cullen had been going to get round to it – but it had seemed so much more important to interview a Mistress Selby. He could have asked Meredith to pardon Ella (she would have been lenient with a girl who resembled her sister). Ella had been only fourteen – the age Mia was when...an iron curtain came down in Cullen's mind. All his boyhood memories – his happy childhood in Honnleath – were still there, inside him, but he couldn't touch them. They were the memories of a different man - one who had no reason to be ashamed. He didn't have the right to them anymore.
And he could have saved Lambert. Had offered to lie for him if he turned Anders over. But, of course, Lambert couldn't: they had made the Gallows a place where good men couldn't trust Templars to do the right thing.
...Meredith lost the right to defend Kirkwall the minute she let filth like Alrik rape and torture mages...
Cullen should have lied for Lambert anyway. Instead he had told him he deserved what was coming.
And what Alrik had done – placed demons inside mages and tortured them until they broke – that woke memory-shadows of broken things with sharp edges. That was as evil as Uldred. All done under his watch.
He poured Ella and Alain's vials down the grate and watched ribbons of dark red swirl and become part of the rain. He stared at Lambert's a long time before he could bring himself to pour it away. Finally, he watched the dead blood run out like sand from an hourglass.
"My fault. My guilt. I'm sorry."
The dead phylactery gave no answer.
Cullen had no idea where he was going but his feet placed themselves as if possessed of their own vision. He was following Samson's trail.
Samson had been there for him when the eighteen-year-old first came to the Gallows: parade-ground straight, armour poured like a shell around the scars beneath. Armour and lyrium had put Cullen back together and he had resented Samson's kindness, despised him for letting sympathy for a mage come between him and his duty. Shamefully, it was only now he wondered: had it really been necessary for Knight Commander Meredith to make a Harrowed mage Tranquil just for writing to his girlfriend?
But then, who was he: who had pressed the Brand to Thomas' forehead...
…"Andraste will see you killing me!" ...
...to judge when it was right to give a mage the Brand and when not?
What was it someone had said once: 'after murder one sinks rapidly to stealing milk from old ladies.' He hadn't questioned Meredith's use of the Rite. Samson had – and been dismissed from the Order. With all that dismissal meant for someone who had taken lyrium ten years.
After what he had done to Thomas, shooting a fourteen-year-old apprentice in the back had come easily. Telling Lambert he deserved to be raped and tortured to death had come easily.
Cullen realized he did not have any lyrium on him. Hadn't thought of it. Still – he knew he did not deserve to take the Waters of the Fade in a holy rite that gave him power over mages.
He and Samson would go through withdrawal together.
Fenris returned to Llomerryn half-machine half-wraith. The body poured into the iron exoskeleton did not acknowledge tiredness; the wraith walked on currents of light. His night vision was extraordinary and nearly telescopic, in varying shades of grey. The sky was hazy and silver. He recognised mana as a glowing spectral white.
On the island he followed myriad scents. He smelled the bodies of pirates – their hair, their sweat – deer meat dead for many days, tobacco and woodsmoke. He smelled rain in the air, swamp cypresses, fetid pools and open, moving water. He smelled roasting crab on the waterfront and his stomach growled. He caught a whiff – a warm, sweet, tickling whiff - of his prey.
He would never lose the scent of Lambert's blood: like a phylactery but in his head – the memory of a hunter, filed away. Lambert's blood smelled like metallic chocolate (as did all humans') with notes of blackcurrant (both his grandmothers were Elven) and something else uniquely him.
His mana did not smell like a Templar's lyrium – metallic rain like his own brands – but like an ocean of dreams. He blazed with the white heat of a violet sun unearthly as the Fade. Closer, there were other scents. Sweet spices, clean sweat – he even thought he caught a whiff of the Purple Rain cocktails Lambert liked so much, though perhaps that was just his imagination.
The sunlight was half-green, filtered through overhanging spring branches, as though they stood underwater. Distant clouds were already softening and dimming in a haze that promised rain. In the verdant circle of light, Lambert was on his haunches, studying a root. His pale slender hands were holding a small penknife – about to harvest a sample. His skin was luminous, his long neck bowed. He was wearing a soft dun-coloured tunic and leather trousers. Fenris could see the softness of the flesh beneath, the ridges of the spine – delicate and hard as dragonbone. They had shaved his head in the Gallows dungeon; only traces of the living, iridescent black showed, close to the elegant skull, ruffled like the feathers of some exotic bird. He radiated an immense vitality; a quality of bright wildness beyond his beauty that drew Fenris as a fire draws travellers in the cold.
Lambert's bones were delicate as a full-blooded Elf's but the softer, rounded facial lines - the pale shell-like ears - were human. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. His playfully wicked mouth was now downcurved with concentration. His hands were like pale flying creatures as they harvested the elfroot. The hint of a frown wrinkled the soft skin between winged brows.
Suddenly, he stiffened like a deer sensing a predator. Head up, alert. Slightly tilted eyes scanned the marshland. His frame lost its air of abstracted, unworldly study; became wiry and tense. He gained his feet in one smooth motion, so well-coordinated he seemed to drift into the new position. His face went taut as an ivory mask.
When he danced or sang, his winelike eyes sparkled like amethysts. Memories had made them darker, fractured. Now they were black as ocean depths, sunk far below where sunbeams can reach. He gripped the penknife like an assassin's blade; lithe dancer's muscles tensed as he prepared to kill or die. He would not run.
"Try it, Templar bastard." His voice was bleak, dark, steady.
"Only one of those is true."
"Fen!" Lambert squeaked, "How did you...the sea...the storms...where have you been!? I was worried..." The voice that had firmly rejected fear now babbled like a brook.
"I poured two drops of Quiet Death into your phylactery," Fenris explained calmly. The words were like a full stop on Lambert's flow. "The Templars will think you died in the escape and give up the pursuit."
"You went...into the Gallows!" The radiant eyes widened in horror. "Maker! You could have been killed – worse than killed – and I would never even know what happened... You didn't even talk to me..."
"Varric would have informed you if I hadn't made it out. There was no point asking your opinion because you would have begged me not to go."
"Damn right!" Lambert shouted. He was shaking, feeling his reaction to Fenris' absence – the moment of heart-stopping terror when he had thought a Templar was near – his horror when he realized Fenris could have been killed or tortured in the Gallows dungeons... "I've already lost my father, my sister, my mother – do you think I could bear to lose you too! I couldn't – I'd rather go back to the Gallows..." He hugged Fenris with the fierce strength of love and anger. Fenris felt the colliding waves radiating off him, the hammering beat of his heart. "Thank you. You're amazing. Don't ever... I love you..."
Fenris held him: one hand on the ridges of his spine, the other lower – awkwardly, inexperienced, but willing to practice for the rest of his life. His words to Lambert: "It is different with you" were the simple truth. Not because Lambert's mana affected the brands differently to any other mage's – it didn't - but because he loved him. He wasn't going to have Lambert take a potion he had once described as "feeling like a kick in the balls but all over." Far more sensible for him to take Apostate's Friend before they made love – it eased the pain, allowed him to enjoy being touched, and would prevent him being woken by smothering dreams, smelling the mana on Lambert and phasing before he thought...that didn't bear thinking about. Fortunately, the ingredients were very easy to come by. He'd let Lambert think his mana was as special as his blood; that they just fit together, like lock and key.
He felt the ridges of Lambert's scars, the swirling patterns of tattoos, the undulation of muscle, the softness of flesh and hardness of the bone beneath. Lambert's lips were cold and fresh. They kissed – a shocking intimacy Fenris would never get used to – their mouths a tropical nucleus amid tiny sparks of rain. Between them, it suddenly got very crowded. He felt Lambert's warmth and his breath, his heartbeat and his sex. Felt himself admired and cherished.
Loved.
AN: This is the end of Part Two: Apostate's Gamble. Part Three: Precipice of Change, will take the story from DA 9:33 to the end of DA2. Part Four: She Should See Fire will be AU Inquisition. We'll be going back to Rillian, Merrill, Rylock and the Ferelden mages (I haven't forgotten them!) and we will see Fenris and Lambert grow as individuals and stay together.
I am sorry to say I do not plan to post any more chapters till May. I have to focus on Immunology and don't want my theories about taint or lyrium to start creeping into my dissertation! But I will continue to review other fics (here and on AO3 - you know who you are!) and I plan to have the thing finished by late summer. I'll post the remaining chapter titles so you'll see they're planned out and I will get there:
Ch 27: The Broken Mirror (it's actually written just not yet polished).
Ch 28: Red Bride's Grave (I've done a ttrpg based on this section from Last Flight so know how I want it to go)
Ch 29: Silent is an Anagram of Listen (my version of Seeker Training - I'm not going to say who the recruits are but you might guess)
Ch 30: Build Your Cause Around My Body (DA2 Act 3)
Ch 31: Sea of Glass
Ch 32: The Siege of Haven
Ch 33: I Choose The Red
Ch34: The Harlequins' Ball
Ch 35: Flowers in the Abyss
Ch 36: The Towers of Glass and Darkness
Ch 37: This World Is Not My Home