Chapter Twenty-Eight: Alone
"YOU try talking with him, Hawke," Aveline groused, upset enough to bump the mage's shoulder as she moved past him, "I'm through!"
Hawke spun with the movement, turning halfway around and allowing himself to watch the Captain of the City Guard storm out of the main hall in Fenris' squatter mansion. He didn't try to speak, he didn't even try to stop her, simply standing there and staring until he heard the slam of the front door. Only then did he finish turning back around to see Fenris, leaning over the head of the table, a pair of notes spread out between his hands. "What was that all about? Did she finally find out about your gambling with her husband, Donnic?"
"We don't gamble," Fenris quickly denied, not bothering to spare Hawke a glance, "We play cards and drink wine and talk, but I deny any money exchanges hands. And, no, that's not why she's mad… this time."
Hawke made a sound of disbelief, crossing his toned arms over his chest, his sleeveless tunic designed precisely to show off said muscles. But he wasn't there to use his charms on Fenris; he was there because he was still trying to patch things up between the elf and Anders—before Hrodwynn's return. A daunting task, and one he didn't savor, but the estrangement was surprisingly hurting Anders, and for Anders' sake he would do anything… he would storm the Golden City itself for that man. "So, why is she mad, this time?"
Fenris finally looked up from his study, although briefly, to blink at Hawke. He was already staring at the pages once more as he answered, "Because I asked her to find out something, and she did, and I don't believe her answer."
Hawke hummed, coming up to the table and take a peek at the letters, "Can't imagine why she would be upset about that."
Fenris started again, looking up at Hawke, and though the man's face remained neutral, there was a twinkle in those warm amber orbs that told Fenris he was being teased. "Yes, well, perhaps that does sound like I'm being unreasonable," he dropped his gaze, giving his head a slow shake, his hands making claws to either side of the notes, "But I KNOW something is wrong!"
"Where have I heard that one before?" Hawke mused beneath his breath. He hadn't gone there to become embroiled in a side adventure, no matter how little, but apparently he didn't have a choice. "Alright, start at the beginning. What's this all about?"
The tension in Fenris' shoulders eased ever so slightly, the elf was so grateful for the offer of assistance, but that was the only outward sign he gave of his relief. Very briefly, very minimally, he filled Hawke in on the plan he and Hrodwynn had hatched to find his sister and restore his memory. He concluded with the ship from Minrathous that had arrived in port that morning—the ship that was supposed to have Hrodwynn and his sister as passengers.
"And what did Aveline find out about this ship?"
"That it did come from Minrathous," Fenris answered, "And that there was a woman who disembarked, an elvish woman, with red hair."
"A redheaded elf? Nothing about a redheaded human?"
Fenris nodded darkly. "Now you see my concern. Hrodwynn was supposed to meet my sister, Varania, at a tavern in Minrathous and then bring her here to Kirkwall. But why would she take Varania to the Hanged Man, instead of here to my mansion? And why did no one see her, they only saw the elf? And then there are these notes?"
"I was wondering when we'd get around to those…" Hawke drawled, but Fenris continued to ignore his droll remarks.
"I know Hrodwynn's handwriting, I learned alongside her for three years, I watched it develop. This note here," he gestured to the one on the left, "This note sent from Minrathous, that says she's arrived safe and will meet Varania first thing in the morning, then check in with Varric's contacts. This note was written by Hrodwynn; I'm sure of it! Just as I'm sure this note here," his hand swept over the note on the right, "This note that asks me to meet them at the Hanged Man, this note is a forgery. A clever one, but a forgery nonetheless."
"Alright," he leaned in a little closer. He knew Fenris had a great skill for distrust and disbelief, but he was willing to humor the man, if only to get him to calm down, "Convince me. Why is the second note a forgery? The handwriting looks the same to me. Sloppy. Scrawled. The occasional word scratched out…"
"None of the e's are backwards."
That got his attention. Hawke's neck nearly snapped, he turned so suddenly to look back down at the two notes. And Fenris was right. In the first note, nearly half the time the letter e was drawn backwards. In the second note, not a single e was backwards. "Maybe she finally learned to draw them the right way?"
"She couldn't in the three years we've been learning," Fenris argued, "I don't see how she could have in just three weeks."
"Four," he countered, "But who's counting?" It was a rhetorical question, but he for one had been counting the weeks, wondering where Hrodwynn had gone, and why, and when she would return. Anders had been counting as well, though the selfish git wouldn't admit it, still holding on to his hurt over Hrodwynn's 'betrayal' while at the same time almost making himself sick with worry for her.
And he knew Fenris had been counting, too, and now he knew the reason why. He also knew that, now that the waiting was over, it would be just like Fenris to find some excuse as to why things would be going wrong. And yet… "Let me get this straight. You sent Hrodwynn to Tevinter…"
"I didn't force her."
"…to look for your sister," Hawke ignored the interruption; they could argue semantics later. "A ship arrives from Tevinter with said sister…"
"I don't know that it's Varania…"
"With a woman on board whom we're assuming is your sister," he hastily amended, "But there's no Hrodwynn with her. Only this note, which must be a clever forgery, because why would Hrodwynn send you a note asking you to meet them at the Hanged Man, rather than bringing your sister straight here?"
"It doesn't feel right…"
"What's not feeling right? Something working out for once? You finally get to meet your long-lost sister, which is too good to be true, so of course something must go wrong…"
"Damnit, Hawke! I'm not imagining this!" Fenris snarled, his lyrium flaring into white-hot intensity, his hands threatening to tear the parchments to shreds. "There is something wrong here, something very wrong, and I…" he stopped suddenly as he struggled to regain control of himself, "…I need your help. Come with me. To the Hanged Man. Maybe, maybe Hrodwynn did try harder, in this second note, to draw her e's the right way. Maybe Varania wants to meet me on neutral ground, like the Hanged Man, rather than here in my home. Then again," his dull green eyes implored, "Maybe there is something more to this, something else going on, after all. After all these years, after all this time, I don't dare let my guard down now. I simply can't. Come with me. Please?"
For some reason, Fenris felt very little if any relief when Hawke agreed to join him. This was wrong—this was all wrong—and he knew it.
This was wrong, Hrodwynn thought to herself, so wrong, oh so very very wrong…
It wasn't the sound of his footfalls that alerted her, because he never made a sound.
It wasn't even the vibration through the ground because, again, his footfalls were so light.
It wasn't even the glow, the faint bluish-white light, that shone almost as bright as the sun in the otherwise pitch black darkness, because her eyes were sometimes closed whenever she became alerted to his presence.
But she knew he was coming for her. She opened her eyes, she saw that light growing stronger, and she knew…
They entered the Hanged Man, Fenris in the lead. Along the way, Hawke had managed to get a few more of their friends to join them, merely for backup of course, just in case there was trouble. Aveline was right out, however; they hadn't even tried approaching her after she stormed out of Fenris' home. And Sebastian was busy with some sort of Chantry work, though he promised to check in on them that evening and meet Fenris' sister.
They had stopped by Hawke's mansion and asked Anders to join them. Hawke had hoped that the incentive of seeing Hrodwynn would be too tempting—Hawke hadn't told him the real reason they were going; Anders didn't need to know anything about Fenris' sister or Hrodwynn's trip to Minrathous, only that she was back in town. And the thought of seeing Wynnie again was too hard for him to resist, Anders only wavering a moment before agreeing to come with.
They had collected Merril just down the street from the tavern; she had been in the area doing a bit of shopping for herbs. Hawke was betting that Isabela and Varric would, of course, already be at the Hanged Man, provided Isabela wasn't planning some adventure with her newly acquired ship, and Varric wasn't embroiled in some business with the Merchant's Guild.
So reasonably assured they'd have enough hands on deck to handle whatever storm may—or may not—come, they approached the door to the Hanged Man.
Fenris was the first to enter the tavern, and the first to see her. It was almost immediately, his eyes sweeping the common room—nearly empty at this time of the morning—from right to left to her. She sat on the far side of the room, her back to the corner, her face towards the door. When she caught his eye…
Memories came back. Memory on top of memory on top of memory… Fenris' breath caught in his chest, squeezing his heart like a lyrium-infused fist. His vision was clouded, images from his past superimposed upon each other, superimposed upon reality, the mental weight falling against his mind like the walls surrounding the Gallows. In a trance he walked towards her, his body automatically avoiding tables and patrons, while his eyes—his focus—never left her, never swayed from the young elven woman with bright red hair sitting alone at a table…
…sitting alone…
Her gaze had fallen as soon as she had caught his eye, as soon as she had confirmed the strange elf in the door was her brother. For hours—all night and most of the morning—she had sat there, waiting, almost convincing herself that he wasn't here in Kirkwall, that he wouldn't come, that this would be all for nothing and she'd never get her reward. But now he was standing before her, "You came."
Fenris heard her voice, but his thoughts were overwhelmed at that moment with visions of his past, of his childhood, of… "We used to play… in the courtyard… while mother worked… you are Varania… and you called me…"
"Leto, that's your name, isn't it?" she answered, finally looking up at him. Her face was pale though her cheeks were flushed with heat, and her eyes shone with a hardness not unlike steal, "Or that was your name." There was so much venom in her words, so much anger, so much hatred. He had done all this—he remembered now—he had fought so hard and suffered so much for her, her and their mother, and now she hated him for it…?
"I… I don't understand…" Fenris found himself sputtering.
"I do," Hawke sighed, one hand hanging idly at his hip but within easy reach of his staff/mace. Fenris at long last was able to tear his gaze away from his sister to see where Hawke was looking at the top of the stairs. "Your premonition was correct; we've been tricked."
It's a trick, Hrodwynn told herself, it's just a trick. Don't believe him. Don't trust him. You know it's a trick, it's a lie, it's a trap.
The bluish-white light was now strong enough to cast shadows, slipping through the crack beneath the door. Still there were no footsteps, no other indication of his arrival, but she knew it was him, knew that light could only be him.
She found a corner and braced herself, a hand to either side, and struggled to her feet. It was awkward, due in part to the near starvation she had been put through, and in part to the injuries she collected over the past several weeks. She had bruised ribs, a twisted ankle, what she suspected was a dislocated shoulder, and some of the bones of her right hand were no doubt broken. She had bandaged herself as best she could, and endured the pain of what she could not fix, but she would stand. She would stand and face him.
She would never go down without a fight.
The fight was nearly over. Everyone lay dead around him. Well, Hawke and the others—Varric, Anders, Isabela, and Merril were all alive and standing. But every Tevinter who had come with Danarius, every demon he had spawned to fight for him, were all dead or destroyed, bled out and returned to ash. Only Danarius himself remained, trapped before him, pinned against a wall, Fenris' fist sunk wrist-deep into his chest—he had been partly amazed to find the man had a heart for his fist to wrap around.
"I made you, boy!" Danarius sputtered, still fighting for his life, unable to see much less accept his inevitable doom. "I made you powerful! I made you invincible!"
"You made me your tool, your weapon," Fenris countered, "Like a staff or a dagger. That's all I am to you… all I ever was… an item to wield as you saw fit, or discard if it grew inconvenient. Like you did in Seheron."
"Seheron?" Danarius choked, finding it harder and harder to breath. Yet he didn't think he would die, his arrogance refusing to let himself believe that his own slave, his own little pet wolf, could actually go so far as to kill him. Threaten him, sure; coerce some sort of further concession from him, quite likely. But Fenris could never end his master's life. "Seheron. Is that what this is about? You're upset that I left you behind? I had to, lad. I had to leave you there. The captain wouldn't allow me to take you; the ship was already crowded, and you were only a slave."
"'You were only a slave'," he repeated in a rudely mimicking manner. "Do you hear yourself? Can you? I was only a slave. Not a person, but an object. A possession. Like a coat or an extra pair of shoes." He leaned in closer, his dead eyes boring into Danarius' widened eyes.
"All my life," Fenris breathed, "All my life I'd been a slave. I had no will of my own. No desire. No sense of self. All I had, all I was, all I wanted, was to fulfill your slightest whim. Anything you asked of me—anything!—I gave you. Freely. Wholly. And I never understood, never conceived of this concept of personal identity.
"That is, until Seheron happened," he continued, his voice dropping down into its darkest, gravely depths. "But it wasn't because you abandoned me there. It was because of the Fog Warriors. Do you remember them? How you found me in their village, with them? How you ordered me to kill them all? And I…" Fenris' voice nearly choked, but he forced himself onward, "I obeyed. Those people, those kind people who'd taken me in… tended my wounds… cured me and sheltered me and fed me… It never occurred to me that what you wanted was wrong. Evil. Or that I could deny you. That I should deny you. That there truly was nothing making me obey you but my self, or rather my lack of self. Not until," he shuddered and nearly pulled away, his deepest and most secret pain staining his features, "Not until I stood there with their blood on my hands—MY HANDS!—looking up at you in your spotless robes. Their blood should have drenched you, their deaths should have lain on your head, the sin should have been yours!
"That's what happened in Seheron," he finished. "That's what gave me the strength, the impetus, to finally break free of your hold over me, to claim my freedom and leave slavery behind. The price they paid… the price those innocents paid… their blood… bought my life…"
Fenris' hand tightened, minimally, but it was enough to make Danarius choke again, his hands grasping at Fenris' gauntlet, heedless of the razor-sharp edges slicing into his fingers.
"I will admit, I once wanted this chance. I even dreamt about it, this conversation, how I would explain matters to you, and you would understand and see how wrong you were. At least, I did, once, years ago. But I've since learned," his fist tightened again, and the mage began to cough up blood, "It would make no difference. I could explain, as I did just now, about it all, but I know you would never understand—it would not change you. I know you will never see the evil you've done."
"…then…why…?"
Fenris leaned in even closer, their noses almost touching, Danarius' breath stinking up his lungs. "For my own sake, you selfish bastard. This was something I needed to confess, to get off my soul, to receive absolution for. It has nothing to do with you, not any longer. Yes, I fought at your behest. I killed for you. I killed a whole village for you. But I am free of that guilt now, just as I am free of your enslavement."
He pulled away, slightly, and savored every last moment. He watched Danarius' eyes widen even further. He watched Danarius' hands fall away from his gauntlet. He watched Danarius' mouth grow slack and the blood drool out. He watched, and continued to watch, long after the deed was done.
It was the sound of someone retching that drew him out of the moment. A retch and a sob, with a very feminine and familiar voice moaning afterwards. Immediately he spun around, dropping Danarius' dead body without another thought, to pin Varania with his glare. "You!"
She squeaked from her corner of the tavern, her hatred and anger from earlier vanishing before her fear and loathing… still directed at him. What had happened, he wondered. What had gone so wrong, to make one sibling hate another with such furor?
What had happened, Hrodwynn wondered while pressed into her corner, what had gone so horribly wrong?
She had reached Minrathous without a hitch and penned the note to Fenris, letting him know she had arrived safe and would soon be on her way to see his sister. She had left the note with the ship's captain before she disembarked the next morning; he was returning to Kirkwall and had promised to see the letter was delivered. Then she set her steps for the tavern where she was to meet Varania.
Varric had wanted her to check in with his contacts first thing. And she should have done so—she could see that now—but at the time her only thought was to meet Varania, meet the sister of the man she loved, meet a member of his family. And the tavern wasn't too far from the docks. And when she arrived, she saw that Varania was there, sitting demurely towards the back, waiting for Hrodwynn, with bright red hair—Hrodwynn thought about teasing Fenris when they got back, that he only loved her because she had red hair like his sister…
Her thoughts were interrupted when she saw the bluish-white light of lyrium, pulsing strongly just outside the door, spilling around the cracks and into her cell and filling it with his light. Oh, Maker, her heart began to race, thinking of that first time she had seen that light. After being captured by Danarius… After being taken to his estate… After spending her first of many nights in this cell…
She had seen that light. She had instantly recognized it. And in amazed relief, she had called out…
"It's me, my pet, it's Fenris," the voice, that disgusting voice, cooed from just outside the door.
Hrodwynn wanted to scream, could feel the cry rise with the gorge in her throat, but she swallowed both sound and bile and garnered her meager strength. She was going to need it.
"Come, now, my love," that hated voice was almost laughing at her, "You know who I am. Don't be afraid. It's only me. It's only Fenris." Those last words were filled with such ire and suppressed loathing, it made her blood run cold. "That's what you called me, wasn't it? By HIS name? That's who you thought I was. So say it. Say it again, call me by his name, tell me what little pet names you have for each other, and I promise: I'll leave you alone tonight."
Don't do it, she warned herself, keep your mouth shut, it's a trap, you can't trust him, you can't believe him, don't tell him anything or he'll use it against you like he's-done-before-he's-dangerous-oh-Blessed-Andraste-he's-coming-through-the-door!
"Don't do it," Varric's rough voice amazingly penetrated the heartbeat pounding in his ears. "Don't do it, Broody. I know you want to; believe me! I know how it feels to be betrayed by your own sibling. But don't kill her. You don't want that hanging over your head."
Fenris' lyrium was glowing so brightly, it was almost hard to look at him. He stood looming over Varania, like a cobra about to strike, all his anger and ire far too close to the surface to be denied. His blood was racing through his veins, making him want to act, making him want to continue killing, and Varania deserved it, she came here with Danarius, she betrayed him, she was bait for the trap to catch him, she was no sister to him…
"Do it!" she cried, her fear lending her strength to sputter at him, her eyes overflowing with bitter tears. "Do it! Kill me! It'll be a mercy. You've ruined everything else in my life…"
"I…" he struggled through his new-found memories, searching for whatever it was he had done that could have hurt her so deeply. "I did this for you. And mother. I won the chance to become Danarius' experiment, because he offered a boon. I competed against the others, I defeated them, so that you and mother could be free."
"Free?" she sneered, "Freedom did nothing good for us. Mother and I were put out on the street, no shelter, no food, no income, no home. And we had no idea how to take care of ourselves. That first year, mother starved to death. I nearly did, too." She looked away from him and added, almost too quietly to hear, "I wish I had."
Fenris stared at her, half in disbelief, half in astonishment, as she continued to speak.
"I finally found someone kind enough to take me in, to teach me a trade. I didn't care that it came with a price; I had a roof over my head and food in my belly! So what if his hands were a little too harsh at night. But then Danarius found me. He wanted me to come…" she hiccoughed, her hand trembling as she covered her mouth. Then she made herself continue, made her hand into a fist and lowered it from her mouth, "He said I could come home. He… he offered to teach me… to mentor me… to take me on as his apprentice…"
"I don't believe it, your own sister's a mage," Anders' irreverent scoff was politely ignored by the others, and completely missed by the two siblings—fortunately.
Yet Fenris had already come to the same conclusion, his blood running cold at the revelation—how could he have forgotten!? Varania a mage? It wasn't until she mentioned it, that he remembered she had a talent for magic, and as a slave, she wouldn't have been allowed to become a magister. But once she was free…
"But you've ruined that, too! You've killed Danarius. Now I have nothing! No family. No home. No future." She closed her eyes, kneeling before him, and shouted, "Just kill me and get it over with!"
This wasn't fair. This wasn't right. Fenris could remember now—he could remember it all. He remembered how Hadriana was starting to take an interest in Varania; even back then, he knew what Hadriana could be like, where her interests lie, and what attention from her would entail. He didn't want that for his sister. He would do anything for her. And he did, fighting nearly to his own death to show Danarius that he was worthy. And with the boon, with his mother and sister free, he had spared them both of Hadriana's attentions.
But Varania didn't see it that way. And she never would. He knew that now. Maybe, just maybe, it would be better if she died here, tonight.
Fenris' lyrium brightened again, and his fist hovered over his sister's heart. Yet he didn't penetrate her chest, he didn't give her a taste of the pain he could inflict—the threat was enough, judging by the quaking of her body. "You have one chance to save your life. Tell me what happened to Hrodwynn. Where is she? What did Danarius do to her?"
Varania's lip was trembling, spittle forming at the corner of her mouth, but she bravely, and foolishly, looked up at him and countered with, "Who?"
There was a half-moment, the merest hesitation, when no one in the tavern dared to breathe, or even to blink. Everyone was watching the tableau play out, enraptured and fearful and shocked. Fenris found himself caught up in that fraction of a second, at a loss, wondering—along with the others—what he was about to do. Then inspiration struck and he had the answer.
The snarl was feral, something otherworldly, something unnatural, but nonetheless coming from within Fenris' chest. His arm lashed out, straight, slamming into the wall behind Varania, but going over her shoulder rather than through it. She flinched and cried out, and it was that small act which showed how completely and eternally any ties between the two former siblings had been severed.
"Get out! Never let me see you again," Fenris commanded, letting her go. He knew how thoroughly she hated him, and that hatred would keep her from helping him find out what happened to Hrodwynn; there was no point in even trying to get anything out of Varania. But he wasn't at a dead end. He had a place to start his search, Minrathous. Danarius' mansion to be more precise. He didn't look up as Varania struggled to her feet, he didn't turn as she started for the door—a little too quickly lest he change his mind. His former sister was forgotten, his thoughts already planning his search for his love.
"I… I overheard…" Varania's whispered voice floated towards him, barely penetrating the bloodlust still throbbing in his ears, "One of Danarius' men said something… just before we set sail… that they had gotten word… the girl was securely tucked away… at Danarius' country estate…"
The words sunk into his brain slowly, but they did sink in. He knew the place, knew the layout of the grounds and the buildings, and most importantly the chambers and cells beneath the main mansion. He turned towards Varania, and the single word he spoke was without lethargy or haste, without anger or love. "Run."
She did.
"Dammit, Matt…"
"Don't call me that!" the man said, pulling away from Hrodwynn's unmoving form, straightening his grafted spirit hide armor as he stood. "I told you, call me Fenris wherever she can hear." He finished buckling his belt as he added, "After all, that's what she called me. That's who she thought I was, the first time she saw me. So that's who I am… to her, at least."
"Fine, Fenris," the other man, standing in the now open doorway of the cell, humored the first, "But look at her. Master Danarius said we were supposed to keep her alive and whole…"
"No," the false 'Fenris' countered, still feeling the rush of endorphins after his latest session with Hrodwynn, "Master only said he wanted her kept alive. He didn't say we couldn't play with her. Besides," he nudged her in the bruise along her ribs with the toe of his boot, "She's still alive. See? Her tits are moving with her breath. You can even see them quiver with her heartbeat, if you look close enough."
The second man rolled his eyes, but as he was behind the false 'Fenris's back, his insolent act went unnoticed. "Alright, alright, but maybe we should give her a healing potion, even a weak one. Master Danarius does want her alive—at least long enough for the real Fenris to see her and recognize her."
The false 'Fenris' laughed, a hollow and joyless sound, "Now that's something worth living for. Isn't it, love?" he knelt down beside Hrodwynn and stroked her cheek, but she remained unresponsive. "Master Danarius has such plans for you and your knife-ear lover. Oh, I can hardly wait for Master's return, with Fenris chained and in tow. He'll be cowered and submissive again, like a good little slave should be. And Master will allow you two to see each other, one last time. And while Fenris holds you, Master will tell Fenris how he will wipe his memory clean again, then order him to kill you. And Fenris will have to let you go, knowing what's going to happen, and you'll know what's going to happen, and neither one of you will be able to stop it. THAT will be my ultimate revenge."
He didn't notice the lyrium branded into his skin was glowing, the light and the pain such a complete part of him, it seemed as natural as breathing. The other man, however, did see it, and saw his hand pass into the girl's cheek. "She can't hear you, you know. She's passed out cold, hasn't a clue as to what you just said."
The false 'Fenris' snorted, but regained his feet. "Oh, she's heard it before; I've made sure she knows exactly what's coming. And the fear and pain in her eyes, ah, it was delicious." He sauntered unconcerned towards the door, coming up next to the guard and finally seeing the look on his face. "Oh, fine, Laconus, I'll be done for today. Do what you want with her. Give her a healing potion or take a tumble with her yourself; I don't mind sharing. But I warn you, I've already taken the fight out of her—for today, at least."
False 'Fenris' laughed again, the sound eerily echoing down the hallway as he left them.
The guard, Laconus, let go a heavy breath and finished entering the cell. "He's gone, now. You awake?"
Hrodwynn didn't move.
"Just as well, I suppose. Sleep is the only peace you'll find. I am sorry about this," Laconus knelt down beside her and pulled a small vial from his pouch, "But it's your own fault, falling into bed with a knife-ear. An escaped slave, too." He clicked his tongue in disapproval, while he dribbled a small amount of healing potion into her mouth. "There, that should keep you alive, though I imagine you'd rather die now and spare your elven lover the pain, eh? Well, never mind that. I'm here to see to it you live until Master Danarius returns. Course, that doesn't mean I can stop Ma… er, I mean, 'Fenris' from having his fun. Nothing can, not since he convinced Master Danarius to put him through The Procedure." Laconus shuddered, "Man's been different ever since. Insane, I'd say, but then no one listens to me. Not even you, eh?"
Hrodwynn remained unmoving.
"Thought so. I don't mind. Mother always said I talked too much, anyway. Still, I'm here to keep you alive, and you'll be kept alive, until Master Danarius is finished with you, or has Fenris—the real Fenris, that is—finish you off. But if you can hear me," he leaned in close, close enough that his breath fanned her ear and tickled her hair across her temple, "A word to the wise. He likes it when they fight. Girls, that is. He likes to see them struggle and suffer, see the hurt and fear in their eyes. Play dead next time; he might lose interest. Try it or don't, I don't mind," he said a little louder, standing up and moving towards the door, "It'll make my job easier is all, keeping you alive. But either way, you'll live; I promise you that. You'll live right up to the moment that Fenris kills you."
The light from the hallway was cut off when the cell door closed, heavy and solid sounding, final and baneful. Only then did Hrodwynn open her eyes. Only then did she acknowledge that she was awake.
Not that she had been awake for long, only since the healing potion had started to take effect. But it didn't matter that she'd missed half their conversation. She already knew Danarius' plans for her and Fenris—he had told her about those plans in great detail before she'd been taken away in chains to this hellhole. She also already knew of the false 'Fenris' insanity, of his hatred of the real Fenris, and of his sick and perverted lust, and what could spare her the humiliation—but for the life of her, she couldn't stop fighting him. Even knowing it only made matters worse, she couldn't surrender, she couldn't give in, she couldn't break…
She wouldn't break.
Hrodwynn began to take stock of her injuries. Carefully she rolled onto her side, relieved that the pain in her ribs was easing a bit, and pushed herself to a sitting position. She could breathe easier, not too deeply, but it was well enough to keep her lungs strong and healthy. Reaching out she noted that her ankle, too, was feeling less bloated beneath the gentle prodding of her fingers. Even her right shoulder felt like it might be coming back together, and the fresh cut on her lip was already scabbed over and closing. She would live.
Somehow, she clung to hope. Somehow, she had to believe that Danarius would never capture Fenris. Or even if he did, even if Hawke and the others betrayed him, and Danarius brought Fenris back here, submissive and enslaved once more… She clung to the belief that somehow, in some manner, they'd find a way—once they were together again—to defeat Danarius, thwart his plans, and escape.
Next she unwound the strips—fabric that had once been part of her tunic—from her right hand. The potion was still working, slowly, minimally, but she had to test her fingers, she had to test the boundaries of her abilities. If she was going to escape when Fenris arrived, she had to know just how much she could do herself. Unable to see in the pitch blackness of the cell, she used her sense of touch, her left hand supporting her right, as she tested her strength.
She couldn't use her fingers, couldn't bring them close enough to mimic holding a lock pick, before her whole hand spasmed and jerked. Stalled for the time being—she would not be defeated!—she rewrapped the worn strips around the mending bones. Anders could fix her hand; she was sure of it. Fenris would come, they would escape to Kirkwall, and Anders would heal her, and all would be right in the world again.
At least in the darkness, she couldn't see the tears falling from her cheeks and soaking her makeshift bandages.
Fenris couldn't see the other people in the room, his mind too preoccupied with his brooding. Varania was gone, long gone, and far from his mind. Hrodwynn, however, the woman he loved—the woman he couldn't breathe without—though not far from his mind was far from him physically, far from him and in mortal danger. And he'd have to place himself in the same mortal danger to rescue her.
His feet were moving before he finished registering the thought.
"And just where do you think you are going?"
He blinked, wondering how Hawke had suddenly appeared before him. Magic, no doubt, but he couldn't be bothered just then to sneer at the mage and his practice. His whole mind, his whole being, was consumed with one thought, one need, one motive. "I…"
"You what?" Hawke wouldn't even let him get started. "You were going to go to Minrathous, weren't you? To rescue Hrodwynn? And just how were you going to get there, swim?"
"I…"
"And all by yourself, too, it bet. Ha!" he scoffed, "And people call me self-centered."
"I…" Fenris repeated.
"See what I mean? That's all you can say, I, I, I. Well, let me tell you something, Fenris: you are not the only one who cares about her."
"I…"
"He's right," Varric stepped forward, his crossbow still in his hands. "I care for Button, too, you know. So we're coming with you and Hawke, isn't that right, Bianca?" he cooed to the unique contraption, his thick fingers stroking the stock.
"Oh, a trip to Tevinter? This should be exciting. I do so love to travel."
"That's the spirit, Daisy," Varric hummed in approval.
It was quiet for a span of three heartbeats, Fenris finally overwhelmed into silence by the show of loyalty from his friends. All the while Hawke remained standing before him, smiling, rocking on the balls of his feet as if waiting for something more.
"Oh, bullocks!" Isabela sighed, "Why don't you just come right out and ask it? Yes, fine, Hawke, we'll use my ship to get to and from Tevinter. I suppose a ship's got to have her maiden voyage at some point."
"Maiden voyage? Does that mean, your ship's a virgin, until you've sailed her, I mean?"
Isabela considered Merril's question as they fell into step, heading towards the door. "I never really gave that expression much thought before. Technically, the ship has sailed already, loads of times, with Castillon. But this will be the first time I've sailed her, so she is a 'maiden' again—at least as far as I'm concerned…"
Everyone began following the two women, everyone but Hawke and Anders. The two men didn't budge, Hawke staring at Anders, Anders refusing to meet his gaze. "Anders, love," he breathed when he was unable to wait any longer, "Aren't you coming?"
Finally he looked up, and Hawke wished he hadn't, Justice's glow pulsing faintly in his eyes. "No."
"Anders…"
"No!" he repeated, a bit more firmly. "She was supposed to be here… no, wait," he stalked forwards, bypassing Hawke and pinning Fenris with his rage, "She should never have left in the first place. It's all YOUR fault that she's gone… that she's not here… that she's in danger… you hypocrite!"
"Anders," Hawke repeated, a little stronger. They had just finished one fight; he didn't think they should start another quite so soon. Timidly his fingers brushed Anders' elbow, but the other mage didn't notice. "Please, love, we'll need you on this trip. Wynnie will, too, probably, when we find her…"
"NO!" Anders repeated, almost panting with the effort of keeping Justice in check. His fists balled, his eyes squeezed shut, for several heartbeats while he struggled for control. "She was supposed to be here," he started again, when he felt sure enough of himself. "I thought… I hoped… that she had come to her senses… that she had come home at last… But that's not the case, is it? I have been fooling myself." He glared down his nose at Fenris, and Justice pulsed again. "She doesn't care about me, not any more; she loves you. And because of you, she's in danger. So you can go rescue her if you like—all of you! I don't care! I've washed my hands of her—weeks ago!"
"Anders, you can't mean that…" Hawke started, but he never go the chance to finish. The other mage was already turned away, heading towards the door, his face a storm cloud, and Justice' fathomless rage flickering around him like a cloak. Then he was gone.
"No, Hawke," Fenris stopped him from following with a word, "Let him go. He is right: Hrodwynn loves me. And it is my fault she's in danger. And…" he stopped suddenly. He was about to affirm that Anders had washed his hands of Hrodwynn, but now might not be the time to bring that up, considering the hurt that showed only in Hawke's eyes. "And I must do this. I must go. But none of you have to. Hawke, if you need to stay here, speak with Anders, make sure things are alright between the two of you…"
"No, Fenris," the finality on Hawke's voice was deep, "Anders is a grown man; he should act like one. And I'm not going to allow one of his tantrums to interfere with doing what's right." He turned his back on the door and met Fenris' gaze. "You need my help. Hrodwynn needs my help. Let's not keep her waiting any longer, shall we?"
There were no words. There simply were no words to express the deepness of his gratitude. So he pushed it aside—why bother fussing over it if he couldn't do anything about it—and gestured towards the door. "Lead on."
"I always do," Hawke agreed glibly, masterfully hiding his pain.
"You must like this, if you won't even say one little word to make it stop."
Hrodwynn tried to twist away again, but his hands buried themselves into the muscles of her shoulders, pinning her in place. She choked off the cry of pain, her own hands clawing at his arms, her nails trying to break skin and cause him pain. He laughed, allowing her a small scratch before the lyrium started to glow and her hands passed harmlessly through his body.
"You're the one doing this, you bastard, not me," she countered, panting around the ache of freshly re-broken ribs. She tensed her abdomen, willing herself to be strong, and brought her leg up to swipe at his head. She wasn't trying to hurt him, but trying instead to distract and break his concentration, and it worked. His hands pulled out of her shoulders, and she gasped in relief at the reprieve. But before she could shift away, before she could gain any distance from him, his hands groped for her leg still suspended in the air. His smile was cruel, almost gloating, as he took hold of her leg, one hand above her knee, the other below it.
"Are you sure? It could be argued, you just spread your legs for me."
"Maker take you!" she snarled, putting every last ounce of her strength into one desperate punch to his groin. Unfortunately, things did not go as she wished. He was still holding her leg, and as he shifted back to avoid her blow, his hands penetrated her skin and gripped the bones of her leg and twisted. To add insult to injury—or injury to injury rather—her shoulder had dislocated again when his hand was inside there, and she hadn't been able to manage much more than a feeble flop before the pain overwhelmed her.
Pain, her newfound companion. It rocked her body in unseen waves of fire and ice.
It poured into her head and blocked her ears with throbbing pressure.
It made her body start to shut down, turn itself off, close off the outside world in an attempt to escape the overpowering pain.
She was trapped. Trapped inside herself. Surrounded by a wall of pain. Macabrely protecting her from the enemy circling just beyond her defenses.
Then she knew no more.
