A/N: As promised…
Chapter Thirty: When Your Past Catches Up with You
It was the oddest sensation.
Hrodwynn had felt it a couple of times before, once when Fenris phased her hand with his to feel the inside of a practice lock.
There'd been another time, panicky and rushed as they tried to escape the Orlesian Embassy by Fenris phasing them both through the wall—a feat he hadn't been able to manage on his own. But he managed it this time. With help.
It was unnerving, cold, like falling into a mountain stream, only without the sensation of touching anything. It was more like the sensation of touching… well, nothing. Which was disturbing in its own right, as she KNEW Fenris was still touching her, still holding her in his arms, while someone else—fucking-shit it was the false Fenris!—wrapped his arms around them both. Yet even though she wasn't infused with lyrium, they all three passed through the wall, holding on with grip-less fingers, to emerge from the other side as a tumbling mass of limbs.
She rolled the farthest, either because she wasn't as heavy as the other two with their armor, or because she provided less angles to reduce her moment. Either way, cocooned as she was inside Hawke's cloak, as soon as they were through the wall, she flew from Fenris' grasp and rolled across the floor, spinning and twirling until she came to rest several yards beyond them. For a moment she lay there, gasping, trying to catch her breath, willing the world to stop tilting. She lifted her head up, blinking away the tears, trying to focus her vision on the two men gaining their feet and squaring off to face each other.
She was right; there were two of them, two Fenrises, two men with white hair and grafted spirit hide armor and lyrium tattoos. Feeling somewhat placated, she let her head fall back to the floor, and knew no more.
Fenris could not afford the luxury of passing out. He had been surprised, blindsided technically, when another man had phased through a wall and come towards them. Fenris had done the only thing he could, instinctively, without hesitation, and invoked the lyrium in his own flesh, even as the other one tackled both he and Hrodwynn. The momentum carried all three of them through the opposite wall and into this room, a chamber he knew all too well; this was where his life irrevocably changed. Yet he ignored his surroundings for the moment, knowing he had a far more serious and dangerous matter to focus on—the other Fenris.
He wore armor much like Fenris', the grafted spirit hide meticulously made in a similar procedure as the one that fused the lyrium with flesh, so as to be able to phase through objects just like the person who wore it. The other man's lyrium tattoos were the same, too, each line and curve and swirl and pinpoint an exact match to his. Even the man's hair was as white as his own.
But that's where the similarities ended. The other's build was taller, thicker limbed, definitely that of a human male. His hair had been light brown in color, judging by his eyebrows, and in looking closer Fenris could see that he had purposely colored the hair on his head to be white. Added all together, it was obvious that this man had gone to great lengths to impersonate Fenris. No wonder Hrodwynn had been tricked…
Venhedis! he cursed inside his mind. This man… he… what he did… to Hrodwynn…
Even worse, Fenris now remembered him.
"Ma-Matthias!" he gasped, clutching at the stitch in his side. He wasn't hurt, perhaps bruised, but it was mostly the surprise that stole his breath away.
"Leto!" the other countered, joyously sneering at him, relishing their reunion far more than was warranted, "No, wait, I mean Fenris. That's what she calls you, right? Fenris-s-s-s-s-s…"
Alarm bells rang in his head louder than the screams of demons from the Fade. This was wrong. This was very, very wrong. Fenris had to stall, had to buy some time for Hawke and Varric to find them and get to them—because he was going to need their help. He knew he couldn't take Matthias in a fair fight; he certainly hadn't the last time. And he had no idea what it would be like this time, both of them branded with lyrium, and with no master to command them to stop—this fight would be anything but fair. "Danarius gave me that name."
"Listen to yourself, would you? Danarius, you say. Not Master. Not Lord. You have the audacity to call our master by his first name…"
"He is no longer my master," Fenris growled out, the topic would forever be a sore spot with him. He took a moment to calm himself, remembering his training, how to meditate during a conflict so he could set aside his emotions and concentrate on his opponent, allowing him to examine his enemy's skills and techniques in order to exploit a weakness. Slowly he began circling, trying to place himself between Matthias and Hrodwynn, all the while studying how Matthias moved. For good measure, he exaggerated a limp, hoping Matthias would think he was already injured, praying the man would underestimate him.
Matthias didn't take the bait, sneering at and quickly dismissing Fenris' affected gait. Neither did he allow himself to be outmaneuvered, circling Hrodwynn and staying between them. Yet he did grow angry and emotional over Fenris' words. "Vishante kaffas, you ungrateful, knife-eared, pig! Our master chose you! He made you great! He gave you this amazing gift." He lifted a gauntleted hand, the lyrium glowing like a torch. "And how do you repay him? By running away? That doesn't make you free."
"Danarius is dead," Fenris insisted, battling to keep himself calmer while trying to make Matthias grow angrier, "By my own hand. That makes me free!"
Matthias hesitated a moment, almost convinced, before he shook his head. "I don't believe you. And even if that were true, that doesn't make you free; that makes you a murderer! Worse than that! You killed your own master…"
The blow was quick, coming from the side and down low, aiming directly for the stitch in Fenris' side. It was a blow meant to break ribs or at the very least crack them, Matthias' fist tightened up and his knuckles protruding. It was a preemptive strike, one that would cause an injury just serious enough to hurt and slow and distract one's opponent.
It was also predictable—though in a strange way. Fenris saw the blow coming, not so much from his study of Matthias' body language, but from his clouded recollection. It was surreal, a sort of déjà vu that came not so much from the impression that he had done this before, as from the freshly re-remembered memory that he had done this before. He twisted back out of the way, allowing Matthias' hand to glance harmlessly off of him without doing damage, and allowing Fenris to raise his arm and block the blow from the other side that Matthias would be throwing next. He felt the force of something striking the part of his gauntlet that protected his forearm, and knew he had assumed correctly.
Next Fenris took a step back, turning sideways and using his hands to block a kick aimed for his gut. There was a pause, and he couldn't ignore the feeling that he should be doing something, swinging wildly at Matthias as he staggered backwards from the blow—as he had done before. But he hadn't been hit in the gut this time, so he didn't need to stagger, and instead stood there, unsure what to do next. Matthias hesitated, too, almost at as much of a loss as he was, but he recovered quicker and swung again, while Fenris simply waited and pre-reacted to his next half-remembered attack.
As blow after blow occurred, or rather nearly occurred, he realized something very profound: they HAD had this fight before, he and Matthias. It was the same fight, the exact same set of attacks and counters, that they had fought all those years go. It had been here, in this very arena, where Fenris and Matthias and dozens of others competed to become Danarius' experiment, competed to win the boon. Most of them had fought to the death. A few had been maimed. But eventually—after all the bouts, all the broken bones and spilt blood, all the pain both endured and inflicted—only Fenris and Matthias had remained standing.
It had been a struggle every step of the way for Fenris, but Varania had been there, in the stands, her bright-red hair easily picked out from the crowd. It had been a rare treat, Danarius allowing family members to watch the competition, and it served Fenris' well. She had been his constant inspiration, his reason for why he couldn't lose, why he couldn't surrender. If he didn't win, if he didn't use the boon to free her and mother, then Hadriana would get her hands on Varania and do unspeakable things, experiments, agonies…
And now, today, Hrodwynn was there, her dark red hair just visible over Matthias' shoulder, a constant reminder of why he couldn't lose, only this time the unspeakable things had already been done to her.
Back then, Leto had fought, a young and fairly scrawny elven slave, untutored and unsophisticated in the ways of combat. But he had heart, he had resolve, and he had more reason to win than any other slave there that day. Matthias had been bigger than him, taller and thicker and outweighing him by at least four stone; an unequal match if ever there was one. And though Leto had fought hard and long, though Leto had tried every trick he knew—and more than a few he made up on the spot—he had been no match for the stronger and more powerful Matthias.
It was almost sad in a way, Fenris hummed to himself, blocking another kick before countering with a jab into the soft and fleshy part of the thigh. Here they were, the two of them, back in this room, this arena, where it all began, a place Matthias had never left, it seemed. Where Fenris had changed, grown, and studied, Matthias had held on to his lost victory with bitter resolve, reliving it over and over in his mind. He had remained stagnant, un-evolved, and trapped, never realizing one very powerful, and equally inescapable truism: if life doesn't evolve and grow, it dies.
Such as Fenris' blow to the inside of his leg, jabbing at the femoral artery and a cluster of nerves nearby. It was something that hadn't played out the last time, something that Leto hadn't known to do, but rather something that a trained and studied Fenris had learned. And so this time around, Matthias hadn't expected it, hadn't anticipated that his opponent would do anything other than what he had done the last time. Matthias cried out, surprised by the change as well as the burst of pain, and limped back out of the way to regroup.
Fenris appreciated the reprieve, needing his own moment to regroup, before he was mentally driven to distraction. Leto was there, in his head, coming through in fits and spurts. But it wasn't as if Fenris was Leto any longer; it was more like Leto was another person, his memories coming back disjointed and separate from Fenris, like a book he had read or a story he had heard. Yes, Leto was a real person, had been a real person, and had a life and a family and trials and triumphs just as an other person. But Leto was not Fenris. And though this room, this battle, brought more and more of Leto's past to light, it was still Fenris who stood there—not Leto, Fenris who fought for his loved one—not Leto, and Hrodwynn who relied upon him to save her—not Varania.
Fenris had changed, and there was one very important and obvious way he had changed, since his last battle with Matthias. In a flash, he lunged forward, going on the attack, no longer waiting for the half-remembered-already-played-out battle from years ago. In the time since then, he had come to learn that his body, though thin, did have muscle, long and lean muscles that were deceptively stronger than they appeared. He grappled at Matthias, tackling him around his waist, his momentum carrying them both through the air for several yards before hitting the ground with a solid thud. Matthias grunted, the air knocked out of him for a moment. The next moment he nearly choked when Fenris' gauntleted hand phased into his throat.
"You…!"
"Careful, Matthias," Fenris warned, "One wrong twitch, and I could accidentally break your neck."
Matthias' eyes dropped to where his arm was glowing with bluish-white light, and suddenly he began to laugh. Broken, smothered, but it was laughter, spurting out of his mouth with a mixture of blood and spittle. "You… never learned… enough about… our… power…"
He shouldn't fall for it, he knew he shouldn't fall for it, but curiosity was ever the downfall of even the wisest of men. "What do you mean?" he eased his fingers, just a little, and demanded, "Answer me!"
Matthias managed a big smile, his teeth and gums stained pink, "The rules are different… when there's two…"
The human invoked his lyrium, phasing into that between state already occupied by Fenris' hand. Now it was Fenris' turn to cry out, his hand feeling like it had partially solidified inside a wall or some other solid mass. Matthias looked to be in about as much pain as he, but didn't flinch.
Fenris, surprised, did flinch. He flinched and tried to pull his hand away, instinctively, but it was stuck fast. This was something new, something unexpected, something he hadn't considered beforehand in his meditative state, but he should have. He'd seen the markings, he'd seen Matthias phase through a wall and carry both he and Hrodwynn through another wall—of course Matthias could use the lyrium in his body as Fenris used the lyrium in his own. But this unusual result of what happens when both their bodies phased into the same place, this was not something he could have anticipated.
He did the only thing he could do. He solidified his hand, becoming corporeal once more and leaving Matthias phased. The pain eased somewhat, or at least changed from imploding compression to excruciating dispersement, yet he remained unable to pull free. Matthias, however, was able to move, bunching his legs which weren't phased and throwing Fenris off.
The elf flew threw the air, taken off guard at first but quickly recovering. He rolled as he hit the floor for a third time, absorbing the force and coming to rest crouched on his feet. One hand braced against the ground, only the fingertips touching, as he stared and studied his opponent while Matthias staggered to his feet. A new aspect of their fight was now taking shape in his mind; no longer were they reliving the battle from before. They had turned a corner and were on new ground, forging a path down a new trail, leaving predictability behind and racing into the unknown.
But one thing from before had remained unchanged: Fenris was outmatched.
"Alluvin valla kal."
"You first," Matthias coughed, rubbing at his aching throat. Suddenly he dropped his hand and lunged forward, his right side leading the way, coming up on Fenris fast, gauntlets clenched into fists. Fenris rose up from his crouch, studying the maneuver, and prepared himself for a kick from Matthias' left leg. He wasn't disappointed, easily blocking the leg that came swinging as soon as he was within reach. Next Fenris ducked, avoiding the second kick from the other leg. Almost in the same heartbeat he struck back, his balled fist striking at Matthias' unguarded groin, only to find himself off balance and falling forwards as his hand passed through Matthias' phased body. With no other choice, and wanting a bit of space to regroup once more, Fenris used the power in his legs to propel the rest of himself after his fist, passing completely through Matthias and coming to a stop behind him. He spun and assumed a fighting stance of his own as Matthias also spun to face him.
"Nice trick," he allowed, keeping most of the ire out of his voice, "But I've used that one myself."
"Oh, I'm sure you have. You've no doubt learned quite a few tricks, some, anyway," Matthias also allowed, "The easier ones, the more obvious ones you would have stumbled across on your own. But after you left—after you ran away!—our master took the time to do a little more research into this… style, let's call it. This style of warrior."
"You're talking too much," Fenris ground out, letting his irritation show. Actually, he was grateful for Matthias' blathering; it helped stall for time, which would allow Varric and Hawke to find the entrance and reach them. And he knew, the more he complained about it, the more Matthias would talk.
Which he did. "I want you to know, I want you to understand, that leaving our master to die in Seheron was the worst mistake of your life!" He threw a knife from his belt, aimed directly for Fenris' chest, which the elf quickly phased so the knife could pass harmlessly through. Matthias followed the knife, however, or rather his fist did, passing into Fenris' chest… and then glowing as his lyrium was invoked.
"Venhedis!" Fenris gasped, or tried to. It wasn't quite the same as what he would do, passing into someone's chest and wrapping his fist around their heart, because they were both phased. But it was similar enough to give him a glimpse into the horror of FEELING and SEEING another person holding your very heart—your very life—in their hands.
But with both of them infused with lyrium, the pain was… difficult to explain. It was like a pressure, an almost electrical sensation, somewhat akin to the feel in the air just before lightning strikes. But it was also more than that. There was a sort of reverse-wind without movement, like the attraction of magnets or the suction of an undertow, a sensation of two separate things trying to, and wanting to, occupy the same space. And the more of them that became phased together, the more of the rest of their bodies that wanted to join the phased part.
It was an all but irresistible force, but he resisted it. With a feral cry, stunted and slurred thanks to Matthias' fist, he threw his own, though solid, fist directly at the man's temple, making him stagger backwards and taking his hand with him. Fenris gasped as they broke free, his lyrium dulling, his fingers rubbing at the spot on his torso, needing to make sure there were no holes left behind. Though his ears were ringing from the blow, Matthias recovered his focus quicker, and countered with a kick aimed directly at the elf's now-solid chest, and once more Fenris found himself falling horizontally through the air.
He slammed into the wall with a crash, limbs splayed, knocking over a weapons rack and sending the blades scattering across the floor. He barely managed to get his feet beneath him and keep himself from falling all the way to the floor. As he straightened up, he resisted the urge this time to rub at his chest, ignoring that part of his mind which was imaging he could still feel Matthias' fist around his heart, and that mysterious force trying to pull their bodies into one. He sunk himself back into his meditative state, and tried to predict what Matthias' next move might be.
"Now, I think, now at long last, you're beginning to see your folly," Matthias gloated. "After Seheron, after our master finally made it home safe and sound, the first thing he did was to send out men to track you down and bring you back. The lyrium in your body—our bodies—is very expensive. He wanted to take it back, out of you—you ungrateful knife-eared bastard—and reuse it to make a new warrior, a better warrior, a more faithful warrior.
"Oh, he had his doubts about you from the start," Matthias was circling Fenris now, kicking a dagger out of the way as he forced the elf to retreat, "He told me so himself, when he chose me to be his second warrior. He said, he only chose you over me, not because you were the better fighter; I proved I was the best fighter he had! But he chose you, because you never gave up. Even when you were defeated, even when I was seconds away from breaking your spine, you would not admit defeat. He like that about you, our master did, and that's why YOU were chosen over ME.
"But he did know your reason for not giving up, your mother and sister. That was touching, yes, but it was your weakness, your downfall. Our master doubted your resolve to keep to your part of the bargain, once your family was freed. He doubted you would remain so faithful and indomitable, without their presence as a constant reminder. So he had your memory wiped, as part of The Procedure, gave you a new name, a new purpose, and kept you in the dark about your past so as to keep your faithfulness. You'll note," Matthias grinned, an expression that was cruel and vicious on his lips, "That I still have my memories."
Keep talking, just keep talking, I don't care what the fuck you say as long as you keep talking…
"That's because my motivation isn't as, oh, let's call it, 'selfless' as your's. I didn't want this for another; I wanted this for myself. I didn't want women or gold or freedom. I cared nothing for the boon. I WANTED everyone to know that I was the strongest, that I was our master's favorite, that I was the BEST! That's why my memory wasn't wiped, once our master had enough lyrium scraped together to perform The Procedure again. Not being able to capture you and remove the lyrium from your flesh did set him back for a time, but only for a few years. When he was ready to try again, he chose ME! He explained to me where he went wrong with you. He explained how he could see it now, that I was the better choice. And he knew he wouldn't have to manipulate me to keep me at his side, because I WANTED to be at his side. He knew he could trust me, because I wanted everyone to know that I deserved this position and power and glory. And I have never failed him, unlike you have."
"He's dead, Matthias," Fenris countered, "By my hand, remember? I'd say, that would constitute an epic fail."
Wrong thing to say, Fenris realized too late. It angered Matthias, true, and made him emotional and impulsive and reckless, but it also stopped the ranting. He lunged at Fenris, arms spread in a grappling posture, gauntleted fingers resembling talons, face screwed up and reddened with rage. "LIAR!" he screamed as they fell to the floor in a mess of limbs and leather and lyrium.
It was a difficult fight, undisciplined, without stratagem or goal, more like a towering ire or a force of nature. And it was hard for Fenris to maintain his meditative state, to study Matthias so he could know when to phase his face before those talons could tear his flesh from his cheekbone, or when to grow solid before the same fist could phase itself with his brain-matter. His own taloned fingers shoved deep into Matthias' eye socket, only to find he phased through as well.
The knee to his groin was not expected, coming down hard and solid and thankfully missing his more sensitive bits, but finding the inside of his thigh and pinching it painfully against the floor. He punched at Matthias' head again, counting on the fact that he would phase through, swinging his other leg up and around Matthias' hips and using the momentum to roll them over, switching positions.
"Why!" Fenris demanded, trying to think, trying to find a way to get Matthias talking again. "Why did you do it? Why did you put yourself through The Procedure? Didn't you see what it did to me? The constant pain? The obvious markings that make everyone stare at you?"
"I…" Matthias' tried to do the same trick Fenris had just done, but of course that was expected and easily countered. He went deceptively calm for a moment, which perversely left Fenris more on edge, before he answered, "I like the attention."
Matthias finally had a plan. Fenris gasped as he disappeared, invoking so much of the lyrium that he faded from view, becoming less substantial than mist. The elf felt something cool without substance pass through him, and knew Matthias had gotten away.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Matthias' ethereal voice floated from around the room as the almost undetectable shade circled him like a slowly rotating tornado. "If you had stayed, you might have learned this little trick, too. But you didn't stay. You betrayed our master. So when he put in more research, more study about what type of warriors we could be, about our talents and abilities, about our potential, he gave all that knowledge to me. He trained me in techniques you haven't even dreamed of. I didn't go through all this to be more like you, Fenris."
The voice seemed far away, but Fenris wasn't fooled. He didn't flinch in the slightest when the voice was suddenly right behind him.
"Because I've always been better than you!"
He swung, making to strike hard and fast at the back of Fenris' neck. But then Fenris, too, faded into nothing before Matthias' taloned fingers could make contact with flesh.
"You're not superior, Matthias, not quite yet," Fenris countered. Now he was the one floating about the room, watching the other searching for him. "You may have learned a lot from studying ancient manuscripts where half the ink has faded, buy my teacher was experience. It's one thing to practice on a matted floor, where your opponent will stop and give you a breather once you tap out. It's quite another, when you're fighting for your life, when tapping out means death. You discover things about yourself in those moments, truths you might never have faced, depths to your soul you might never have explored, if you hadn't been forced to do so."
"Is that so?" Matthias turned ethereal again, and the two were completely blocked from each other's sight. "And yet, I seem to be able to outmaneuver you at every turn."
"Oh?" Fenris had to judge Matthias' location on his voice alone, giving him even more motivation to keep him talking.
"I knew you'd be coming here, I was expecting you, but you had no way of expecting me. And I knew what would happen, when the two of us phased together. You hadn't anticipated that."
"Quite true," Fenris allowed, thinking Matthias was near the upset weapons rack, "I hadn't."
"And," Matthias' voice was oozing with ugliness, "I gave that girl of yours the tumble of her life! I've ruined her for you, for other men. Forever. That's a move you can never counter."
The pain of that statement rang through Fenris' ears, bypassing his brain and landing directly at his heart, staggering him. Oh, Blessed Andraste, or merciful Maker, how true and ugly were those words. He'd already seen the signs of it, her reluctance to being touched, to even looking at him, especially when his markings were glowing. "Is that why?" he breathed, fighting to sound calm, "Is that why you did all this? Made yourself look like me? The armor? The lyrium? The hair?"
Matthias laughed, the sound coming from just beside Hrodwynn's still form. "Not at first, no. I wanted the lyrium, I wanted to be our master's favorite, for the status alone. When she showed up, when I learned who she was to you, Master Danarius told me I could do with her as I wished, just so long as I didn't kill her. That is to be your fate, you know: once Master Danarius recaptured you and brought you home in chains, he would graciously allow a touching reunion with your love. Only she would know already that your memory was to be wiped again, before Master Danarius would order you to kill her. And she knew it, knew every detail of what was coming; I made sure of it."
Fenris trembled at that, even though Danarius was dead, because of all the suffering Hrodwynn must have gone through, all the torment, all the anguish. No wonder she wasn't as overjoyed to see him as she should have been, even considering the abuse, not if she had been told that their reunion would be the preamble to her death.
"But that first time," Matthias sighed, phasing just a little back into reality, just enough to be able to ruffle a lock of her hair, "Fasta vass, that first time… What a fight! Maker, how she got my blood racing." He laughed, wicked and sadistic, freezing Fenris' blood, freezing him to the spot. He grew more solid as he leaned over her and licked the side of her face. "You know, when she first saw me, when I first entered her cell, phasing through the door, she cried out in relief and called me Fenris. Me. She thought I was you." He laughed again, leaning back from her, his hand now tugging at the neck of the cloak, thinking to pull it away from her. "That's what gave me the idea. Oh, she figured it out quick enough, that I was not you. But by that time, it didn't matter. I knew what I could do, I had a plan, on how to spoil your eventual reunion even further. So, yes, I dyed my hair to match yours. And I took to going barefoot… anything I could think of, really, to match your description. One thing that's always puzzled me, however: how the fuck do you manage it, going around barefooted all the time? I feel like I'm going to stub my toe, or step into something unpleasant and have to wash my feet. Bleh."
The inner turmoil was gargantuan, a tsunami of emotion, anger and pain and love and fear and angst… But the suddenly irrelevant comment about the boots gave Fenris' mind something to focus on, something to distract him from the emotions he was not currently equipped to handle. He took a breath, then another, then a plan began to form inside his head. He knew, he understood, that there would be no more stalling, that Varric and Hawke would not reach them in time. He also knew what he had to do. With a direction and a purpose once more, he was able to calm himself enough and answer, "I've always wondered how you humans manage to keep your balance, without your toes free to grip the ground."
His own toes were gripping the ground, as he came back into solid form. He dove for the final time at Matthias, hitting him solidly in the shoulder, pulling him away from Hrodwynn. The two men rolled, end-over-end, across the floor, phasing and grappling and cursing and clawing. It was how their first fight had ended, something perhaps Fenris should have avoided, but with that other plan in place, he knew it truly didn't matter what position they ended up in. So yes, he played his part—the part of Leto—and wrestled with a human twice his size. He struggled and bit and taunted and kicked… and eventually lost.
"Now, this is sad," Matthias hummed. He was on top of Fenris, a knee in his back, his hands on Fenris' wrists and pulling his arms behind him so far they were nearly dislocated. Fenris' torso was curved, bent backwards around Matthias' knee, and on the verge of breaking. He could hardly breathe, twisted as he was, but he didn't struggle any longer—he couldn't even phase himself free, as Matthias kept shifting with him, causing him even more pain until he stopped trying and accepted his fate.
The last time they had fought, the two of them had reached this exact spot, Matthias reluctantly offering him the option of surrender. Leto had refused to give up, and Matthias had been about to break his back and kill him, when Danarius commanded they stop.
When Danarius chose Leto as the winner.
But there would be no winner today. Maybe Varric and Hawke; they were far enough away, they probably would survive the coming blast. And Hrodwynn might, if the Maker was kind and spared her, but he and Matthias were finished.
"Our master isn't here this time to spare you."
"Who said…" venhedis, but it was a battle just to speak, "Anything… about… sparing… our lives…"
"Our…?" Matthias repeated, only now beginning to wonder why Fenris had tried something he knew would fail, only now beginning to think he might have an ulterior motive, only now seeing how this might turn out differently than before. "No…"
"Yes," Fenris panted, the lyrium in his flesh coming to life. But he didn't use it to phase out. He built it up, the energy within him, possibly his very life-force, but every ounce of anger and fear and love, every urging of necessity, every impulse of instinct, every fiber of his nature. It all grew within him, combined with the lyrium, spreading around him like a white-hot dome of pure power.
"NO!" Matthias repeated, building up his own spirit pulse, using it to hold Fenris' at bay. "How did you know about… never mind… you can't do this… it's suicide!"
"Better that," he admitted, "Than allowing you to suffer one more day of breathing."
He pushed even harder, trying to pulse out at Mathias, trying to break through his barrier, trying to kill him.
"I told you…" Matthias grunted, trying to stay ahead of Fenris, "With there being… two of us… the rules… are different…"
"I heard you," Fenris was growing calmer, knowing they would eventually tire and their pulses would flare and combine and kill them both.
"But you'll… you'll bring the whole mansion down on our heads! You'll kill her, too! Is that what you want?!"
Fenris turned his head towards Hrodwynn's form. She was moving, sluggish and slow, encumbered by the cloak, struggling into consciousness. Maker willing, she wouldn't have the time to become fully aware before the end. He closed his eyes and turned his face away, not wishing to see what might happen to her next. "After the pain she's endured… after the torment you've put her through… it'll be a mercy, sending her to the Maker's side, giving her eternal peace."
Matthias growled again, desperate and fearful and angry and almost animalistic. "I'll… I'll kill you, first… I'll break your back…" the pressure on his spine increased, "I'll tear your arms off…" one of his shoulders dislocated, "I'll drive the pulse against you, smother you into the very floor, shatter your very fibers apart."
Fenris cried out, feeling something like tearing happening near the small of his back.
Suddenly the pressure all but stopped. A knife had been thrown, unerringly, at Matthias' face. It couldn't penetrate the pulse building around them, there had been no hope of that. But that had never been the knife's purpose. It had sailed across the room, aimed directly for Matthias' eye, but not to pierce his skull and sink into his brainpan. It had been meant to attract his eye, to flash with reflected torchlight, to spin and tumble and ricochet off at an angle.
It had been meant only as a distraction, and it worked.
Fenris pulled his arms free, not even having to phase Matthias' was so startled by the blade. He braced his good arm against the floor and twisted around, feeling his back protest the movement but still allow it. Matthias leaned away, just that fatally small amount, and Fenris was able to take control of both their spirit pulses, combine them, and send them against Matthias. At the very last moment, he tried to focus the energy, the main force of it at least, upwards at Matthias and away from anyone standing off to the side. But there was only so much control one could claim over a force of nature.
The pulse spread itself outwards from him, knocking down anything that was upright, sending the dislodged weapons rack—and all the others—skittering across the floor. The torches had been blown out, their fires smothered from the shockwave.
Yet the main force of the explosion and been focused at Matthias, hitting him squarely, blowing him up and away, fragmenting him into matter finer than mist before slamming into the ceiling. The timbers and stonework high overhead shook for a moment, hundreds of years of dust getting knocked off to rain down. Fenris held his breath, in part to keep from choking on the congealed dust, in part to pray that the ceiling would not shatter apart and fall down on his head. He waited in darkness to learn of his fate: life, or death.
After a few minutes of listening to creaking timbers, grinding rocks, sudden showers of dust and debris, the air eventually grew quiet. It appeared, thank the Maker, that life was to be his fate after all. Then a new sound reached his ears, the soft pants of another person, and he knew Hrodwynn miraculously had survived as well. He rolled onto his side, groaned as his back protested but amazingly it was still working properly, and pushed himself up into a sitting position.
It was tempting, it was so very tempting he almost did it without thought, he almost invoked his lyrium brands to give himself some light to see by. But he remembered what Matthias had done to Hrodwynn, and worried what she might think—what she might feel—if he came at her now, glowing in the darkness. So he kept his markings muted and, using sound alone to guide him, he began crawling and pulling himself across the floor, hands groping as though blind, searching faithfully for what he knew had to be there.
As it turned out, Hrodwynn wasn't hard to find. She had been knocked down by the explosion, but thankfully hadn't sustained any serious injury. She was already sitting up, too, sitting and listening and waiting for whatever it was crawling towards her. She heard the soft grunts of effort, the pants of pain, the slithering of hurt limbs being dragged across the floor. Alone in the darkness as she was, her mind should have been imagining all sorts of horrors and monsters approaching her out of the pitch blackness. But she had already suffered through hell. She had already fought monsters. There was nothing more that could frighten her.
Especially with a knife in her hand. True, her right hand was still twisted and tucked securely inside the cloak, but very few knew she was ambidextrous, that she could use her left hand just as easily as her right. That's the arm that was now outside the cloak. That's the hand that had precisely thrown the dagger at Matthias. That's the hand that, even now, held a second dagger ready to swipe forward and slash through the windpipe of whatever was crawling towards her. As if sensing this, sensing her thoughts, her motives, her plans, the slithering stopped just a few feet from her.
The panting continued, exhausted and battered yet still victorious. Then a voice spoke, that lovely and longed-for voice, that deep and gravely voice, speaking that one word that she alone ever heard, "Amatus."
Tears broke, unseen in the darkness, escaping her lashes to rain unfelt onto the cloak. Her hand dropped to her side, the knife shoved away, before she reached out into the black and answered, "Fen."
Two sets of fingers found each other, twisting themselves into lover's knots.
Light burst onto them, spilling from a doorway that was still opening up. There was a figure kneeling there, silhouetted to one side of the frame, tall and slender and full of curves as she stood up. It wasn't hard to imagine the twinkle in her eyes as she called out, "Found them!"
"At long last," a second figure voiced a long-suffering sigh, pushing around the first to race into the room, a wicked-looking, long-handled mace held tightly within his fist. "Fenris! Hrodwynn! Are you alright?"
"More importantly," Varric followed on Hawke's heels, torch in hand, "Where's the other one?"
"Right, almost forgot about that," Isabela purred, striding into the chamber with two more men in tow, each carrying torches. "The other Fenris. I'd like to meet him." As they approached the two figures on the floor, as the torches brought more and more of the scene to light, Isabela's eyes narrowed down into two vengeful slits of righteous retribution. "I'd really like to meet him. Now. Where is he."
It was less a request and more a command. Fenris, however, was too battered and fatigued to give an answer. Upon seeing their friends arrive, and knowing that they were safe—at least from Matthias—his inexhaustible reserves were finally exhausted. He allowed himself to lie back onto the floor, easing his back into a more comfortable position, holding his injured shoulder with his other hand. Hrodwynn had let go of his fingers at the first sign of light, not out of guilt but more from being startled. She sat there, her face turned towards the others, but from his prone position he could see her eyes would lift no higher than their knees.
"I'm waiting for an answer."
No one had ever heard Isabela's voice so deep, so full of anger and rage. Fenris was unable to answer, however, so Hrodwynn had to. "He's gone," she breathed, sniffed, then used her hand to rub hard and slow at her cheek, stretching and pulling the skin where Matthias had licked her.
Fenris closed his eyes; if he could raise Matthias from the dead, just to kill him again, he would. He swallowed thickly, stuffing away the guilt and anger—that wasn't going to help Hrodwynn right now. He had to be strong, for her sake. He willed away the pain, both emotional and physical, and added, "Spirit pulse. I blew him apart."
"Damn, that must've been some kind of a fight," Varric drawled, gazing around the chamber, following Fenris' trail where he had dragged himself through the dust, back to where it lay thickest on the floor. It was almost comical, the outline of a body still there, where the dust had settled all around—and on top—of the elf right after he had blown Matthias into nothingness. "Couldn't have saved even a little bit for us, huh? Greedy elf."
"You're quite welcome to sweep up the dust."
"Did… did you just make a joke?"
"I quipped, it's different," he deadpanned, suppressing the gasp of pain as Hawke helped him to sit up. Sweat broke out over his forehead as his back spasmed and his arm hung awkwardly from his shoulder, but he managed to keep his voice normal as he added, "I see Isabela's joined us, so the fighting must be over."
"Wasn't much of a fight to begin with," Isabela sighed, slipping her daggers back into their sheaths, now that she knew there'd be no chance for her to exact her own revenge. "The slaves of course didn't fight, so we left them alone," she added before Fenris could object. "And most of the soldiers wisely chose the option of seeking new employment with a patron who wasn't deceased. But the treasure was right where you said it would be, Fenris. Thanks for that. I've left Merril in charge of seeing it brought safely back to my ship and stowed away."
"You're welcome."
"I, er, suppose you're expecting a share of it, some sort of finder's fee?"
He twisted his neck and glanced over his shoulder to where he could see Hrodwynn. "I have what I came for."
"Good. We should get going, then. You two," she turned to the two crewmen who had accompanied her. "Scout ahead, make sure the way back to the ship is clear."
"Hey, I wouldn't mind a share of the treasure, if you're handing out free samples," Varric protested.
"It would have to be free," Isabela snarked, "As you didn't do anything to help secure the treasure."
"I was with Hawke and Fenris," he argued, "Looking for Button. Which, you'll remember, is the whole reason why we came here in the first place."
"And you would probably still be running around down here, lost," she countered, "If I hadn't come along…"
Hrodwynn's face was turned away from Fenris, watching the two banter. He took advantage of the distraction to set his shoulder, using the lyrium to do so. Hawke made a face and leaned back, but other than that gave no sign that anything untoward had happened.
"Help me up."
Hawke stared at the hand, not because it had just been phased, but because he really didn't think Fenris could stand on his own at that moment. "No, first you're taking a healing potion," he began fumbling at the pouch on his waist. "Then, we'll see if you can keep your feet."
Fenris panted, his back spasming with pain, his shoulder still throbbing, but he knew the offered healing potion would help with that. He took the bottle, unstoppered it with his teeth as he really didn't want to use his hurt arm at all, and lifted it in a toast. "Benefaris."
"Bless you," he answered, the word sounding more like a sneeze than a toast. He turned away, preferring to watch the banter still going on than remember the sight of Fenris phasing his own hand into his own flesh…
"Hawke," Fenris grunted, tossing aside the empty phial, "Would you mind carrying Hrodwynn? I don't think I can manage it at the moment." Maker, how he longed to take her in his arms, but that wouldn't be prudent right now.
There was something else Fenris wasn't saying, but Hawke for once didn't press the issue. "Yes, of course. Come along, my dear. Let's resume this rescue, shall we?"
Isabela broke off her affected banter with the dwarf. She had seen out of the corner of her eye, when Hawke moved to do as Fenris asked, how Hrodwynn had braced herself, as if shoring up her courage to be touched. She knew the signs, far better than any man could understand, and moved to head him off. "Oh, let me do that. You'd probably drop her on her head, trying to juggle both Button and your staff, erm, I mean, mace." She eyed Hawke, somewhat menacingly, but he submissively stepped back from the two women, hands spread in a placating gesture—his mace was once more secured to his back, but he didn't point that out. Then she knelt down and set her hand on Hrodwynn's bare shoulder, smiling warmly and reassuringly when the girl looked up to her face. "Come on, luv, let's go home."
Hrodwynn nodded in answer and allowed Isabela to scoop her up with far less reluctance than she had felt for Hawke. If Isabela was surprised at how light she was, thanks to her month-long imprisonment, she gave no sign. Instead she started for the doorway, all the while speaking softly and encouragingly to Hrodwynn, letting the men follow at their own pace.
Hrodwynn didn't answer, didn't try to contribute to the conversation Isabela was having with her. Normally, that would concern Fenris, but after everything that had happened… he was heartened, because he saw Hrodwynn relax, tuck her head into the crook of Isabela's neck, even wrap her good arm around her back.
And if anyone noticed any trembling, or saw any tears, or heard any sobs, it was never mentioned.
