"You can't be serious."
Aveline stared disapprovingly down at him over crossed arms. Fenris held his hands open entreatingly as Bethany ran past them and began pulling books off the lower end of the guard-captain's bookshelf. Fenris grabbed her and lifted her into his arms, after correcting the books.
"Aveline, there's nobody else I trust," he pleaded. "I know you've already given me more favors and helped me far more than I deserve, but please, Ineed you to take care of Bethany for me."
Aveline sighed heavily. "Fenris…"
"If not for me, then do it for Hawke."
The ginger woman stared hard at the elf, as if weighing his sincerity, then sighed again. "You said yourself that Hawke is dead."
"She's in the Fade," Fenris corrected firmly. "Not dead."
"Probably dead then. It's been weeks now since this occurred, even if she survived this – this nightmare demon – there's no way she could survive that long in the Fade without food or drink."
"In the Fade, imagination defines reality. All she has to do is imagine that she has sustenance, and she will," he argued.
Aveline pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. "Alright…alright. Clearly there's no arguing with you on this. For Hawke then, and for her daughter, if not for you. I just hope you don't end up leaving your daughter with two dead parents instead of one."
Fenris's heart soared. In that moment, he almost could've hugged the warrior, but her expression warned him he would regret it if he did. "I will send word once I have Hawke," he promised.
He set Bethany down and held her so she looked him in the eyes. "I'm going away now," he told her, "and I might be gone for a while. But Aveline and Donnic are going to take excellent care of you, and they'll make sure you're safe." By this point Bethany had lost interest and had run off, but he looked back up at Aveline, his expression pained. "She likes humming. Or singing. Or any kind of music. It soothes her when she gets temperamental."
Aveline's exasperated look softened somewhat, and she nodded. The two clasped hands, shaking them solemnly, before the elf turned to leave. Just before he reached the door, Aveline called to him.
"Here…passage across the Waking Sea isn't cheap," she said, tossing him a small pouch of money. Fenris tucked it into his belt with a nod of thanks, and closed the door behind him just in time to hear Bethany begin to cry. The sound tore at his heart, but he steeled himself and strode away, trying to feel purpose in his heart instead of dread that Aveline was right.
How Hawke had managed this when she fled Ferelden, Fenris thought to himself as the floor beneath him pitched for the thousandth time that day, he would never know. She'd told him that the trip took two weeks cramped in the hold of a tiny boat. As his hands and feet blistered from rubbing against the coarse wood of the floor, to keep himself from sliding around, and his leggings and jerkin had long since rubbed his skin raw from the wet material being constantly against his skin, Fenris thanked the Maker that his trip was to be much shorter.
Only four days had passed before the side of the ship bumped into the dock and the gangplank slid out to connect the tiny boat with dry land. Fenris trudged out of the hold and down the plank, and gingerly hobbled onto the dock. As if the heavens themselves had been waiting for this moment, the oppressive clouds parted to allow some weak rays of sunshine through.
Fenris had never usually been one to suffer from sea-sickness on the water, or sea-legs on dry land, but this trip was already testing his endurance. And so it was with only a slight wobble to his step that he set off in a generally south-east direction.
Finding people who would take him in the direction he wanted to go was easy. This "Inquisitor" that Hawke had written about was fairly unheard of in the small village that he and Hawke had settled into in the Free Marches. Here in Ferelden, the title was on most people's lips and was spoken with a reverence rivaling Andraste's name. It took almost no effort for him to find someone heading in the direction of Skyhold fortress, and only slightly more effort to find someone willing to let him ride along with them. As far as anybody was concerned, he was simply another refugee seeking protection with the Inquisition.
The group he'd chosen to travel with, a farmer's family, were cheerful enough despite the chaos going on. "The inkistator is fighting demons and darkspawn!" one of the three children cried as they dramatically acted out the slaying of some foe, complete with waving invisible swords and casting invisible spells. The mother shushed them, and they all continued on their way.
The days were largely monotonous, just an endless march through the dirt, with the children riding on the ox-drawn cart whenever they got tired. They told stories to pass the time, though Fenris tended to keep most of his to himself. He did tell them, however, of a wolf who'd broken free of captivity, and had had his soul saved by a hawk, and how the two of them became close friends who protected each other always. The children laughed at such a silly story, but the two parents looked at each other knowingly. Eventually, the oldest child pointed out Fenris's lyrium markings and asked what they were.
Fenris hesitated before answering. "They are…tattoos."
"They don't look like no tattoos I ever saw." The girl drew closer to him, to get a better look. "They's white. Most tattoos are dark."
"They're special tattoos," the elf said shortly. He didn't feel it appropriate to explain the full story behind the painful markings, especially to a child. The mother seemed to take the hint, and drew the girl into a different conversation.
Though Fenris was thankful for the lack of truly big monsters attacking, he did end up protecting them all from wolves, giant spiders, and even a single tiny dragonling. He refrained from using his lyrium markings. That was more for the sake of not scaring the farmers than anything.
Finally, the group finally began trekking up the foothills of the Frostback Mountains. Fenris guessed that it might take over a week to make the trek up the mountain, maybe two if he stayed at the snail's pace of the farmer's family. The thought of taking that long made his stomach clench up tight; after all, the longer he took, the more likely it was that something would happen to Hawke in the Fade. He struggled with what to do; on one hand, this family had a slim chance of making it to the hold by their selves, but on the other hand he had to get to Hakwe.
He was in the middle of a particularly intense mental debate when a throaty yell jerked him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see a short, dirty man blocking the path. Behind him were half a dozen similarly-armed thugs, grinning confidently at them.
"Lookie here, lads," the leader drawled, "more refugees for Skyhold, looks like. There's a tax on this road, you know, and it has to be paid to ensure that the path up stays clear and safe. Upkeep n' all, y'know."
"I don't know, boss," one of the thugs behind him said suddenly, pointing at Fenris. "That one's not like any refugee I ever saw." Fenris stared the man down, and the other man dropped his eyes.
"That's why it's just a tax, instead of, say, a refugee tax. They pay it regardless of if they're refugees or not." The leader turned back to the group, smiling in what he probably thought was a friendly manner. "Tell you what. You lot obviously only took what you could carry on your backs. Fleein' the mages and Templars, and the demons, am I right? I'll do you a favor. The tax is usually twenty five silvers a head, but I'll give you a break, on the account of you being poor and all. I'll only ask ten silvers each." He gave a greasy grin. Fenris felt his temper flare up, bubbling beneath his skin.
The farmer and his wife were flabbergasted. "We don't have that kind of money!" the wife protested. "We were barely able to save some clothes and food for ourselves!"
The leader tutted. "Well that won't do at all!" he exclaimed. "We can't let you pass, then."
As one of the children began crying and the husband tried bargaining with the man, Fenris surprised them all by stalking up to the bandit leader and grabbing him by the throat. He couldn't restrain his temper anymore; his lyrium tattoos flared, and his fist sunk into the man's neck to wrap almost gently around his windpipe and spine. Fenris waited until true terror filled the bandit's gaze, then he dropped him on the ground.
"Let us pass," he growled.
The bandit coughed. "Fucking elf, you'll die for that!" he shouted. "Kill them all!"
The fight was so one-sided it was almost laughable. Within a minute, all seven men lay dead at Fenris's feet, blood soaking the ground and gore in Fenris's gauntlets. He felt droplets of blood that had splattered on his face, and he tried wiping them away but succeeded only in getting more blood on his face. He glancedd back at the farmer and his family.
They clutched their children close, shielding their eyes from the massacre in front of them, and two of the children sobbed in fear. Fenris dropped his eyes, suddenly ashamed.
He turned and began walking, stopping only long enough to say, "I'll leave the path clear for you."
Since he no longer had to hold to the pace of the farmers' poor mule-driven cart, Fenris made excellent time up the mountain. He began seeing people who could only be Inquisition soldiers and lookouts. They directed him up the mountain, warning him of any pitfalls or poisonous plants that may have otherwise waylaid him. He encountered some other refugees of the mage-templar war, and they offered to travel with him, but he declined all of them.
Only five days after he had left the company of the farmer's family, but nearly a month after he had first set out from his and Hawke's tiny village, the gate to Skyhold finally came into his view.