The first few hours were the worst.
He must have been in some sort of shock. The world retreated away from Fenris in a kind of fog. Every sight and sound seemed to come to him through a long tunnel, from very far away. It was all he could do just to keep breathing, and it was something he had to give some thought to – air going in, air coming out.
The terrible fact of Hawke's death sat just outside his awareness, waiting to devour him entirely. He could feel it there, waiting for him, but he could not face it yet.
Hawke.
All these years by her side, he had always known they would come to an end. But not like this.
Parting with her he could take. It would be difficult, but survivable.
The thought of her no longer barreling her merry way through this world was simply unbearable.
Reeling, the warrior elf sat unthinking at the edge of the abyss, entirely alone.
The first time a person knows grief, real grief, is truly terrible. It is always terrible, but in that first time a person doesn't truly know they can survive it. That life can continue past that point, and be good to them again. The first time a person loses someone close, it seems as though they will simply fall down and die.
Fenris had never known grief, for he had known neither caring nor kindness until he met her. He was barely alive until he met her. His entire being had been focused on survival, whether by serving his Master in Tevinter or, later, by escaping his wrath in the Free Marches. Meeting Hawke had been the turning point. She was the first one who had ever treated him like a person, and one worthy of respect.
It had taken years, but with her unwavering support he had built a life here. He had a home, friends, work, and an identity other than that of a mutilated runaway slave: that of a loyal companion to the Champion of Kirkwall. And he was proud of it. Proud of her. He had known immediately that Hawke was someone special. It just took a few years more for everyone else to know it too.
And despite the fact that she belonged to another, he had stoked a fire within himself for her. Fire was the only word for it; it pained him just as much as it thrilled.
He lived for those nights when she came to call, sat with him and drank and talked. They were the best times of his life. Looking into those blue eyes and seeing, not disgust, but affection and acceptance did more for him than any amount of lecturing or scolding about how to properly live as a free individual ever could. At those times he could believe that he was a man like any other, sitting with a friend, sharing a pleasant evening.
It anguished him, sometimes, that there were all these things burning within him that he could never say. Not to her, not when she loved another man. Words like devotion and adore and desire which threatened to spill from his lips whenever he had enough drink in him. But that was a small price to pay. The pleasure he took in her company, in her jibes and her stories and her endless patience with him, this was all worth the terrible longing he felt when he thought of her in Anders' arms.
Now he could never tell her, and never repay what she had done for him.
The awful despair surged through his chest and into his throat like bile, threatening to choke him. He released a single anguished cry and fell on his side, collapsing into himself. He would never see her again. The thought sent real, visceral physical pain through his entire being, so much so that it reminded him of the agony of the lyrium ritual that haunted him daily.
He didn't know how long he laid there defenseless in the dark. It seemed to go on forever.
At some point, he fell mercifully into unconsciousness.
He dreamed.
He was in a great temple, not the Chantry but something even older, a gleaming palacial space that was an amalgamation of every ruin and religion he had encountered in his travels. Here there were altars to every deity, to Andraste and to the old Elven gods and the dwarven paragons and unnamed gods lost and forgotten to history.
He ran from one to the next, paying tribute to each in turn, just in case any of them had any chance of offering aid.
All he knew was that Hawke was gone, and she needed his help.
Please. Anyone. Help her.
He whispered the Chant of Light for the first time in his memory, having heard it many times in Tevinter but never being permitted to speak it. Andraste's statue stared back at him, her eyes not kind but cold and pitiless.
He knew no other prayers to offer the others. Just a kind of shameless begging. He promised them anything. Anything they wanted. In return for Hawke, safe and whole.
What would you give?
Anything. Everything.
Even your life?
Yes. Yes, take it now, if it would help her.
Awaken, elf. Your love is not dead.
Fenris's head snapped up, confused at first to find himself in the dark. Then he remembered.
Hawke was gone.
And then, although he remembered no details of the dream he had, one single fact remained, solid and incontrovertible.
Hawke is alive.