Nemesis
Chapter 7- Reckoning
"Forgiveness and grace are crutches for the weak."
Fenris
"I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for," Isabela murmured distantly into his long ear as he stood on the plank heading down into the city before her strong hand stroked over his neck and aimed his head into the heartlands below. "Believe me, she's waiting, too. Now get off my ship, love. I have things to do and a lawful presence could interfere with the finer points of my negotiations."
Those had been Isabela's final words before she unceremoniously booted him from her boat once they'd reached Cumberland. Hawke was doubtless a quarter of the way to Minrathous by now, happily out of his reach and off to find Maker knows what.
He and Isabela parted ways amicably. The pirate remained blessedly hushed about his breakdown in Cosazure; more so, she'd stayed infuriatingly silent about Hawke's greater intentions, regardless of how hard he badgered her for any sort of definitive answer. He'd meandered throughout her ship, covertly attempting to divine information from the crew and passengers to absolutely no avail. It seemed that no one save Isabela knew anything of a woman named Marian, nor Hawke, nor Amell, nor the Champion of Kirkwall, nor of any Ferelden refugee that had ever been scheduled to board the pirate's ship. They were either painstakingly tight-lipped about her to strangers or were oblivious to the imminent threat that had been slated to fearlessly walk among them.
Despite his deep misgivings, he found himself in the end deciding that Isabela was truly ignorant as to Marian's grand Tevinter scheme, benevolently kind or inexplicably evil as the intent behind her unusual quiet could have been. An honest assessment recognized that Isabela had dedicated herself to tending to the elf like some doting Chantry matron; despite claiming to despise to concept of maternity or Charity or even the sheer idea of putting another's needs before her own- she had nevertheless minded the wounds upon his soul with the careful and concerned caution that he'd expect from some errant adoptive mother- nipping and fussing over him as the mainland drew ever nearer. She doted and doddered upon him like he was some kicked puppy. Puppy, it was her sickening namesake for the elf.
He was no puppy, he was a little wolf- but even that namesake did not feel right. That had been the moniker Danarius had bestowed upon him during his enslavement and he was irrevocably freed from those wretched chains. He had ripped himself free of that mindless safety netting much like a moth tore itself from the cocoon when the black night beckoned him from the safety of slumber to mindlessly seek out light in the darkness. But he was neither field butterfly nor lunar moth, blossoming in neither sunshine nor shade of night- nor was he was simply a tiger, a lonesome predator seeking out the blood he'd caught in his errant, thirsty snout. When he claimed his own personhood, he'd tried to shed the bestial labels others were inclined to designate, but that untamed predatory feeling always shone through, like perhaps Danarius knew him better than even that strange, unfamiliar elf Leto had known even himself.
But for all the terrible nicknames he'd ever been called, 'little wolf,' 'knife-ear,' 'shallow-faced assassin,' and 'lyrium whore'- it was Isabela's designation of simply 'puppy' that bothered him the most- because he had found so much comfort in that simple name- an innocent, unassuming status that felt entirely opposite of himself. The strange verbal assignment instilled in him a strange sense of loyalty to the woman he'd abandoned and subsequently hunted and sought to destroy and then searched so desperately for. He found, he realized, an odd comfort in sharing the same title as her dog…
There was no way that was healthy. He was neither dog nor wolf nor any manner of beast… no tiger or snake… neither butterfly nor moth… not elf or human- he was none of these things; he'd made every effort to reject all these labels as a matter of course. As he'd been prior to meeting Hawke, Fenris was determined to be simply himself. He was a refugee without a home, a pilgrim without a calling, a lonesome blank without any kind of corresponding blank to satisfy him. He was an empty vessel, a meaningless cup lacking any means for fulfillment and for the first time since he'd entrusted himself into Petra's care- he felt well and truly alone.
So he filed that confliction away to be dealt with once more during his meditations where it belonged. When the mornings and the time for self-reflection came after many long nights, he prayed in a terribly empty and mindless manner- disintegrating the sheer idea of it all into some sort of nebulous whole, where he melded with his Templar brothers and humans and Danarius and elves and Hadriana and dwarves and the whole of Thedas… well, melded as best he could- because no matter how hard he tried, thoughts of her clung to the periphery of his mind, haunting him, taunting him, and eluding him all the same because he could not sense her from this inconceivable distance. His meditations would, he suspected, always be a struggle. Despite Sebastian and Petra's assertions, he grimly suspected he'd never be freed from the blackness that infected him. It was too deep, too far, to ever be cleansed from him.
It was his one unending failure as a Templar- to rid himself of the hatred he'd been wholly infected with for at least as long as he'd been free. It had also been his failing as both a friend and lover.
And in the end, the failure stung so deeply because he wanted more than anything to forgive them. For every indignity he'd ever suffered, for every whip's lash he'd ever withstood, for every murder he'd ever witnessed or been commanded to commit- he truly prayed for the strength to forgive his masters. He wanted it because the Chant told him that he should…
No… that was untrue. This past year, if anything, had been a time of reckoning- a time to learn his own weaknesses and confront them with his head held high and his face reaching toward the sunlight.
He wanted it because forgiveness would destroy them along with the anger and their tenacious hold over him. It was… a work in progress; a terrible, awkward and sometimes screaming work in progress but a task nevertheless that he dedicated himself to- because he should be strong… and he should have been able to muster that strength within himself by now.
But he had not. His encounter with Marian had proven that much.
Finally touching his bare feet upon the soft Free Marches soil set Fenris' tumbling head to resting comfortably once more upon his shoulders. The fall air was slightly warmer than that of the cool south, reminding him briefly of the estate in southern Tevinter where Danarius had vacationed when the Imperium summers became too scorching for his elderly body to handle. The northern region of the Free Marches, where Starkhaven resided, would forever linger too close to Tevinter for his tastes. Sebastian could not alter his city's geography, so it was a cross Fenris chose to silently bear. The elf would have been much more comfortable in Ferelden, where he'd been headed before he met Marian, or even farther south in the Korcari Wilds where he'd hoped to seek asylum amongst the Chasind, where no sane hunter would dare seek to find him- or so he'd hoped.
But those were dreams of what may have been… fantasies that she'd taught him to indulge in, and he could not, would not, regret that they had not come to pass given the life he'd instead opted for in Kirkwall with her. There in the City of Chains had been the strange mage he'd allied himself with and the woman he'd fallen hopelessly and contentedly into, against all rhyme and reason. There in Kirkwall had he found a steady, if uneasy, companionship with a human whose physical and moral fabric simultaneously soothed and ground against him like sand in his mansion's silk sheets.
But here, away from her and the memories he couldn't wish to forget, there were the trees, distant from the cold mountains and harsh plains that the elf had been accustomed to in these short last months. Once he set a solid and rough foot into the loamy land of dirt and clay, he clutched his bare toes into the loose, soft earth- and Fenris felt once more at home, pure instinct reminding him of Seheron- the land he could not recall but recognized from the untilled nature of the soil regardless. The fertile fields would scrub the remainders of rich and decadent red Orlesian clay from his weary, calloused feet as they set to trudging ever forward with Witchduck in hand, ignoring all that led him astray. He walked and rode, alternating to ensure Witchduck was rested, and with mindless purpose until he reached Starkhaven once more, uncaring at least in some way of the harsher ground and lofty mountain peaks that in part drew him away from the comfort of his newfound homelands.
The dirt changed dramatically once he entered the principality of the Free Marches. No longer soft, loose and natural, the earth was drier from constant tilling and harvesting- from the industry of farming and feeding the livestock. It itched between his toes, the dried and overwrought soil irritating the bafflingly sensitive space where his toes joined. He found himself having to consciously avoid piles of various animal waste, lest he let the vile substance track behind him into any building he could think to seek refuge within. Elves were generally considered sub-human in their disregard for treading through filth and Fenris was loath to feed into that stereotype, so he tiptoed through pastures until he finally opted to avoid the inevitable cowpies by mounting Witchduck and trotting lazily across the vast fields surrounding the city.
He passed through the heartlands, where farms and Chantries alike provided him a bed to sleep in and a stable for Witchduck gratis upon the revealing of the Templar insignia about his neck. One home even had a rowdy farmer's daughter that attempted shamelessly to talk her way into his bed, no doubt hoping this mysterious stranger would take her away from her stable life to one of adventure and city lights… but Fenris was disinterested. She was young, maybe twenty but unlikely to be much older, and she lacked a certain fire in her eyes that he craved.
She sneaked into his room in the dead of night, nightshirt unbuttoned and pulled high as she begged him to take her away with him. He was tempted, sorely tempted, to take advantage of her naivety and let himself forget about Hawke for a while… but he couldn't pretend even for a moment that he could give the girl what she wanted. Closing his eyes against her, against the sight of beautiful flesh laid bare for him, he'd lifted his hands to gently pull her nightgown closed once more as he declared he would not sully her. She'd slapped him, cursing him thoroughly until her father had come to investigate the commotion in his quarters. Then she accused Fenris of attempting to rape her in her desperation to appease her angry father. He'd all but hurled the girl away in his manic flight from the farmhouse, the sound of her father's bellowing echoing after him as he cantered Witchduck into the night and away from both perceived obligation and inevitable temptation.
Many days later, he approached Starkhaven proper. The long-standing city-state rising like a beacon over the horizon until it showed itself, so terrible and proper, peaking over the landscape until it dominated everything else on the landscape. Dread threatened to overtake his sensibilities, urging him back into the heartlands where his mission would be written off as failure and his life as forfeit. But he was a man of obligations now, and that strange sense of duty drove him ever forward, pushing against the impending horizon and the anger of those it held.
The gates to the city drew open upon his simple verbal command. Like a god before his lands, the chasms opened up before him, leading him down into the hearty dark earth where the greater city of Starkhaven had been buried by the Vael ancestors- defense against invaders so unlike Marian's own home in even the lowest fortifications in Kirkwall's Hightown. Those thoughts left his head spinning back into the insufferable hatred he was so incapable of shedding as he continued up the rich hills and up to Starkhaven Castle.
And abject failure weighed heavily on his mind as he finally approached the castle gates and they were opened to him. Witchduck was taken by the stable boy and led away for a well-deserved rest and Fenris was left alone. He had to account for his failings- it was time, he realized as he entered the palace and maneuvered his way through the decadent halls. The twisted and somewhat confusing corridors led him to the throne room where he ducked his head before the Prince. It was time for accounting and reconciliation. It was, finally, time.
Sebastian assumed Starkhaven's throne as though he had been first, and not third, born to it- perched on a pedestal for the citizens to beg and aspire to. But Fenris knew the man well enough to know that he felt hopelessly awkward, ever attempting to balance the nebulous task of ruling with his own priestly inclinations. He was a capable ruler without doubt but was obviously unhappy with the course his life and heritage and anger had demanded from him. It had been the topic of many conversations between the elf and he… discussions that usually started with the words, "If only Hawke had…" and "If she'd just turned him over…" and ended in terrible silence.
But all those discussions had taken place with a wistful past-tense which failed to absolve both Fenris and the Prince; the burden they'd both taken on when they had personally assumed partial responsibility for what had happened at Kirkwall's Chantry on that blisteringly hot summer day when the world basically fell apart. They both talked of what they should have done… but in the end both placed the blame solely upon the Champion… and it felt a terrible burden to lay upon her now having finally seen her once more and seen the terrible toll the war wracked over her. Fenris had seen her thin arms and concave belly and the strange, haunted and frightened look on her face when she turned to his voice in Lydes and then simply ran, full-tilt, in the opposite direction.
That, he knew without doubt, had been entirely his own doing.
But what could he tell Sebastian? That she'd claimed to be fighting their own battle? That she seemed to have some plan that he'd neglected to make himself privy to? That after all this time, her lips still tasted the way he remembered? That she was the haven he'd always craved and part of him may never cease to seek her out? So he cowered before his liege as tall as any sane man would when coming to report disaster- shoulders pulled impossibly back, head held painstakingly high, eyes as wide and honest as he could muster to the man he considered his brother through more trials than mere blood bonds and birthing could ever know.
The proscenium of Starkhaven's throne room was clearly designed to intimidate those seeking audience with the Prince. Two opulent thrones stood center stage, commanding the attention of anyone happening into the room. It was there he found Sebastian slunk regally over the larger throne, an unwilling heir and fearless general, looking simultaneously nervous, haughty and regal before his court- a priest first, rogue second and a prince third. Just as likely to steal coin from your pocket as collect it in taxes, which, Fenris argued, was essentially the same thing no matter what Sebastian said to defend the practice.
"Where is Hawke?" were the first words out of Sebastian's mouth when Fenris stood before him, lacking any words to say for the moment. Sebastian struck an ever imposing figure even lazed over his throne and the Prince contemplated his fingernails as though searching for some nonexistent grime clinging beneath- the last year had left Sebastian only slightly softer in his physical build but substantially cleaner than his time served under Marian's lead. Apparently, the Starkhaven heir had always prided himself on hygiene- debauchery as well in his youth- but cleanliness had clearly been at least a second, third or fourth priority nevertheless.
The impulse to inspect his own nails rang solidly through his mind and he quashed the nervous desire down, regarding the Prince instead with a dedicated and steadfast attention. The elf instead replied brusquely, "She escaped." He fought the urge to stare down at the lush carpet, some gift to the Vael family from a group of artisans somewhere in Orlais, or over at the opulent tapestries that adorned the cold stone walls. Fenris wasn't a man inclined to pacing or nervous movement and had to fight to resist the need to wring his hands.
The Prince rose, from his throne before muttering, "Leave us," and dismissing his retinue with an errant wave of his hand before he redirected his focus back to the elf, waiting for the throne room to empty before speaking once more, "And what did she want to discuss?"
"I do not know." He kept his hands crossed behind him, a pose from his slavery in Tevinter that carried over to the greater lands. Left hand grasping his right wrist, feet spread only slightly, but a bystander could have drawn a straight line between his shoulders and ankles. He held it almost unconsciously, the hated residual aspects of slavery being something Sebastian expected and forgave from the elf but noted nevertheless.
A graceful black eyebrow was raised at him skeptically as the Prince lowered his body back into the throne. He waited moments innumerable for Fenris to offer anything more but his silent pleas were met with just that… silence. So he finally broke the stillness and pressed on. "So what happened at this meeting?"
"We fought," he answered shortly, fighting back the flush that he felt threatening to overtake his face. "She left."
"Left?" Sebastian tilted his head at Fenris' verbal misstep as well as noting the brusque, two-word answers that Fenris tended toward when he was nervous. "That sounds a bit different from escape, don't you agree? Anything in the middle of that story you care to share, brother?"
Fenris dropped his head, unable to meet the Prince's eyes. "No, Ser," he muttered, unable to force himself to respond to the Prince's familiarity in kind, the thick of failure still sticking to the back of his throat.
The silence that encompassed them was almost deafening before the Prince dared to speak to him once more. "I'm amazed she was able to lose you. She's not terribly skilled at concealing herself without a few rogues around."
"She did not lose me," he answered bluntly. He wondered for a moment if he should reveal all he knew but quashed that odd impulse down, knowing it to be the highest treason he could commit not against the Prince, but against one of his only friends. "I know exactly where she is," he finished with a hesitant finality.
"Then why haven't you captured her?" Sebastian snapped with a slight impatience back at the elf, letting his turquoise eyes flash his irritation at the elf's clear withholdings.
If even possible, Fenris bowed his head further and answered. "She's in Tevinter."
"Tevinter?" Sebastian hissed and physically recoiled at the Templar's words. He stood once more and began pacing. Long legs took him easily from one side of the room to the other, easier than a knife cutting through the butter of any insignificant lies the elf could have even thought to offer. "What the Blight is she doing in Tevinter?"
Fenris held a deep desire to pace as well but repressed the urge. Instead, he answered, "I do not know. It's disturbing, though. The entire ride back here, I tried to imagine what she thinks to find there. It does seem, however, that she is intent on returning." Those words were true, evidenced not from his encounter with her but from the note he still held in his pocket.
Fuck Tevinter.
That had been her only promise- true and fierce as they'd been when she spoken it to him before and now, once again. He put his faith in that as the Maker seemed silent to his pleas.
The Prince came to a stop and took a moment to contemplate the elf's words. He moved instead over to the window, gazing out at Starkhaven and then to the plains and mountains beyond. "Perhaps the rumors that she's split from Anders are true," he mused over his shoulder.
"Perhaps," the elf agreed hesitantly, recognizing Sebastian's pose as one of a snake about to strike. "She insisted that she had no idea where he was hiding. Indeed, she seemed to be very much opposed to what he'd done."
His expectations were met when the Prince spoke again. "Something you'd know if you hadn't fallen into bed with her. That's it, correct?" It wasn't an accusation but rather an soft observation. But the words weren't directed at him, which sent his stomach to sinking immediately as he realized to whom Sebastian had aimed his words. There was no space in time, no ability to ready himself from the simple assault when another, horrible voice sounded it's presence.
"Into bed? Oh, Fenris…" came a feminine voice from behind him, firm but also so gentle he winced at even hearing it. "Are you alright?"
Fenris squinched his eyes closed, unable to trust his voice not to crack. Petra took his silence as an adequate answer. "Sebastian, may I have a word with the Knight-Captain in private?" the former Knight-Commander beckoned him.
"Of course, Commander." The Prince abandoned the elf as he'd only done a handful of times before- into Petra's gentle, brutal hands.
Petra was, in the end, a born soldier from her violent birth to her inconceivable death. Childbirth had slain her mother, ripped her from the earth itself as Petra tore screaming into it. Her father was apparently the sort that could drive a nine-year-old to run from home and fend for herself for three long years before the Chantry found her and took her in. Fenris never asked why she'd run, suspecting the worst of the woman who shied from physical touch, who'd hidden herself away as Knight-Commander, who confessed to a former Tevinter slave that she, too, feared the dark and the night.
As a child, Petra had begged, stole and scratched for her right to survive. Now, she was every bit a woman who could be fed metal scraps for sustenance and would return the gift by spitting chewed-through metal spikes straight into her oppressors' stubborn foreheads. The inconceivable hardships that bound her into the Chantry became a happy accident that slew any man, mage or beast that stood in her way. She held an inhuman force about her, an unforgiveable maternal ruthlessness that drew the errant mages back to her side even in such a time of terrible strife.
Without another word, Petra spun on her toes with far more grace than a woman of her advanced years should have possessed and walked purposefully from the throne room. Fenris followed dutifully, chasing the elderly woman from the room and into the empty courtyard before she entered her blissful territory, the hated Circle that sought to imprison the very woman he'd failed to capture. They ended up in the Knight-Commander's office, a room she'd been given as de facto leader while Val Royeaux scrambled to occupy the space with another inadequate replacement.
Petra had retired from the Templar order a few years before the Starkhaven Circle fell to the mage uprising that unseated and subsequently executed her successor and his own predecessor as well as most of the other Chantry soldiers. Petra blamed Jarras, the man who'd taken her mantle, for the revolt- stating that the Chantry demanded for a mother's gentle hand and not a father's angry fist. Fenris, possessing no memories of either could only silently disagree. When Sebastian had ascended to the throne, his first act had been to beckon the woman from her new, restful life and beg her resume her command. Only a half-dozen mages remained in the Circle, all having returned when they learned Petra held the reins once more.
The office as it stood now housed somewhere between thirteen and twenty cats meandering about the space. They all had names, from Snufflekins to Deidrich and nearly every nonsensical name lingering between- Henry, Psycho, Gallus, Mac, Bumblebee, Dingus, Xavier, Al and so on. The countless animals each held a singular and unique name which only Petra herself remembered. It felt only natural that she'd dedicate herself to animals in the same way she'd dedicated the rest of her life. Her fierce desire to keep mages was replaced by the compulsion to keep felines in a similar sort of safety. Cats, she'd confessed once after a few glasses of wine, held a stronger connection to the Fade than any animal counterpart- they became skittish in the presence of a Fade-breach and struck fear into demons. No one knew precisely why but she surrounded herself with felines and encouraged them to wander through the Circle.
Mages seemed to love them, cuddling and coddling them in their opted imprisonment. Perhaps her relentless exposure to magic brought her some unknown clarity to demons and their ways… but constant presence of the cats remained a singular force in her arsenal. It reminded him of Anders and Tevinter, where cats were also encouraged to run free. He hated cats- always had. Marian was predisposed her dog, the mabari hound never ceasing to intuit her emotions and ground her as surely as she commanded him to rip out her enemies' throats.
In any case, it was in that assumed, cat-filled office that Fenris stood before his mentor, the terribly soft woman who had conducted his training… Petra, the one woman who could shame his actions with the fierce surety she'd conducted the rest of her life. Guilt weighed a heavy collar over his neck and he had no excuse, no reparation that would pardon his failure. They stood alone in the abandoned office, an errant Knight and her prized pupil- awkward and heavy as they regarded one another before Petra finally gathered the nerve to break the thick veil of quiet that hung between them.
"It wasn't as easy as you'd hoped," she observed softly. Her face was heavily lined with age and the words harried the wrinkles along her dark eyes and the edges of her lips. A cat- Winkles, he thought as he struggled to remember- stroked himself along her stretched neckline as she spoke, innocently ignoring the ire he knew the words should have held.
"Pardon?" he asked as he ignored the feline. She betrayed nothing, a weathered porcelain mask had descended over her and he was at a loss to infer her meaning without the ability to read her face.
"Saying you didn't care was much easier than not caring, wasn't it?" At his silence, she stroked Winkles' neck, listening to the animal purr beneath her heavy fingers as a small smile crept over her face. "I'm glad."
That got his attention and stirred his anger once more. "Glad?" he spat hatefully, ignoring her authority as he ranted. "You're glad that I let my libido get the better of me and allowed my enemy to escape? Have you gone utterly mad, woman?"
Her eyes flashed dangerously then, Winkles retreated instinctively from his safe-haven in her lap as her brown irises glinted with bright blue at the edges from decades of lyrium use. "Mind your temper, Fenris," she warned as all the cats retreated from her suddenly threatening persona, "before I mind it for you."
It was a threat she'd only made good on once when he'd just begun his training. At their introduction, he found some of her questions to be far too personal and he'd openly cursed at her. When he failed to heed the quiet threat, continuing to rage at her with hateful zeal, the former Knight-Commander had slapped him down like a petulant child; his physical form, still painstakingly recovering from the injuries inflicted at his lover's hands, had spent the better parts of his short convalescence stubbornly attacking the bottom of any bottle he could find and was no match for Petra's decades of discipline. Her open hand had collided against his face before he could even think to defend himself.
Then the blows had kept coming. A sharp jab against his side. Another slap against his cheek. A horrible blow ricocheting through his chest. He'd tried to fight, to defend himself against the onslaught, but failed utterly. All his blows were deflected and answered with the bite of her brutal fists. The pathetic fight ended with Sebastian barking for Petra to stand down.
"You said he had promise," she'd accused the Prince coldly, ignoring Fenris as she spun on Sebastian. "And yet all you've brought me is some huffing Tevinter brat."
Fenris wheezed, clutching his aching ribs and forcing the air heavily through his lungs. "You've no idea of Tevinter- of the life I've led."
Petra turned her gaze back to the prostrate elf, still on his hands and knees while struggling to rise and reclaim his tattered pride. "I know I've led far more of a life than you have, elf," she sneered haughtily. "Four on the run and seven in Kirkwall, is that correct?"
He'd bowed his head and replied with a simple, hate-filled, "Yes."
"So that's eleven. At least you're acting appropriate for your age. Templars can't join until they're sixteen. You have some growing up to do- I don't train children."
"I am no child," he snarled even as his body smarted from her ferocious hits.
"By all means, elf," her voice took on a softer lilt then while her gaze took on a sort of sad understanding, "let your anger keep you weak. Perhaps you'll get your wish and she'll actually kill you next time."
And with a soft gasp from Sebastian, Fenris had known Petra was right- the woman casually exposing the terrible secret that he kept himself too drunk for weeks to accept… that no thought was worse than the idea of living without Marian. So he threw his worthless life at the mage's feet, and the treacherous bitch hadn't even the decency to finish him off properly- so little had he meant to her. And with that he had begun his life within the Chantry, seeking the maturity that would permit him to end her proper.
And it was wrong, he hated to admit it now… so wrong.
His thoughts snapped back into the present, remembering that Petra would not suffer his childish temper. "My apologies, Knight-Commander," he answered instead, bowing his head deferentially to her authority. "My temper is checked."
"Accepted," she answered, letting her tone become docile once more. She sighed with a weariness that spoke of a conversation she'd had dozens of times before or at the very least rehearsed in her head at great lengths. "You are wounded, Fenris, by more battles any one person should know," she continued in that terrible sage voice of hers. "Denial doesn't heal it- doesn't ease it."
"That I failed my mission makes me weak- a joke to my brethren," he restrained his snarl with only the apparently endless restraint Petra alone provoked in him. Her mask fell for a moment, exposing for the span of a single second the relentless wave of frustration that had overtaken her. It shamed him, destroyed some small piece of him to fail her in any way.
Just as quickly, the mask was righted and her seemingly limitless patience once more replaced her annoyance. Slowly, she spoke again, enunciating each word as heavily as he'd seen her bring her sword upon her foes. "Battles aren't always won with blades, Fenris. Sometimes, battles are won when you know you should drop your sword and stop fighting."
Her words sent his mind into complete and utter disarray. Startled, he stuttered, "You… you wanted me to let her go?"
Another damned cat preened for her attention- Breezes? Bangles? Shit, he was never going to get these names right. Baxter? Was it Baxter?- clamoring to her ankle and demanding her hand over its neck until the Commander caved to her needs and stroked him carelessly, leaning to one side to drop her hand down. Petra pet the beast thoughtfully and responded, "I hoped you'd acknowledge that someone could provoke something inside you other than your damned rage, Fenris."
Her statement had been as easy as rain could both ruin and save a hot, humid day- as unassuming as the cactus with its deadly spikes and welcome water. It was her nature to be an unsupposing, misguiding and welcome predator, a knife concealed within the dark night for the sole purpose of reflecting light off the moon. However, he was not so easily swayed by her cryptic words and replied dumbly, "But she escaped."
She allowed the feline into her lap, letting the rutting beast butt against her hand insistently until she began stroking his coarse fur. "But it isn't the rebellion you've been fighting," she answered with her hated sage wisdom. "It's her. It's only been her you've fought this last year- hasn't it?"
He stuttered, sputtering nonsensically for a moment before he answered hesitantly. "I fight because I know where I come from. I fight because she's one of them," he spat.
"You fight because fury has always been easier than the alternative," Petra replied shortly, the words brokering no room for argument. The cat in her lap was rewarded for his stillness with an easy scruff of his neck, freed from any sort of collar, free to do as he pleased as his chosen master continued, "It is easier than forgiveness, easier than grace… Fenris, you reach for rage because it is so familiar you loathe the sheer thought of reaching out with anything else."
That provoked his tongue back into a fighting stance. "I fight because Anders razed the Chantry and started a war," he called back. "I fight to spare the innocent from the Magisters' rule. I fight to preserve the freedom of those born as men and not mages! Forgiveness and grace are crutches for the weak- what they need is someone willing to fight for them!"
Petra ignored his vehemence as she continued to stroke her heavy fingers over the cat that perched itself in her lap, seeming to be perfectly content despite the continuing rage that coursed through him and aimed itself at her. "You are not a living weapon, Fenris- not anymore," Petra murmured. "It is high time you claimed your freedom in truth rather than huddling beneath the skirt of another. I allowed you to see her- not because she makes you weak but because it was her influence that allowed you to spare your sister. I let you go because Marian Hawke made you strong- at least once and possibly more times than I'll ever know."
Varania. It stung to even consider her betrayal. And what was she doing now- that seeming tailor that had become yet another magisters' whore? What fate had befallen her when she returned to Minrathous with Danarius cold and dead in her charge? He breathed out the sound of his anger in a soft and angry sigh. Only Marian had convinced him to release her… and what was she doing with her life now, freed from his clutches only by Hawke's own interference? "Beneath her is the only freedom I've ever known," he confessed. Once spoken, the words were an unexpected balm on his anguish- a truth he finally admitted to himself after denying it for so long.
The relief was momentary, as Petra destroyed that single moment of gratified reflection by speaking once more. "And so long as you're under her, you'll never be her equal."
"What do you mean to say?"
"Your heart is tangled… and I cannot say for sure where it could lead. Perhaps she loves you, perhaps she hates you, perhaps she's waiting and perhaps she's abandoned the sheer thought of you. But you waited nearly a year for her…. And if she was your lover once more then perhaps she's been waiting, too."
"And if she didn't?"
"Then your question answered itself, didn't it?"
The discussion brought a headache to niggle against his temples. The constant questioning, the perpetual wonderment… these were not why he'd agreed to Sebastian's request that he study the Arcane arts that could lie beneath the Lyrium etched painstakingly into his skin. He'd wanted answers and Petra, for all her sage advice, always presented him with more questions. "She's a mage," he answered pathetically, knowing the response was unsuitable to the woman before him. "Petra, she's a hair's breadth away from being a magister herself."
She shook her head and scruffed the cat's neck once more, shaking loose bits of shedding fur as she thought for a long moment. The silence made Fenris reconsider his words, that they could provoke so much scrutiny. "But she took you under her wing," she replied finally, "and into her bed as well. She did it regardless of what Kirkwall's nobility and her station had to say about your being an elf."
The words were painful, made him wince against the horror and truth of Petra's statement. Nobility tended to foster the most flagrant racists and Marian never encumbered him with any of the whispers or slurs or stigmas she must have faced for welcoming an elf into her bedroom. It was, he understood, a burden that she chose to bear alone. "But she's a mage," he stuttered, unable for once to gather the fury that would justify his wretched words.
"And I'm a human," Petra spat, clutching the animal in her lap in seeming fortitude against the hateful epitaphs spewing from his mouth. "And you're an elf. But you called her friend. You called her your lover. You designated her every meaningful thing you ever knew to call her. And you have the audacity to stand before me and say that means nothing? She is everything to you, Fenris. And I'd rather see you as an apostate-lover than a man who doesn't care about anything. It means you at least can care about something."
"She's a mage, Commander," he barked back. "She is everything I strive to fight against."
"Then perhaps your battles are best fought at the bottom of a bottle and not on a battlefield!" she snapped, dark eyes watching the vicious barb cut through him and all he'd accomplished in the last year. The cat snuggled against her in her anger and deemed to seep the fury from her body. She snuggled momentarily with the animal and her anger dissipated before she released him back to the floor where he retreated several steps and turned back to regard his master, unsure if he should run.
Reaching out to stroke the feline, she enunciated her next words far more slowly than circumstances required. "I've been understanding. I've been forgiving," she murmured. "I've trained you the best I can. But I cannot teach you to grow up, I am not cut out to be your mother." She gave the elf a long look before contemplating her smooth knuckles for a moment. "Consider yourself discharged from my service," she muttered sadly… and with an eerie finality as she turned her gaze back to her hands, refusing to acknowledge him further.
"Petra!" he gasped as unadulterated shock began coursing through his system accompanied by a sudden, frantic panic. He moved forward to place himself into her view but the Commander stubbornly resisted the contact, instead continuing to ponder the mysteries within her short nails as she thoughtlessly tore the stability the Circle had introduced into Fenris' mind utterly asunder. "You cannot! Petra, this is my life!"
She refused to meet his eyes, averting her gaze instead to the cat that began using his leggings as a scratching post. "My mind is made up, Fenris. I release you into Sebastian's command. Your services are no longer required here."
"Petra…" he stammered, feeling once more like the world as he knew it was again being incinerated to ash by yet another woman who had become his universe- he stood back, helpless but to watch it burn. It was everything he could do to muster to pride to not scream, howl and wail like a child at the sheer injustice of it all. Then she brought her eyes up to his and in her gaze he saw the terrible parallel between Petra and Marian, of two women doing what they felt was right regardless of who was hurt… even if it was him… especially if it was him. "Do not do this," he pleaded once more helplessly. "I beg you to reconsider."
Petra reached out and took his hand within her two freezing cold ones, squeezing the warmth away in a motion he supposed was meant to be comforting. "You've learned everything I have to teach you. This is not a punishment, Fenris," she insisted before dropping one hand back to her lap and the cat within. "What you need will not be found here and you don't need the Lyrium to survive. I can release you in good conscience, be proud to be the only one I've ever been able to follow my instinct on. Consider this my gift to you." Her movements spoke her resistance, her reticence at the idea of abandoning him- the clutching at her cat, the refusal to meet his gaze… this was hurting her as well… and he became stubbornly determined to wound her once he ascertained her weakness.
"I joined the Templars for answers," he murmured gently as a terrible, familiar stillness fell over him; the calm veneer would disorient Petra far more than any sort of outright anger. She only dimly understood that his bared emotions were a courtesy he granted due to his acceptance of her authority- a slave's habit repressed by a free man's courtship for acceptance. She was used to men who wore their hearts, souls and minds open over their faces, bodies and sleeves. The calm, collected nature with which he could conduct his fury frightened Petra more than any shouts or threats. So instead of a spider, Fenris became its web- beautiful and delicate to inspect but deadly foolish to approach or touch.
"And is it my fault you didn't find them?" she replied without an ounce of hesitation, if the perceived calmness had at all bothered her, it held no lasting outward effect. "I have no need for a living weapon. I've an armory full of weapons, Fenris. What I need are men who can wield them. You're not one of them- not while you're clearly so conflicted."
"I am not conflicted," he answered calmly, focusing on the lyrium's burn coursing through his body and feeling it center his mind somewhere far away from his body.
She snarled back, letting the mask slip once more but not bothering to right it. His tense but calm demeanor was clearly rankling her now. "Slavery built you. The Magisters built you. Freedom built you. The apostate Marian Hawke built you. If you cannot acknowledge that your origins play a part in the man you are now then you are of no use to me."
He pulled the Templar insignia from his neck and tossed it casually onto her desk; but without a second glance, she grasped it in her heavy hands and threw it back to him just as easily. "You earned it, so keep it. You are still a Templar even if I deny you orders to hide behind. Ask your questions and find answers for yourself," she called, clutching that Maker-damned cat within her arms. "Because a test of your faith is coming… your life is your own and I deny you the ability to blame me or anyone else for it. Do not fall into old habits and let another make your choices for you.
"You are a free man, Fenris. It's high time you started acting like one." Her eyes moved from his hands, where she'd tracked the pendant's trajectory, and up to his chest. Fenris looked down for a moment to see what had captured her attention and nearly groaned. His movement had ripped not only the Insignia free from his neck but also pulled the Lost Memory from its rightful hiding place near his heart.
Refusing to acknowledge the token of Hawke he continued to bear, he tucked the amulet back beneath his armor, safe from Petra's knowing eyes. "I make my own choices," he insisted as he took up the pendant once more if only to spite her and hooked it around his neck again.
"Then I hope you can make them quickly enough," she murmured as she rose and turned away from him, calling only, "Maker preserve you, Fenris," over her shoulder to signal his dismissal from her presence.
"And you," he answered dutifully as he turned to slowly stalk away from the office of the woman who'd commanded him for the last year, his stomach roiling uncomfortably from Petra's accusations and observations. The argument sat poorly with him and, try as he might, he could not shake the feeling that Petra, as always, had been right.
He spent the next two days wandering about the palace, trying to determine his place in Starkhaven's grand schematic without confessing to Sebastian that he'd been, essentially, fired from his previous position of Knight-Captain. Easy come, easy go… although nothing in that statement was even remotely true- hardship and personal strife had brought him to the very precipice he found himself standing over- he found a strange comfort in the words regardless. He avoided the Prince, spending the days deep within his meditations, trying to divine what path he should take, and worrying at how he could possibly repair his honor after such abysmal failures… or if he even wanted to anymore.
In any case, he did not have the time to wonder too deeply before the Prince summoned both himself and Petra once more to his side. The throne sat empty for several long minutes. Both Petra and Fenris resisted the urge to fill the empty space with meaningless drivel; anything that needed to be said between them had already been spoken so occupying the silence with hollow words was an exercise in wasted energies. It was something he deeply appreciated about her. They stood together but carefully apart as Sebastian entered the throne room with his retinue whirling about him like a possessed cape flapping in the wind.
"But, Ser…" one began. "You must reconsider. Starkhaven needs a Prince- not a general…"
"Do not bother to question me, Douglas, my mind is already decided," Sebastian barked back dismissively as he approached the two, beaming with the joyful exuberance of youth as he let a wide smile overtake his face. "We've just received word of Anders in the lands southeast Starkhaven. Petra, I need your permission to take Fenris and a group of Templars to apprehend him."
"Fenris is free to do as he pleases," Petra answered quickly. He realized with a quick and bitter resentment that the Commander felt compelled to reveal that Fenris utterly displeased her without outright declaring she'd released him from the Chantry. The rotten bitch meant for him to do it himself.
"Then I request permission to take Fenris in the capacity of Knight-Captain as we try to win this war."
Those words- that damning choice of wording told Fenris everything. He knew. Sebastian's long glance at Petra and her deliberate exclusion of the elf from the only sanctuary he'd known for the last year spoke of an understanding they'd likely held before he'd entered Starkhaven once more. Sebastian knew what Petra had done; he likely knew her intentions before the elf even returned and for some reason accepted it before Fenris had even told him.
Petra bowed her head to Sebastian and replied easily, "If Fenris wishes to command my men, I shall permit it. I've no doubts of his abilities or his will to protect my men."
"Fenris," Sebastian finally directed his attention to the errant elf. "Will you lead the Templars against Anders?"
"I will go," Fenris answered, bowing his own head before turning to glare heavily at the Knight-Commander. "I will lead them regardless of your uncertainties."
Petra leveled her gaze at him, unassuming and unforgiving. "If I were uncertain of your determination to keep my men safe, I would never permit you to lead them." It was both a boon and an insult. Her soft declaration reaffirmed her faith in him once more and despite his expulsion from her service, he found a bittersweet comfort in it regardless.
Sebastian continued to reveal his plan with his strange and deliberately neglectful elegance; he had gathered a small battalion of men, numbering ten- Starkhaven required a miniscule army to protect its borders and the Prince knew that overly depleting the city's defenses would only harm the citizens and the principality he was bound by the very blood in his veins to defend. Petra had also silently acknowledged the shelter Starkhaven permitted and granted him the highest number she could spare- five Templars that were ordered to follow Fenris' command.
Petra huffed away gracefully after that, likely displeased with the turn of events but hopeless to stop it. Sebastian's dogged demand for Anders' head being an unstoppable force against her immovable will… and something had to give. Petra had decided for some reason, that the sacrifice should be hers. Her motivations were clearly something that would require scrutiny later after this whole sordid deal was over and done with.
"This is our chance to finally bring justice to the people he killed in the Chantry," Sebastian repeated the words Fenris had heard countless times since he'd entered Starkhaven, the nearly maniacal call for justice, ironically enough, and for retribution. The Prince's hatred of the abomination superseded nearly everything he'd worked for in the past year, only slightly tempered by the fondness the elf knew he'd held for Marian.
Fenris bowed his head and answered, "Agreed."
"We'll depart in the morning to take him down together, brother. We'll stop his reign of terror and bring peace to Thedas once more. Once he's dispatched," he asserted, "we'll see about Hawke."
"As you wish."
"No, Fenris," he corrected softly, a whisper so low the elf had to lean forward to hear it clearly. "It is as we wish- as we have discussed." A pregnant pause overtook the room as Fenris saw Sebastian struggle to locate the appropriate words, rocking slightly on his heels and contemplating the ceiling. "Fenris, I know you and Hawke…"
"My feelings for Hawke are irrelevant," the Templar answered, cutting off what must have been some sort of awkward elder-brother romantic insight that Fenris was entirely comfortable doing without. His thoughts were quite clear in their simplicity. "Anders must die. Justice must be served to those he slaughtered. There's never been a question about that."
Sebastian leveled a wary glance at him. "And if Hawke is with him?"
"Then she will die as well," he replied but the stone settling in his gut told him that the solution would likely not be so forthcoming should it be put immediately before him.
Sebastian knew the elf well enough to know that such certainty, especially in regards to a certain apostate were more than a little skewed. So the Prince used the last and most devastating weapon in his arsenal- the utter honesty that existed between them- and said, "I trust you to set aside your feelings and do what is right. I place an inhuman trust in you to strike her down if she stands with him and the evil he has wrought."
"And I will, Sebastian," he replied before his stupid tongue continued wagging for him, adding on, "but I do not think she is waging his holy war with him… she put on all appearances of being deeply against what he's done when I saw her."
"Which you would know for sure if you were capable of keeping your hands off her," Sebastian reminded him once more. The hands of the Prince pulled to the temples of his regal forehead and gave several small, circular motions to ease the tension that certainly ached there before he answered patiently. "I pray you are correct and you've not been beguiled by a temptress. You and I owe her more than an ignoble death serving beneath that abomination."
Fenris took a risk and made one final plea on Hawke's behalf. "She prostrated her very life in hopes of swaying me, Sebastian. That must be worth something."
"It is something, Fenris, only if it was sincere," he amended. "Otherwise, we're duped fools. We'll only surely know if we find her with him."
"Agreed," he answered dumbly before departing to gather his belongings for the trek out of Starkhaven. The pendants, both hers and the Chantry's, were tucked safely beneath his armor; and his armor, a hated reminder of the life he'd led before he entered Kirkwall, his sword, the ironic Blade of Mercy which duty declared he should have none of, the necessary supplies one would need on a long journey and the basic necessities a Templar was required to carry- a copy of the Chant, four vials of processed lyrium, two holy emblems of Andraste burning and a ring showing only a man with his back turned… the symbol of the Maker abandoning his worldly creations- were the items he took from his dormitory. Even if Petra had ejected him from this Circle, he'd continue in his customs from the last year. He was still a Templar, Petra herself had declared it.
The journey to Anders' alleged haven was unnecessarily long and treacherous. Illness took three men nearly five days from the gate and they were forced to camp out and wait for them to recover from rather tenacious cases of… social disorders. He shuddered, grateful that on the few occasions he'd sought out a bed partner, when he woke sweating from night terrors or pleasant memories or the nights had gone on too long and sleep wouldn't come, he'd exercised the good sense to head into Starkhaven's brothel- the women there were professionals, unlikely to have angry lovers or sentimental attachments to sex- and Madame Gilderlilly kept them clean.
The men's illnesses prompted Sebastian to engage in a rather emphatic rant about the necessity of decorum in taverns- apparently one of the men had a rather public display of indecency with a serving girl- and restraint towards the daughters of Starkhaven's workers, which fell as well as silence upon the soldiers' ears but perked the ears of one Templar which was, he supposed, at least something. After the disorders were sorted out, they trekked onwards once more, winding away from the river and farther south where this alleged gathering of apostates were cowering like dogs.
Two weeks passed before they caught even the slightest wind of any sort of apostate activity. A scout had spotted a man cutting himself near a makeshift garden; immediately following, several plants had blossomed fruit where none had been before and taken several feet of growth to boot. Blood magic. Fenris reported the findings to Sebastian, who only smirked knowingly, before the group pressed onward, closing in foot by agonizing foot, terrified to give away their positions and send the mages into flight. Soon enough, another lone mage was discovered but this one, unfortunately, held the fortitude of a maniac eager to fight men and monsters alike.
The man lunged for Eudare, a young soldier with a new baby at home, not with a weapon or his hands but with his own brutal magic, whipping a line of blood from his wrist that caused that of the warrior to boil from within him. The soldier screamed as the fever overtook him and rendered him into a babbling fool moments before he fell silent, crumpling into the dirt and staring blankly at the warm fall sky, blinking only occasionally when the sun's rays burned too hot. Blood seeped from his nose and ears as his eyes bathed in a sea of scarlet.
It was too late for Eudare, too late before they could even process the blood mage's frantic attack but the battalion was in full swing now. A heavy shink sounded before the enemy's arm was severed at the shoulder but he snarled and kept casting. The mage was easily overtaken but fought with the tenacity of a rabid badger, unwilling to stop regardless of his injuries, snapping and straining until he finally collapsed, twisted like broken vines ripped from the earth, drained of blood and dead before he could be persuaded to give any information. Fenris suspected the man's heart had given out long before his spirit would have.
That unsettled him.
Even fanatics could normally be pushed to a point where their basic instinct to survive would struggle to rise against the indoctrination they'd been subjected to. This man, however, twitched and bleated in the soil until his body succumbed to death.
It unsettled him greatly. His mind struggled, straining to make sense of what was happening here- but there seemed no sense to be had.
He decided against sharing these concerns with Sebastian- the Prince's forced demeanor indicated that he, too, understood and was greatly concerned at the vehemence with which the mage had fought. But morale was key and any perceived uncertainty could sway the impending battle to Anders' benefit. The men knew what they were up against, having had to finish the job the mage had started before they could bury Eudare- the man's mind was utter mush and there was nothing left on this plane for him. His wife was widowed and his child fatherless.
Sebastian prayed over the man's grave and swore aloud to personally see that his family was cared for. If the corpse had any thoughts on the matter it kept them to itself but the men seemed heartened to know the meals they provided wouldn't evaporate if for some reason they didn't come home.
It was the next night that they finally located the apostate camp. While the night would have cloaked them, the usage of magic in the dark would have blinded and left them at a disadvantage, so they watched from the depth of the trees. They waited on the edges and entered when the early rays of the morning light began to creep along the horizon.
Fenris and the five Templars ambushed the greater camp with the hated Silence, encompassing as much of the area as they could but the mages lingering at the edges were unaffected and attacked with hated brutality. The soldiers followed quickly behind, arrows and rapiers screaming through the air as they began dispatching the blood mages. Then the battle truly began.
Even with the faint sunlight illuminating the battlefield, Fenris had difficulty ascertaining exactly how many foes they were fighting. Once he activated the lyrium, the task only became more difficult. The lyrium had always thrown at least a portion of his consciousness toward the Fade. He saw only a field of energy, saw blood magic and blades clanging against staves and blood… so much blood. But with the savage bloodlust came also the sense of inexplicable calm brought from a weapon singing into the morning. He brought his sword heavily down across the neck of an apostate as she attempted to wrench a demon from the earth. The head had barely begun to topple from her soft shoulders before he turned and rammed the blade deeply into the torso of another mage.
Blood. He saw blood.
So he moved on.
Lifting his sword once more, he cut through two Silenced blood-mages, their sickened gasps cutting through the half-Fade miasma that both sheltered him from his surroundings and allowed him to keep his points of focus as instinct delivered them to him. Defend. Thrust. End. Block. Swing. Kill. Switch. Cut. Finish. The battle-song played through his mind- not the screeching of death's throes and the squelch of blood spewing from slashed flesh… but of soft bells blowing against one another in the breeze, the sounds of fiddles and night lilies blooming, the echoes of rain and chanting from a place he'd never known in a language he'd never learned…
… he swore he could pick out Marian's voice within them.
His mind had always become a bit hazy once the lyrium had been activated, it had led to Hadriana's death, to Danarius' death, to that first night he'd spent with Hawke- his beautiful blood spattered sparrow- when his mind couldn't quickly enough anchor itself back into the present after it had been flung so far away. The enemy must perish. Need must be fed. What was left of his mind concentrated on the battlefield, terribly singular but also hyper-aware. His allies were recognized as well as the foes they fought. Somehow, the haze told him where to go and who to assist without much concentration on his part.
Seeing a berserker homing in on Sebastian, he darted across the battlefield, his opponents little more than blurs that brought weapons past him far too late. Strike. Red. Arrows in the sky. More red. But then, for a horrible moment the universe or lack thereof completely ceased to move. A dark mop of hair- shortish. It curled at the ends.
It gave him pause and he felt a hateful reluctance until she turned.
Not Hawke, he noticed and brought his weapon down over her evil shoulder, nearly splitting her torso in twain. But the hesitation had left him open and a burst of blood magic had him victim to another's magical grip, jerking his right shoulder from its delicate socket as the wizard demanded his very blood rip him asunder. Wild eyes turned to focus on his attacker as he felt the flesh of his arm begin to rip and tear away from his torso. The blade clanged down from his hand, singing sadly as he was numbed to movement even as excruciating pain wracked his body.
A happy arrow thunked through the man's forehead and Fenris felt the wretched tearing cease in a spray of blood. His blade required both his hands for wielding, so without another glance at Sebastian, he raced forward once more, grabbing a discarded rapier in his left hand and attacking once more with his dominant arm dangling loosely and uncontrollably from his side. He purified the area of the glyphs he'd not noticed, the pain fading back into the living realm as he pierced the heart of another mage. His sword and his body attended to his liege as the Prince cocked his bow, firing a wave of arrows into the sky that dispatched the remaining mages.
As the fury died down, Fenris realized the casualties had been devastating with only one Templar and two of Sebastian's small outfit remaining.
There was no mistaking it, these rebels had been trained and fortified somehow against attacks that should have destroyed them outright. Even in the hazy moments after he'd deactivated the lyrium, Fenris realized that something was deeply wrong. The battle, bloody and victorious as it had finally concluded, should not have provoked such debilitating strain. Blood mages should not have been able to put up such a strong fight against the Templars in his command, seasoned warriors with the Maker's righteous fury behind them. Yet here he stood with all but one of his Templars dead and Sebastian alive only through the elf's concentrated effort.
They were abominations, he realized. It was the only explanation for such unnatural strength. But abominations of what sort? There was no malformation of the bodies, no bulging muscles or ripped clothing. These mages appeared for all intents and purposes to be simply… normal people.
Paranoia began to rush at him in waves. Whatever was happening here was different from anything he'd seen before- in Tevinter or any of the lands he'd traversed through. That was when the horror struck him fully. They looked like Anders, corrupt but passing as normal. Had he taught them to accept spirits as hosts? Was it truly so different from the typical demonic possession he'd always known?
And these were blood mages, something Anders had always openly detested.
What in the name of all to be held sacred was happening here?
He focused his mind, trying to divine precisely what had taken place here, trying to feel the source of such an indomitable energy. But what he felt shot coldness through him that he could not ignore. He did not feel dozens of blood mages…
… he felt only Anders' mania.
What?
Sebastian had run ahead, beckoning the few soldiers and his lone Templar with him before Fenris could even think to tell him to stop. He rushed behind them, praying he could tell the Prince to retreat before it was too late. This was wrong. This was desperately different from the battle they'd prepared for. He caught up just as Sebastian came to an abrupt halt, the Prince eying a lone hound standing in a clearing.
"Fenris," he stuttered for a moment, righteous bravado evaporated at the sight of one lone dog after dozens of crazed blood mages. "Is that… is that Hector?"
At the sound of his name, the mabari turned and barked once as if to answer Sebastian. Terror struck him once more- had he been incorrect? Was Marian here fighting with Anders? The war hound then growled at the sight of Fenris and affirmed the rogue's question irrevocably. The dog had been especially aggressive toward the elf after he'd wounded his master by abandoning her all those years ago. Even with the friendship Fenris had shared with her and the reconciliation that had eventually taken place, Hector had never really gotten over the elf's blunder. He was always watching, always growling, always warning him away from hurting her.
With a sickening pull at his stomach, he realized the dog had been right to protect her so ardently from him.
Before he could answer Sebastian, the sound of feet trampling through the brush reached his ears. Then, against every expectation he could have mustered, contrary to every scenario he'd painted in his mind- Carver Hawke emerged, with an expression more determined and dedicated than Fenris had ever seen from the boy. His armor was ragged and his face dirty but even through the retreating Fade Fenris knew in that moment that Carver was not an enemy he cared to face. The erstwhile Templar acknowledged the pair of them with ill-concealed shock before he righted himself and stared at them with a malicious condemnation. Another Templar followed him shortly thereafter, a petite blonde whose horror was directed not at them… but forward to a turned back on the other side of the wood.
Carver directed his voice back to the girl and growled, "Ellis, get back to camp and tell Margot to gather the others and run. She knows where to go."
She sputtered a bit as she acknowledged the strangers in her presence. "I'm not leaving you alone, Carver. We came together. We're supposed to stay together!"
Carver lowered his head in Hector's direction and then jerked his head back toward the elf and the Prince before he growled, "I'm not alone. Now go."
"Carver…" Ellis tried once more.
But Carver cut her off. "I said go!"
She regarded Fenris and Sebastian, stating, "Maker preserve you," before she spun and sprinted back into the wood.
Carver regarded his two companions with a wry side-glance, "You two really stepped in it this time, haven't you? Let's go."
And he moved forward, commanding the charge of what was left of the miniscule army without permission or apologies, leading them toward the edge of the thicket and to the back of the man standing on the other side. Carver had already drawn his blade and his fear was so thick Fenris could nearly taste it as they broke through the wood and stepped into the clearing.
Fenris recognized the clothing, dark and feathered, recognized the ridiculous ponytail the Grey Warden elected to wear. The robes were tattered from deprivation of proper care. His hair was dull, greasy and lank. It left no doubt that they were standing before Anders in all his wretched, supposed glory.
"Carver…" Anders droned lazily, his posture never changed and remained unnaturally facing forward, "and Sebastian and Fenris, no less. It seems I'm quite the lucky one."
His voice… it was the voice of Justice that Fenris had only heard once before. The mere sound of it sent the lyrium sparking into a frenzy that he had to struggle to overcome before he found to strength to shout, "Face us, abomination!"
"Shut your trap, elf!" Carver barked back at him before redirecting his attention to the Grey Warden. "You won't take us. You won't take any of us!"
But the abomination ignored Carver's words, offering instead to Fenris, "Face… you want me to face you?"
"Are you prepared to die, Anders?" Sebastian answered for him.
"Die?" The man asked as he turned…
… and Fenris saw that it was not Anders. His hollow eyes sunk deep inside his skull, the whites decayed, the black eyes rolling without seeing, his flesh deliquescing and running away from the bone in certain places. The Grey Warden's cracked lips tilted upwards in a vicious smile. Fenris could see Anders' tongue working in his dry mouth, the rotting appendage struggling to enunciate as it stuck against the surfaces in his decomposing maw… but he knew it needn't the apostate's mouth to speak. His cracked skin revealed a bright, pulsing blue, thrumming to the rhythm of some imaginary and nonexistent heartbeat.
It became utterly clear, the apostate's disembodied voice ringing the bells in his mind. The filthy truth was that Sebastian and Fenris had abandoned Hawke and stumbled into a situation where neither had any ruddy clue as to exactly what was happening- they'd excluded themselves from that information personally the moment they declared Marian an enemy. But whatever was happening here was far beyond the depravity and sins they'd prepared for and now they were hopelessly out of their depths, submerged and drowning in some deep black mystery without the proper tools to cope.
"You want me to die?" the… the thing that had once been Anders voiced again, his terrible voice simply barking from the Grey Warden's incapable mouth, which still rolled and moved like it wanted to speak, sickening Fenris as he heard the apostate's tongue smack discordantly against the words the elf heard.
There was no mistaking it. Anders was already dead. So what were they fighting now? Carver was readying his sword as Anders' dead eyes flashed blue. His next words shook Fenris to his very core.
"Why should I die?" it uttered and brought up its hands, summoning a burning black flame as the sneer became even more twisted. "I haven't even begun to live."
Author's notes- This was a hard one to write. Seriously, fuck this chapter and all the problems it gave me. But massive thanks to the betas BuriedBeneath and AmericanCorvus for wrangling this monster in and helping me corral this sumbitch into chapter form.
Also… REALLY sorry to Anders fans. I am going to sit apologetically in this corner and wait for your wrath.
And as always, many thanks to everyone who reads and reviews, you really have no idea how much it helps motivate me.
Much Love!
Omnom