Chapter 8.


Note: This chapter is heavily based on the "Mirror Image"-questline. I do not have any rights to that idea, or some parts of the dialogue borrowed from that quest. I just added my own little glitter around the quest.


In exchange for receiving the tool, Arulin'Holm, the Keeper had tasked Merrill with dealing with a monster. To Hawke, it sounded more like a horn than a woodworking tool—but what did he know about Dalish craftsmanship?

But of course, it wouldn't be a normal day unless someone needed something huge and venomous killed. The Varterral had already attacked several of the Dalish hunters and had to be dealt with. He had no idea what a Varterral was exactly, but assumed it was something along the lines of "big, spiky and deadly".

Still, Merrill had that look—the one she got when something was bothering her and needed to be resolved. That was reason enough.

Besides, it wasn't like he had room to judge. After all, he had spent a year with the mercenaries just to get into Kirkwall… and had travelled the deep roads hoping to save his sister from the Circle.

The Dalish watched in silence as the group left the camp, heading towards the cavern. A little "good luck" would've been nice to hear—after all, they were doing the Keeper's bidding by slaying the creature.


The climb up the mountain was steep and quiet, everyone seemingly lost in their thoughts. Hawke was still wondering if he had made the right choice earlier. Sure, he'd made a promise to Merrill, but surely the elven mage would've understood the reason for the delay.

Hawke was worried about Fenris. Meeting the slavers had clearly shaken the elf's composure, and he wasn't sure Fenris's head was in the right place for a battle like this. The man was a warrior, no doubt—but every time his past came to haunt him, Fenris' demeanour shifted to painfully defensive, almost self-destructively quick in his actions. Not the best mood for fight mages.

He could feel the anger radiating off him. Fenris walked ahead, fists clenched at his sides, eyes locked on the path, as if just waiting for something—anything—to punch.

Hawke sighed. This wasn't the time to dwell on his choices; he still had a gigantic, poison spitting bug to kill. Hopefully punching his fist through the creature would help Fenris feel a bit better. Sure, a giant bug wasn't a blood mage, but it had to count as some sort of abomination.


Getting closer to Varterral's lair was disheartening, to say the least. The cavern was full of spiders and the air stank. Hawke tried to think of a joke—even a stupid one—but nothing came to mind. So instead, he just listened to the water dripping from the walls, leaves rustling underfoot—anything to distract himself from the impending battle… and Fenris.

So far, they had found three dead Dalish laying on the mossy floor. The bodies were fresh— clearly the monster's doing. No wonder the Keeper wanted it gone. Soon, there wouldn't be any hunters left.

Merrill knew all of the dead, of course. She spoke their names aloud and collected their amulets to return to their families. It was a nice custom, Hawke thought. He wished he would have kept something of Carver's. But running from Darkspawn had seemed a bit more important at that point.

"I do not know why it is attacking the Dalish. Usually the Varterral leave us be, as long as we keep our distance," Merrill said, her voice echoing through the cavern. There were tears in her eyes; she was clearly shaken seeing her fallen clanmates.

Hawke had never been good with crying girls. Not even his sister. "Maybe it got tired of eating spiders and wanted something a little less.. hairy?", he offered, trying to lighten the mood with a bad joke. Instantly, he regretted it—her eyes welled up even more.

"Sorry, that was a bad joke… I'm sorry about your friends."

Hawke hated this kind of silence. He almost wished they'd just find the creature already. At least then he'd have something else to focus on.

Judging by the smell growing stronger, they were definitely getting closer to something.


A bit further into the cave, Hawke spotted a young male elf running past an opening, clearly spooked.

"Is someone there? It's safe, you can come out."

At first, the elf seemed relieved. But as soon as Merrill came into view, his mood demeanor shifted. He backed away, eyes wide. "Stay back! Don't touch me!"

"It's only Merrill, she couldn't hurt you if she tried. At worst, she might make frowny faces," Hawke joked. But the elf didn't listen—he turned and fled, panic in his voice. "Creators, help me! Someone, please!".

Hawke frowned. What had Merrill done to the guy—misplaced his quiver? The scariest thing he'd ever seen her do, was get lost in the Lowtown and get excited about a mugging.

They ran after him—but it was already too late.

The elf had backed himself into a corner. Varterral loomed over him like a rotting claw carved from wood and malice. All jagged limbs and poison. Hawke had never seen a creature like that before and wouldn't mind if he never saw one again.

Fenris let out a shout and charged. Hawke watched in horror as the elf took wild, unnecessary risks. He didn't even flinch when the creature's claw slashed past his ear, drawing blood. Fenris swung his blade like life depended on it—well, it did—but that didn't mean he had to fight like he was alone.

Hawke joined in, scanning for an opening. No eyes, all legs and probably armored. Crap. He needed to end this quickly—he had things to explain to Fenris back at Kirkwall.

The fight was tougher than expected. Besides the venom-spewing nightmare, waves of spiders swarmed them. Guess it didn't eat spiders after all. Why else would they get that close?

Just as Hawke sliced through another spider, he glanced at Fenris. The elf was still charging the beast, bloodied and unrelenting. Hawke kept wondering how much that blood was Fenris's.

It couldn't go on like this. Hawke could already feel his own stamina draining—and he had only two tiny daggers to swing.

He caught himself staring—admiring—just in time to see Fenris take another hit. The elf staggered but didn't fall. Hawke needed to focus on the creature, not on how brave—or recklessly beautiful—the elf looked.

Varterral lunged, legs tearing up dirt and moss. Hawke stepped back, ready to yell a warning, but it was too late. The creature was too fast, swinging its front leg in the air.

Hawke watched in horror as it hit Fenris full on. He saw the elf flying in the air, straight into a stone wall with a sickening thud.

"NO!" Hawke screamed.

He leapt on the monster, blades plunging deep into its head. It stumbled, then collapsed to the ground with a final, deafening thump.

But Hawke barely noticed. He was already running.

This was exactly how he lost Carver. He couldn't lose Fenris too.

His heart pounded in his ears. Fear gripped tightly his chest.

Hawke knelt beside Fenris's bloodied body. The blade had finally fallen from his grip, resting beside him on the stone floor. Blood poured from his forehead, coating his face. He wasn't moving, Wasn't breathing.

Hawke carefully lifted the elf's head into his lap, gently wiping away the blood and tangled hair. The skin under his touch was smooth and warm, like he was only sleeping.

But sleeping people didn't look this pale.

"Anders, heal him! Now!" Hawke yelled, eyes searching the cave.

This was why he had brought Anders. The healer. Where was he?

Anders approached slowly—too slowly—arms crossed, eyes cold. There was something dark in the way he looked at Fenris.

"Are you sure he even wants to be healed?", he said, voice laid with contempt.

Hawke stared at him in disbelief. How could he say that? Fenris wasn't always like this, impulsive and… disturbed. He knew that—he had seen that.

"Don't you dare to say that! Heal him!... Please…" Hawke's voice cracked. He was feeling both furious and absolutely terrified. He couldn't lose yet another.

"Fenris, please, don't leave me…" He kept caressing the man's face, hoping he would wake any moment.

In the corner of his eye, he finally saw Anders moving. A magic glowed between his hands, flowing to Fenris.

Hawke watched, barely breathing, as the light spread over the elf's body, healing up the wounds.

Then, finally Fenris stirred; his green eyes opened, slowly.

Hawke exhaled the breath he hadn't noticed he was holding. Fenris was alive.

"What.. Why are you looking at me like that?" Fenris murmured.

"You… You got thrown by the Varterral. I…" Hawke's voice broke. The last time he had seen someone fly like that, he had been too late.

He kept brushing the blood from Fenris's face, not ready to let go. He was alive. Bruised, probably concussed—but alive.

Suddenly, Fenris's eyes flew open and he shoved himself upright, as if the closeness burned. He turned away, blood streaked down his face, hands brushing the dirt from his clothes.

"I… Thank you," he finally muttered, grudgingly.

The elf glanced back, at Anders.

"You too, mage. I assume you used some… spell to heal me."

His voice was gruff. Spiteful.

Hawke almost laughed. He really was really something else.

But as the relief washed over him, he finally noticed Merril kneeling beside the Dalish hunter.

"Pol… maybe it's not too late. Anders, you can save him, can't you?", she asked, voice trembling.

Anders walked over, gave the body a glance. "It's too late. I'm sorry Merrill."

Hawke could have sworn he looked over his shoulder—at Fenris.

And all Hawke could think was: Was Pol dead because of my choice? Because I chose Fenris over the other?