Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Fenris feels like the whole world is coming down on him. 

Reality tears at the seams like wet paper and the ugly stone walls of the Viscount’s Keep feel ready to topple like falling trees. None of this feels real; yet the blood hammering in his head tells him otherwise. The panic gutting his stomach like a blade  making him near manic.

He’s used to spiralling internally. Maintaining the stoic safe zone for others to rely on when the situation becomes dangerous. But in this moment, watching as Hawke struggles for air against the ironclad grip of the Arishok’s hand clenched around her throat, he can’t maintain this facade any longer. 

He can see the cracks deepening in the stone pillar she’s been thrust against. Used like an object - he’s shocked her damn spine hadn’t snapped. Or perhaps it had, there was no way for Fenris to know, to check on her. He steps one foot in this arena, the whole room will descend upon him like wolves. 

He can feel their eyes on his back, dangling along his spine like spider legs. The other Qunari stand like watchful statues all around them unmoved by the torture. Yet he feels as though they are just waiting for him to move. To finally snap. At this rate, Fenris fears they will get what they want…

“Elf…” 

The twisting expressions tearing apart Hawke’s face were enough to make him frenzy. That startled look of realisation - that there’s no way she’s getting out of this one - strikes at his heart as surely as a blade. He wants desperately to rush in, to unleash his fury on the Arishok. Make him regret ever laying a hand on her. But he knows that won’t save her…

The flash of memory over their last words; their last moment alone - and he’d left. Left her naked and alone in cold bed sheets as he stormed into the night. Pushed each and every attempt she’d made to pull him back, to have them talk about this. He left things unsaid, unanswered, and unsatisfied. Foolishly thinking there’d be time, another moment to explain, a distant future where he could be enough and ready.

And now he watches the colour drain from her face, her eyes bulging with horror, mouth twisting in agony. She’s everything to his world, to his heart, and he’s watching her die slowly right before him and everyone else she loves. 

“Fenris!” 

Varric. Fenris tears his gaze from the horror and across his shoulder. His teeth ache with how tight his jaw is, eyeing the dwarf who’s suddenly got a firm grip on his wrist. 

“You can’t,” He’s never heard Varric beg. And frankly Fenris never wishes to hear it again. It reminds him how fucked everything is that the dwarf can’t find a reason to smile. That he too has lost hope that Hawke will have something up her sleeve this time…

Fenris looks down, startled as he realises. Despite intending to remain behind the line. He’s now standing on it. Teetering dangerously close to crossing it. Hearing movement, he sees the Qunari around them - their hands suddenly gripping the spears on their backs. Eyes daring him to step further.

Qunlat reaches his ears then, hot and spitting. He watches as the Arishok’s face pulls into pure rage as his already impossibly forceful grip winds all the tighter around Hawke’s throat. To the point Fenris sees his grey knuckles burn white. Lifting her up only to slam her back into the column, as if testing if she was still kicking. Her body thudded on impact horribly. He had taken all his outrage on her - holding her up as the city he had been stranded in. The city he had tolerated like a flesh-eating parasite gnawing away at him. His anguish cut deep into her skin in angry red lines dripping down and down…

He’d beaten her bloody, but his own body ran red with the myriad of cuts and gashes inflicted by the quickness of Hawke’s sword. But in the end…it wasn’t enough.

“No, no, no…” Isabela is the next one to be forcefully pulled back by Varric. Only just catching her, Varric lets Fenris go as he needed both hands to force her back.

“He’s going to fucking kill her!” Isabela cries out, struggling in Varric’s grip. 

“Rivaini no!” 

“Look at her! Look!” Her voice rings throughout the hall, pulling even the Arishok’s attention briefly. Who regards Isabela with nothing. Face stoic and unreadable, hardened like he was sculpted from stone. If he felt any remorse for giving Hawke such an agonising end, he didn’t show it. Deep down however, Fenris wondered if he felt enlightened by the thief’s reaction. Emboldened by his idea of swift punishment for stealing the Tome of Koslun.

Between Isabela’s frantic shouting, the mingled outcry of onlookers, and the rest of Hawke’s group looking on in pure horror. Fenris feels his sanity slipping. 

It’s only when Hawke uses what little strength she has to place her hand on the Arishok’s arm - as if that would stop him - that finally breaks him.

And in the end, when her near lifeless gaze reaches his, and she still somehow fucking smiles, as if to reassure him. He looks away.  

He can’t watch her die like this. And it makes him feel sick. The woman he had loved and abandoned only two days ago. The woman who had given him a place to call home, who made him feel s een, wanted, heard, and who he left like it was nothing . The woman whose affections he had never deserved since day one…and he couldn’t even give her the satisfaction of looking back at her in her final moments.

His heart is tearing apart, splitting open like a gushing wound. He’ll bleed out on the floor, and walk out of this Keep a husk of his former self. Suddenly he’s that elf in the dense fog of Seheron. The blood of comrades sticky on his skin, unable to even offer the respect of gazing upon the faces of the friends he had just decimated upon demand. 

“Vat!”

A roaring gush, like the opening maws of a dragon, cracks the room apart. 

The Arishok suddenly stumbles back. Clawing at his wrist wildly - the distinct smell of burning flesh filling Fenris’s nose - as Hawke’s body slumps against the ground. 

The Arishok mumbles curses in Qunlat - phrases Fenris can’t begin to decipher amidst the groans and hisses as he holds his wrist. Smoke trailing from a patch of pink skin. Fenris thinks he’s missed something, brain lagging from the hysteria of losing Hawke. Until…

Hawke moves, slowly rising to her knees - the skin of her palms rippled from burns as smokey tendrils wave. As a small glow emits around Hawke’s form, Fenris spots that her fingers are moving. Tracing strange shapes…the same way that Anders does when he’s working in the clinic in Darktown…

Fenris stops breathing as she stands - her wounds healed but still red raw - spitting out a chunk of blood as she stares down the Arishok. Her face pulled into pure manic ecstasy as she extended her arms outwards - as if to taunt him.

“Y-You…are Saarebaas?” The Arishok picks his axes from the ground. Eyeing Hawke with disdain.

“Yes,” She breathed, like she had finally released a breath she’d been holding for a long time.

She’s a terrifying sight. Her palms are scarred; the skin rippling from the fire. Her nose bridge split open  like her face was torn in half as blood spills across her nose and down to her jaw. Clothes sopping wet from her wounds. Yet she smiles - teeth blood red - like a demon descended from the Fade…

Fenris feels cold suddenly. Witnessing the woman he had fought beside for three years, the woman he had laughed with and talked to until the early hours of the morning. The woman he loved and laid with - now practically exuding magic. In this moment, she was magic. Untamed and wild; no staff to shape and conjure the fade into controllable elements, but pouring her determination to survive into reality like a crashing wave.

All this time he thought her to be a warrior like him. Built and locked into the waking world - relying on the physical to maintain strength and skill. But no, she was born to expel elements beyond the common man’s understanding. Born to manipulate and take. All this time when she touched him, his lyrium would thrum as if attuned to something. He thought it resonated with his love for her, his lyrium veins quivering for all the feelings he harboured. They were one after all.

But no. They were warning him. Whispering that magic was near the entire time.

“You lie,” The Arishok spits on the ground.“You dare engage in a duel with me, Sarebaas?!”

“Is that you forfeiting?” Hawke spits out more blood. “Does the Arishok claim defeat against a Southern mage?”

When she speaks, Fenris notes the other Qunari sharing glances with each other. The Arishok too seems to clock this, looking all around him. Fenris knows he did not view Hawke as a woman, to engage in a duel with one is unheard of for the Qunari. But he still respected her. With this revelation…Hawke has well and truly removed any ounce of humanity he might have once held for her….

He fears that. Amidst the anger he feels over her sick lies, he fears what he’ll do now. 

The Arishok spins his axe in hand, rolling his boulder-like shoulder.

“No,”

Hawke’s face is firm, as if she had wished for nothing more. Nodding once in silent confirmation. She turns to her companions, but distinctively avoids him.

“Anders, your staff,” She says.

Fenris watches Anders, who freezes for a moment in shock, before slowly walking over to Hawke. He grips his staff firmly even as she tries to take it. And Fenris feels his blood boil as they exchange words, Anders taking hold of her shoulder and squeezing it. 

Then he turns away. And it feels like he too avoids looking at him as Hawke slams the bottom of the staff into the ground.

"Hawke?" Isabela calls out, reaching to try and stop Hawke. Yet the Ferelden holds a hand up, that stupid cocky smile playing on her cut and puple lips.

"I got you, Bels,"

She holds Anders's staff with confidence. As if the thing was like a third arm. And if it hadn't settled in yet for Fenris that the woman he loved was a mage. The the roaring flames enveloping her like a cloak as she settles into a battle stance most certainly did.

Chapter Text

Fenris is alerted to a knock at the door.

He jolts up and groans frustration. His body is already on the move before his brain can catch up. He’d only just managed to close his eyes and settle into some semblance of sleep when the knocking began. Sat on the side of his bed with his head leaning against the headrest in an awkward half-lying half-sitting position. And now he teeters on the line between flight or fight. Thrust from slumber into the throws of panic. He lunges to the bedroom door like a bolt of lightning. Sword in hand having not realised he’d even picked it up. Or perhaps not remembering having ever let go of it.

The sounds of his padded footsteps sound through the quiet. Moonlight beckons downwards like shards from a mirror through the cracked skylight. Unsure of who could be at his door at this time of the night, Fenris does what he does best when stranded in the unknown and assumes the worst. His thoughts ran with the idea that the slavers had finally come for him, breaking this false sense of security he never should have felt in the first place in Kirkwall.

Blood pumps between his ears as he goes running down the stairs all the while the knocking continues. Reverberating through the manion’s halls as an echo. This is exactly why he could not rest. Couldn't help but glance over his shoulder, spying for movement in the shadows, flickers in the corner of his eye. The moment he lets his guard down, the second he allows his body to rest, anything could happen…

He arrives quickly to the front door, sweat building above his brow. He feels surrounded, who knows how many of them lay beyond the door. They’d pile in like bees to the hive, swarming him before he could even raise his sword. Fenris feels his lyrium flare as another knock hurtles at the door, spiking like needles beneath his skin as he grips the doorknob. He breathes in, then out, then tears the door open. Raising his sword and -

“Maker’s Balls!”

Fenris halts immediately, eyes flickering over her form in a frenzy. Black hair pricks up like a dishevelled raven, hands flying up as she jumps back with a yelp.

“Hawke!?”

Fenris quickly lowers his sword. Hand slamming over his face as he tries to slow down his breathing.

“No wonder you don’t get many guests, Fenris,” A nervous chuckle. Hawke slowly brings down her hands as she trades her look of horror for a coy grin. “Or am I just special?”

“What are you doing here?” Pushing past her humour quickly, he looks her over. Checking for injuries or signs of immediate danger. Anything that would warrant getting him so worked up. Voice sounding far harsher than he intended, but he couldn’t help it. Blood was rushing through his head like molten gold and upon the immediate relief of seeing her…it all was enough to make him feel dizzy.

So dizzy he didn’t have time to be shocked by her sudden appearance at all.

“I saw that your light was on…and well, I just…assumed-”

“Hawke,” He urges sternly. Trying to soften his voice when he heard her hesitate. “What are you doing here?” He asks again, looking across her shoulder. Alarmed to find no friendly face peering across her shoulder. “Without anyone?”

“What? Do I need an escort?” She frowns. “You saw me cut a man in half today, Fenris,”

She was right, they’d been in the Storm Coast clearing out bandits and it was a damn fine kill. Hawke was graceful with a greatsword, far more light-stepped than he could ever hope. But that wasn’t the point. As hardened as Hawke was, as capable as she was, there was no shortage of fools who would try something on a lone woman at night. He felt she had somewhat of a blindspot to this. And so being neighbours, he preferred walking home with her after a couple of at the Hanged Man. And urged the others to do the same when he was out on other jobs….

Something was off about her. And it had everything to do with the fact she was in front of him…at all. They had not spoken in two weeks. Not since…

Once more, Fenris observes her silently. Tracing the deep crescents lurking under her hooded eyes, their honey glaze dimmer than he remembered. She seemed paler too, gaunt now that he looked even harder. And as he stepped forward he got the faintest whiff off…

Ale. That explains it.

“Ah,” He hums, wrinkling his nose. “You’re drunk,”

She looks at him outraged. “I am not!”

Fenris sighs. “Why has Varric let you walk home?” He was going to have words with the dwarf. She wasn’t intoxicated beyond reason, but letting her walk home at the dead of night like this?! After everything that happened with Leandra? What was he thinking-

“I wasn’t with Varric,” She starts, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I mean, well I was with him at first. Then he took his leave at sundown…but I wasn’t ready to go home yet, so I headed over to Gamlen's....” Her bottom lip quivers until she pinches it between her teeth. Looking at nothing with a sudden distant expression. “But he obviously wanted nothing to do with me. So I’ve just…”

She stops. An alarmed look on her face as if she had just let Fenris in on some big secret.

Fenris waits patiently for her to continue on her own accord. She was…delicate at the moment. Which, thinking that to himself nearly made him bark with laughter. Delicate would never have been something he’d attribute to Hawke. She was daring, smiling in the face of death. If she wasn’t so full of life he’d be worried she had a death wish…

And he didn’t want to do anything wrong. As delicate as she seemed, their relationship…what little there was to salvage, was fragile. There were cracks and visible seams left over from their fallout, chips and nicks from where he’d stormed out and left her broken-hearted.

She looked almost ready to cave in on herself. Wilting like wet paper. And Fenris felt an odd desire to cradle the crumbled pieces of her in the palm of his hand.

“I can’t go home,” She finally pushes her confession out. Rubbing her arm in a self-soothing manner as she shirks her gaze away from him.

“Why can’t you go home?” He says to her. “Forget your keys again?”

Fenris perks up at the sound of her laughter, as strained as it was. Happy he’d managed to make her chuckle, even if only a little.. Maker knows how effective she was at coercing a smirk from him even in the moments when he’d rather not. Pulling him from the brink of dark, looming thoughts with one joke…

“No, no, not my keys. It’s that I…” She struggles again, looking up in the starry night of Kirkwall as if the stars held an answer.

Then, just as Fenris thinks she’ll give up. She stares back at him.

“It’s so quiet,”

-----

Fenris didn’t expect his night to turn out like this. A few weeks ago, he’d never would have thought he’d go without nightly visits by Hawke. Dropping in when the whims would take her, and he’d let her into his home without a second thought. They’d settled into a comfortable tradition; plying their hard earned gold at the Hanged Man with the others, then waywarding themselves like debris adrift rocky waves to his mansion. Having a party in their own right which would only end successfully with her passed out on his floor. Until he carried her sleeping form into his bed. And he’d take a seat in his chair facing the doorway. Sword beside him.

Then…well, then he happened. And everything between them went away save for those lingering looks.

He couldn’t blame her for distancing herself. He had no right to do so. In her shoes, he’d have done the exact same. Fenris thought about leaving Kirkwall after sabotaging the only good thing he’d managed to have in his life. But the thought of that scared him when it happened upon him.

He had made friends in this miserable city. An odd bunch who made sunlight shine through the dreary clouds that constantly hung above him. But more than that, he felt a longing to remain in this city simply because Hawke was here. Even if they never spoke again, he’d remain in the hope of crossing her in the street. And even if her stare soured into a glare, a glance at her golden eyes would fulfil him. He thought of the stone paths lining Kirkwall’s walkways, and he held onto the idea that he walked over the same spots she had. Of visiting locations they had fought together in; perhaps if he listened close enough, he’d hear the whispers of their striking steel…

“It’s so quiet,” She said to him outside. A simple sentence that Fenris didn’t push her on. He knew what she meant, and he understood that home for her was a den of nightmares since Leandra’ death.

Something similar had happened in the Fog Warrior’s camp back in Seheron. For a few weeks he’d been surrounded by life. In all its joys, in all its splendour. He was surrounded by laughter, bickering, cooking, joking…and then in a flash of blue it was gone. That…quiet in the aftermath, the blood…

Fenris shakes his head. He didn’t know if inviting her inside was a good idea. He was beginning to lean towards it being a horrific decision actually. With their history being so fresh and Maker knows what in her system it was a recipe for disaster. Yet, if Fenris had told her to go home. She wouldn’t have. He’d rather invite him into his home, where he knew she was safe, than let her wander…

If he had someone to depend upon after Seheron…

Well, if nothing else. Fenris wanted to be someone she could depend upon.

There’s a brief moment when Fenris worries he’s gone about it the wrong way. Inviting her inside. Until he hears the door close and feet skimpering behind him. Then he smiles to himself, leading the way further into the mansion. Thankfully, the fire was still alive inside his room.

But there was one problem,

The bed - his bed - was the only one.

“I think Varric’s got a trope about this in one of his books,” Hawke spies the problem herself, grinning from ear to ear with a cute wiggle of her brow as she stands beside him.

Fenris feels the tip of his ears burn slightly, shrugging his shoulders and quickly acting nonchalant to compensate for them. Hoping the dim light of the fire would be enough to hide the burning skin. He shimmies to a corner of the room where a trunk was pressed against the wall. Rifling through its contents to find the pillow and blanket he thought he’d never use.

“You take the bed,” He states, a blanket draped over his arms with a pillow under his chin.

“I don’t think that’s how the trope plays out,”

He rolls his eyes at her. “We are not characters in one of Varric’s tales,”

“Pfft, I think Varric would beg to differ,”

“I’m sure he would,” He nudged his head towards the bed. “Now, hop in,”

“Wait hold on,” She pauses, stepping right in front of him. “This is your bloody mansion,”

“Actually-”

It’s now her turn to roll her eyes. “It’s actually some Tevinter Merchant’s yeah, you said. But he’s not been squatting up in here and acting like the gaffer,”

“Your point, Hawke?”

She puts her hands on the blanket and pillow in his arms. And Fenris becomes all too aware that the side of her hand is ever so slightly brushing against his arm. The lyrium hums beneath her warmth, eliciting a hitch in his breath. It would almost be pleasant if she’d let it linger longer. Instead, she takes the items from him and nods her head.

“Your bed, your arse should be in it,”

He smiles at her stubbornness. “Ah, but you are my guest,” He takes them back from her. “Now, arse in it,” He quips back, mocking her Ferelden accent which earns him a light slap on the back of his tunic from Hawke.

He walks over to the fireplace, his back facing her before she could argue the point any further. Wth his back to her, he finally lets the smile creep along his lips. This felt exactly like it used to be before everything happened. The casual banter, the touches, the shared laughs. It almost felt too good to be true. And then he’d remind himself Hawke was drunk. And likely would wake up feeling disgusted by him come dawn.

Preparing to lay out the blanket and pillow on the floor there so as to give her some room. Hawke suddenly taps his shoulder.

“Wait…um, think you could…”

Fenris looks at her, watching as she sheepishly rubs the back of her neck.

“If you insist on being on the floor…you could..I don’t know, sleep beside the bed?” Her eyes regard him carefully. “Please?”

Fenris wonders why she would want that, but upon hearing her say please he finds himself already moving towards the bed. Laying out his makeshift bed on the floor beside it. As he does so, he hears the weight of the bed dip as Hawke climbs in. And there’s something odd about Hawke being in his bed. So odd in fact, he feels his ears only burn more as she wraps herself in his blankets. Pulling the material around her form as she watches him quietly set up his sleeping arrangements…

“So…when do we get to the pillow fights and sharing our diary entries?” She says, laying down on her side. Resting her head in her hand. “I’ve never had a sleepover before,”

He scoffs. “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong man for that, Hawke. And not true, you’ve fell asleep here before,”

“Passing out in your hallway isn’t the same…”

He settles under the blanket, propping his head up in his hand as he looks at her. “Are you comfortable?”

She looks down. “Yes…I’m…” Then her eyes darted upwards, looking at him like a child in trouble. “I’m sorry,”

He shrugs. “For what?”

“Where do I begin?” She forces a laugh. “Sorry I stumbled over here…this wasn’t my plan by the way. I didn’t intend this. I actually feel like shit being here,”

“I know. And you shouldn’t…”

“Shouldn’t I?”

“No matter what. I want you to feel like you can still come to me when you need something,” He means that. Wholeheartedly. He wonders if she’ll ever truly know the depth of his devotion to her. Despite it all. “It’s the least I can do,”

“Oh, Fen,” She reaches down the side of the bed. Taking his hand in hers. “You don’t owe me a damn thing,”

He flinches ever slightly. He owed her everything. His life? His sword-arm? His love? An apology? His entire being felt like it belonged to her. Nothing like how it once belonged to Danarius…no, Fenris had chosen this devotion. This loyalty to this young Ferelden woman. It had never been demanded by her…he was willing. Desiring…

Noticing her finger idly stroking over his knucklebones. Fenris’s lyrium responds; humming softly as the tugging sensation returns. Albeit far more docile than the last time she touched his bare skin for such extended time.

She notices this. And Fenris feels an odd coldness sweep over him as she suddenly lets go of his hand.

Her head leans into the pillow, the material shrouding half her face. Almost as if she’s trying to hide from him.

“Does it….hurt?”

“Sometimes,” He whispers softly. “It is my burden to bear, you should not treat me like glass because of it,”

He wishes that was enough to encourage her to take his hand again. But she seems to sink further into his bed.

“Burdened by magic, you mean,” She trails her eyes over the lyrium in his skin. Not with acute curiosity or marvel like she usually does, but with sadness. Guilt.

“You are no mage. You could never burden me,” He reminds her.

“I-...” Hawke stumbles, visibly looking like she is in pain. No doubt she could not covertly hide the feelings flashing across her features thanks to the alcohol in her system.

“I care for you, Fenris. I hope you know that.” She stated. Determined. “No matter what, I hope you know that,”

The way she’s talking, it unsettles Fenris at first. But he has no time to inquire about her sudden tone, for Hawke turns over in the bed. Signalling the conversation was over.

Chapter Text

The commotion ceases with a groundbreaking halt.

The Arishok seemed to have won for a moment. A great vibration thundered beneath Fenris’s feet like it would cave in that very moment as he watched the Qunari make a break towards Hawke at breakneck speed. Who seemed so small and alone with her back pressed against a pillar. All while this hulking grey mass charged towards her. Time ceases. A breath stolen. Bile in his throat…

Until suddenly, the unforgiving pace which was about to brutally smash into Hawke is unceremoniously thwarted by a sudden gust of force. Propelling the Arishok backwards and onto the stairs like he weighed nothing. Hawke’s palm crackling with magic. Vile, traitorous magic.

The Arishok, someone who had commanded his forces to bring an entire city to a standstill, now lays awkwardly along the steps to the Viscount’s throne. His hands scathing the steps as he crawls backwards. No inch of grey skin spared from bleeding red. A horn lopped off, leaving a deep gash along his haphazard face speaking of the brutality ushered by a Hawke cornered.

And then….a death rattle.

The blade welded to the end of Anders’s staff is lodged into the Qunari’s chest. Twisting sickly into its new flesh cave while inching deeper and deeper until Fenris heard the steel hitting the stone ground on the other side with a clink. The Arishok’s hand grips the staff, his knuckles burning painfully white. Yet his eyes harbour no rage as he looks up at Hawke. Not even fear resides in his steely gaze. Instead, the only word Fenris could think of to describe it was….acceptance.

His mouth opens slowly as he says something to Hawke. Loud enough that the two of them are the only witnesses to his final words. Her expression can scarcely be made out over the layers upon layers of blood and wet hair that covers her face like a maddening warpaint. The deep gash that travels along the bridge of her nose and dribbles down her cheek is so wide Fenris wonders if her nose is even attached to her face anymore.

Regardless of her wounds, she listens intently, her gaze never wavering.

Soon, the man who had caused Kirkwall so much strife in the last few hours went limp. Immediately, the surrounding Antaam soldiers shared a look as they stood over their dead leader. Honor dictated their removal, and one by one the Antaam left the Viscount’s throne room. Never to be seen again.

And then? It’s like something from one of Varric’s tales. A hero smothered in the blood of her enemies standing victorious as the room surrenders to thunderous applause. Hope and relief blending into one aspiring uproar. All the while Hawke smiles a bloody red grin…

Fenris does not share in the splendour. He cannot. Because one fact hangs above him like a dark cloud and he cannot shake it. Even now as he swallows his anger, quiet in the face of her victory, he feels a hot pain shoot through his chest. He cannot share in her joy. Not while his skin crawls as he looks at her hands that still retain wisps of magic. Imagining that those hands had touched him, that he had enjoyed her touch, makes him feel…sick.

Does he still long for her touches even now? Knowing what those hands are capable of?

There was a desire to go to her of course. To hold her, to feel her, to cradle her. For him to know this wasn’t some dream conjured by the despair of losing her to the Arishok’s rightful rage. That some demon hadn’t entered through the vacuum of Fade she had pulled into the room and tricked him. He hates himself for his hypocrisy and yet….

Isabela is the first to move. Crossing that threshold that nearly sent Fenris insane moments before. She wraps her arms around Hawke’s shoulders. The staff in her bruised hands goes tumbling away as she hangs onto Isabela’s waist. Her chin resting on the Rivaini woman’s shoulders. Fenris notices spots of blood dotting the white tunic as Hawke melts into her arms.

His heart had the gall to sting at the sight.

“Oh you bloody fool!” Isabela sounds close to sobbing as the two friends sway left and right in their embrace. Overwhelmed by relief. “I thought you were a goner you bloody idiot! Oh, Hawke,”

“Ssh…” Hawke’s voice croaked as she soothed her. “It’s fine, Bels…I’m fine..”

Anders moves next. His feet kicking away his staff as his hand hovers over Hawke tentatively. Eyes scouring her form relentlessly not knowing where to look first.

“Isabela, please let me see to Hawke’s-”

He’s interrupted by the storming of the hall’s doors. Meredith and Orsino enter like riders on the storm. The Knight Commander’s face is murder incarnate as she surveys the room. Teeth gritting together like an oral bulwark as she immediately rounds on Hawke.

It’s that look Meredith gives her that spurs Fenris to action.

“Elf! Hold on!” Varric calls out fruitlessly. Hopelessly calling out to an Elf that isn’t interested in thinking right now.

“You,”

Meredith grabs Hawke’s arm in a steel grip. Her gauntlet sticking into a fresh wound on Hawke’s arm. Intentionally or not, it causes Hawke to yell out as Meredith rips her away from Isabela. Yet Isabela quickly holds onto Hawke’s other arm. Fenris fears for a moment the equally confrontational women will play tug of war with an already fragile Hawke.

And so, like the madman he is, he grabs ahold of Meredith’s wrist and tears it from Hawke. Pushing the woman away as he positions himself in front of Hawke and Isabela.

“What is the meaning of this?! You dare shield an apostate?!”

Fenris wonders if shouldn’t be asking himself that. Right now, he isn’t thinking. He just knows he has to get between Hawke and imprisonment in the Gallows. Were it any other mage, anyone else, he would have let justice take course. But this wasn’t just some mage. And this was not anyone else.

If Meredith wanted Hawke. She’d have to go through him.

The human woman squares up to Fenris. And immediately their height difference is obvious; nose to chestplate, Fenris realises just how much of a mountain of a woman she is. Yet Fenris is not deterred.

“Fenris!” He can hear Hawke struggling in Isabela’s grip behind her. “Fenris, leave it!”

Fenris grits his teeth. “Quiet, Hawke,”

Perhaps it was harsh. Guilt claws at his heart, shocked by his own vile tone. Yet with all that was happening around them. With him battling his conflicting emotions while standing between Hawke and a life in the Gallows, the last thing he wants to hear is her voice telling him to move.

Meredith peers down her nose at him. He reckons there’s a multitude of insults hurtling through her head, Fenris isn’t so daft as not to recognise that distinct look of disgust in a human’s eye. He can just feel it edging on her forked tongue. Yet no matter how hard she presses her chest plate into his own, Fenris won’t move. Even if flames seared from her pupils and burned him, he will not move.

Meredith scoffs, glaring across his shoulder.

“This cannot stand!” She shouts. “Maker be my witness Hawke, I will see you rushed to the Gallows! Made an example of!”

“It doesn’t matter what she is! She saved your fucking city!” Isabela barks back.

Meredith looks unconvinced, ultimately sneering.“A mage existing outside of the Circle-”

From the corner of his eye, Fenris sees Anders moving in next to him to shield Hawke also. Neither men share a look as he does so, and as much as Fenris would often be loathed to share a space with the abomination. He won’t lie that he feels a semblance of solidarity that Anders would help shoulder Meredith’s intimidation. Not that he needed it.

“Cannot be allowed to stand no matter their merits!” Meredith lets out a grating sigh. Pinching the bridge of her nose as she regards the nobles in the crowd. “The law dictates-”

“You know, I really don’t think you’ve got a good handle on the situation, Ma’m-uh…Knight Commander Meredith,”

Meredith snaps her head to Varric. As does Fenris. Amazed to see that the dwarf has slipped easily into his easy-going mask.

“Just what do you imply, Dwarf? Do you mean to tell me the existence of the Fade in this room is a mere coincidence? You dare suggest my years of Templar training now lie to me?”

“Take a look around,” Varric motions to the crowd of nobles, casually despite the greatsword that was bigger than two Varric’s put together in the Knight Commander hand.. “I don’t know about you. But we all just witnessed Kirkwall get invaded, the Viscount’s violent murder, a horde of rampaging Qunari declaring their invasion…all hope was lost!”

Varric gives a knowing smile to Fenris. Winking subtly. “And then, all of a sudden… one, lone mage is there standing against it all,” His hands slowly drew towards Hawke’s direction. “All these people in this room would be dead if not for her. And you’re threatening to arrest her? The one woman who saved Kirkwall? What kind of official treats their champion like a petty criminal?”

The crowd reacts to Varric’s speech spontaneously. Reciprocating in the emotions he had knowingly planted the seeds for. The wave of outrages serves to finally place a dent in Meredith’s bravado. Her demeanour does not falter, but shifts. Like she had put a lid upon a boiling pot.

“Commander, if I may?” Orsino steps out. Though he clearly has no real intention of waiting for her permission to speak freely. “Hawke has proven herself to be this city’s Champion. A woman of determination, of superior will…enough that perhaps otherworldly beings seeking to manipulate certain…innate abilities, would find no success,”

Orsino pauses, gaging Meredith’s reaction. When the Knight Commander holds her tongue, Orsino continues with renewed confidence.

“Our Champion should exist outside the Circle. Providing her purpose is to guard the city she has already saved,” Orsino looks to Hawke. His eyes were shining brilliantly with ideas. “Do we not extend the privilege of mages existing outside the Circle when we send them to entertain courts? To advise in magically inclined subjects?”

“Those are temporary luxuries, First Enchanter…”

“But luxuries that we permit to those we trust. The same should be allowed for Messare Hawke…” Orsino gestures to the nobles. “I am sure the nobility would agree? As Master Tethras has diligently pointed out…”

The crowd resounds with Orsino. Deploring any and allAnd any vindication Meredith possessed is snuffed by the thunderous uproar of the nobles. If Meredith tried to take Hawke, Fenris would expect to see every citizen in Kirkwall calling for her head instead.

Hawke looks between the two men standing against the intimidating force that was Meredith. Taken aback by their support and their success. Meredith relinquishes her grip on Hawke, the tip of her gauntlet drips with a single drop of blood as Hawke hisses slightly. Once again bracing herself against Isabela.

“It seems Kirkwall stands with you…Champion,” Meredith says through gritted teeth. “We will discuss recent…events, at a later date. You are injured after all,” Her piercing eyes drag up and down Hawke’s form. “Very injured indeed…”

“Me? I feel fit a fiddle,” Hawke croaks as she just barely removes herself from Isabela. Walking closer to Meredith. Though Hawke was not tall by any stretch of the imagination, she meets Meredith gaze and holds it with a gleam.“Nothing a bit of whiskey and honey won’t fix…”

Meredith seems to really dislike that answer. The thought of Hawke remaining clearly not sitting well with her.

Without another word, the Knight Commander rounds her men and starts barking orders. Templars and mages pile out of the Viscount’s hall. Orsino gives the group one last glance before he too disappears.

Then. Hawke collapses.

“Shit!” Varric hisses.

Fenris had seen her just in time. Draped in his arms, Fenris cradles her spent form having only just caught her before her head smacked into the ground.

“Anders!” Fenris shouts.

Cradling Hawke’s head in his hands, he wipes away the wet hair clinging to her face and sees her eyes are closed. Her breathing ragged and wheezy. As he holds onto her tightly, Fenris can already feel his hands getting wet with blood. This sensation…this feeling of her blood all over…it makes him freeze up.

Anders drops to his knees beside them. Tearing a piece of his garment, he latches it onto the first seeping wound he finds. Trying his best to halt the bleeding before leaning into Fenris with a hushed voice.

“You need to carry her back to the mansion. I can’t do my magic here in front of half the noble population in bloody Kirkwall,” Anders glares at his surroundings. “Or whatever is bloody left of it. I don’t expect they’ll be as charitable to two apostates,”

Fenris doesn’t move at first. All he can think about is his hands drenched in her. His Lyrium throbs horribly, no doubt from all the excess mana Hawke had used up to fight the Arishok. Her body was downright gagging for Lyrium, and he felt his blood drawn to her in a strange, yet painful tugging sensation-

He almost wishes he could give it to her. If only to see a spark of life return to her.

“Hey!” Anders smacks Fenris’s shoulder. Knocking him out of his daze. “I can’t work here! Pick her up or we’ll lose her!”

In any other situation he’d have knocked the mage flat on the floor. Yet, Fenris nodded quickly and complied. Swallowing a lump in his throat he lifts Hawke up. Carrying her in his arms, he lets Varric and Isabela lead the way out of the Viscount’s Hall and into Kirkwall’s streets. Which provided its own problem.

With the Kirkwall sun beating down on them. Fenris sees the streets of Hightown flooded with activity. Waves of people pile into the streets; Civilians vying to know what had occured in the Viscount’s demesne. Templars trying to clean up the bodies and rubble.

Fenris feels overwhelmed when he spots a head of red at the bottom of the stairs. Aveline’s thundering voice crying to keep the peace and the civilians out of the Viscount’s hall.

“Aveline!” Anders calls out. “Aveline you need to get people moving, we’ve got to get Hawke home now!”

Aveline looks at Anders confused, seemingly filled with questions of her own until she spots Hawke lying limp in Fenris’s arms.

“Maker…” She curses under her breath. “Ensure she survives. I am going to kill her myself!” She motions to her guardsmen with stern authority, and soon steel and orange pave the way through the ocean of people for Fenris and the others to chart their way to Hawke’s mansion.

“Hawke, open your eyes,” Fenris whispers. Looking down at the unconscious woman in his arms. He’s never seen her so lifeless, so weak. It scares him.

“Please, open your eyes…”

Chapter Text

“The Champion cannot take any visitors as of-Oh Maker’s breath they’re not even listening to me,”

Sebastian's sigh of utter defeat resonates with the pit simmering like acid in Fenris’s chest. Something had been sinking ever since he laid a nearly dead Hawke in her bed and as the days spanned with no word of her full recovery he felt closer to the ground than ever before.

As Sebastian shooed off another person trying to edge closer to Hawke’s front door, he sighed again.

“These nobles test my patience. It’s like tending to sheep!”

Shepherding another batch of stragglers back to the crowd of collective awe inspired watchers, Fenris notes that it is indeed like tending sheep. And he wonders if they shouldn’t bring Hawke’s Mabari Chief out here with them.

One tries to barge past anyway, emboldened by Sebastain’s politeness. Fenris however, shoots the brave man a look that has him turning straight back around.

Kirkwall had been buzzing with activity since the Arishok’s defeat. It seemed the entire city was encircling Hawke. Whether like vultures or crows Fenris had yet to decide. Nevertheless, all eyes were on her. Her name on its denizens lips in both curse and blessing. In the three days Hawke had been out of commission, these people had strayed from their homes and jobs in hopes of catching a glimpse at their new champion. Whether in earnest of her recovery or to cheer for her demise, again Fenris was unsure. Would it dare be the latter however, Fenris will see it to himself.

Fenris has not heard much from beyond the door save the brief visitations from Isabela or Aveline. Who routinely trade positions with Fenris and Sebastain at every hour. Though they had to pry Fenris from his post. And he is both thankful and fearful for their vagueness. Three whole days and Anders had not reportedly slept, three whole days and she was still only ‘recovering’.

“You could go in and see her,” Isabela had proposed. Nudging him with her shoulder before they swapped guard duty. “See for yourself,”

He’d declined almost immediately. Beyond Hawke’s door he could pretend for a little longer. Could pretend there was no need to have to look her in the face and deal with the reality of her magic. That beyond her door, anywhere but at her bedside, he could convince himself it was exactly where he needed to be. The door was a barricade to more than an ogling crowd.

But he also wasn’t sure he could withstand seeing her in whatever state she was in. It was cowardly, Fenris knew he was being stubborn and cruel not to see Hawke. But something kept holding him back. The notion that he might erupt at the slightest mention of her magic, of her lies, perhaps kept him from crossing that threshold.

The Guardsmen were preoccupied cleaning up the streets from the rubble and bodies that litter Kirkwall still. Maintaining order and reprimanding looters to bring back some sense of normalcy. And so it was down to Hawke’s trusted companions to ensure her home isn’t broken into by star-struck fans.

Or Templars.

First Enchanter Orsino had been by earlier that day. A surprise appearance that had Fenris on edge almost immediately at the sight of his Templar escorts. Orsino reassured that there would be no midnight visitations from the order, that the champion had her freedom on account of her service to the city. Fenris didn’t miss the rehearsed tone to Orsino, nor the apology that seemed to hang just off his tongue. It was then Fenris knew it had not been an idea from the First Enchanter to come all the way down here. No, Orsino was just the bottle. The two large Templars at either side of him were the message. “No Templar interference,” Orsino said. “For now,” The Templar’s faces silently declared.

Commander Meredith seethed with an anger that would linger like a seeping wound. For a while there back in the Viscount’s Keep, Fenris wasn’t sure if he was going to walk out a wanted man or not. More wanted than he already was, that is. Thank the Maker for Varric’s uncanny way of wrapping people around his finger. For now she had kept to herself. But he knew one way or another, Hawke would have to deal with her.

Kirkwall was more volatile than ever before. Fenris could feel it in the air; something was brewing. Something sinister. And Fenris worried Hawke was the eye of the storm.

“It’s been an hour,” Sebastian says to Fenris.

“Actually, it’s been an hour and twenty minutes,” Fenris corrects. Knowing full well what Sebastian was hinting at. Aveline had gone inside to check on Hawke earlier that day. But she had not emerged to trade her position with Sebastain or Fenris at the hour.

“You don’t think somethings gone awry, do you?”

Fenris doesn’t answer. Distracted by the sinking feeling Sebastian’s words throw upon him. He didn’t want to believe something had gone wrong upstairs, but Aveline was punctual to an almost obsessive degree. She was not late without cause.

“Should we go inside?”

“No,” Fenris says quickly. A bit too quickly. “We must guard the door, less we have another problem to contend with,”

“I just think-”

Suddenly, there’s a crash from inside the house. Loud enough that even beyond the door Sebastian and Fenris can hear it clear as day. Followed by the tumultuous sounds of muffled arguing. The men share a look, before Fenris immediately tears the door open. Running inside.

“Hawke! You’re going to open your wounds! Stop this childish tantrum!” Aveline’s voice is almost shrill. Her hands scathing across Hawke’s arms as the woman tries to stand up, using a staff Fenris doesn’t recognise to hold up her weight.

“It isn’t our wound now, is it? Maker you’re so pissin’ nosy,” Hawke’s voice is coarse, breaking at the pain of her still healing wounds. Yet the comedic tinge her voice carries with each witty retort is still present clear as day. Fenris finds an odd comfort in that.

“Templars won’t care about my beauty sleep! I’ve got to…I don’t know. Do something!”

Neither of them have noticed him or Sebastian standing panicked in the doorway. There’s a broken statue on the floor, a depiction of a proud mabari, cracked straight down the middle. Fenris notes it used to stand perched at the balcony overlooking the main room of the estate proudly. Hawke must’ve caught on her way down the stairs.

“She won’t listen to me, she’s definitely not listening to you,” Anders is leant against the railing of the stairs. More for support than to listen in. Dark crescents dig harshly into the skin under his eyes. The collar to his jacket is open wide,his sleeves rolled up all the way to where Fenris spots the specks of blood still staining his skin. He looks ready to topple over at any second.

“Hawke, the Templars aren’t coming-”

“Like Andraste’s tits they’re not! I flung all sorts in that hall! Spells I didn’t even realise I could do!” Hawke is laughing, almost manically, but her eyes strain against fear. “I can hear Meredith’s fat boots stomping down from the Gallows now…”

Her face cringes hard. And Fenris sees blood trickling down her cheek from the deep wound embedded in her nose bridge.

“Now look at what you’ve done. Anders!” Aveline motions to Anders hurriedly, and before Fenris can back out Anders’s catches him.

“Oh,” The mage makes a noise of surprise. Stopping in his tracks to awkwardly point. Fenris wants to rip his finger off and hurry back out the door.

Immediately, Hawke and Aveline’s eyes follow Anders’s. Leaving no room for a quiet escape.

“Fenris…” Hawke says.

Fenris stares at Hawke from across the room. At the blood rolling down her face. At her widened eyes like he’s the swarm of templars ready to beat down her door. At her hanging mouth and her struggling limbs holding the staff. That staff. Fenris bets if he could stare any harder at that staff it would erupt in flames.

They haven’t talked since well before the duel between her and the Arishok. He should say something, anything, but he can’t. He’s had no time to sort out his thoughts about Hawke beyond ensuring her safety. What little he had wrangled are set free and flying at the state of her. At the staff buried in her fist…

“You’re…here,” Aveline tilts her head, and though he’s not looking at the guard captain it doesn't mean he can’t feel her piercing gaze trying to drag him forward by the ear. “Is everything secure outside?”

Sebastian awkwardly clears his throat. “We were led to believe something had gone wrong. We wanted to make sure everything was alright. We heard a crash,”

“Oh, so there’s no other reason you might want to check in?” Anders’s hostility towards Fenris is quickly obvious. Causing the elf’s slackjaw to tighten. He didn’t care if he deserved it. Fenris would wipe the chastising look from Anders in an instant were they not in the same room as the guard captain or Hawke.

“Anders,” Hawke warns the mage. Revealing to the paranoid part of Fenris the idea that they’ve already talked about him prior. It serves to make something twinge in his chest horribly at the notion that Hawke might share in their disappointment.

He knows everyone’s noticed his absence. He knows everyone is disappointed in him even if they won’t come out and say it. Fenris is not sure however, whether he ought to be furious that Hawke could even think she had a right to be disappointed. She lied to him. She’s the one who kept secrets from him. Secrets he of all people should have been privy too before…

This was exactly why he wanted to avoid her. He’s angry and relieved and annoyed and aching in a messy, tumultuous mash of contradicting emotions that threaten to break and pour onto this very floor like a burst dam. He knows damn well he’ll never be welcome again in this estate if he says what’s hot, angry thoughts are burning in his mind. He knows damn well he’ll never allow himself to come back.

“Fenris, I’m…glad you’re here,” And she smiles. And that smile has no right to be a comfort to him right now.

He recoils, looking at the ground. “Orsino came by. He said there is no threat of Templar interference of any kind…for the time being,”

Hawke’s face falls. Though there’s a hint of relief in her weary features, it's clearly not what she wanted to hear from him.“I see…thank you for telling me,”

Fenris nods. And then it’s like something is puppeteering him, yanking on the strings to his limbs. He can’t do this. Can’t speak with her like this. Not with the state she’s in nor with so many people waiting with bated breath for their interaction. He needs to go home and sort his mind out.

“If you’re up and about. I see no point in guarding the door any longer,” His voice is stern and so very cold. He turns to leave, not sparing her any more glances. “You should rest. Get your strength back. You’re of no use to anyone the way you are now,”

“Hold on,” Hawke says after him. “Fenris, can we talk!? Please-”

“I’ve been guarding your door for days,” He snaps. “I’m tired, let me return-”

“I told you,” Anders seethes, slicing his sentence short. Arms folded across his chest.

Fenris stops. Turns around. “Excuse me?”

“Hey!” Aveline snaps at the slightest hint of a fight. “Don’t do this here. Either of you,” She points fingers of accusation at either men.

“I’m hardly in the wrong here. He doesn’t bother even checking in on Hawke and now he acts like this?” Anders glares his way. “You know we nearly lost her twice? And where were you? Pondering if you’re guarding the door for a woman or an animal?”

“Stay your tongue, mage. Before I cut it out…” Fenris warns through bared teeth. “Instead of talking of things you don’t understand, listen to Aveline,”

“I’m just saying,” Anders takes a step forward, thrusting his chin upwards. “If the Templars come sniffin’ about Hawke, I’ll know exactly who to blame,”

“Weren’t you listening? They already know what she is!” He thrusts a hand to Hawke. Immediately retracting when she flinches like he’s raised a fist at her.

Hawke’s face in that moment reminds him of Hadriana’s lair. “What does magic touch that it doesn’t spoil?” He realises how the words must have affected her. The words were meant for himself. Yet all the same he unknowingly hurt her. He was doing that more and more it seemed…

After a moment, Hawke sighs. “It’s rude to talk about someone like they’re not here, you know,” She shares an equally bitter glance to both Anders and Fenris. Wobbling against Aveline and her staff. “Fenris, I would really like to talk to you,”

He’s never been one to say no to Hawke. He honestly wasn’t sure if he had it in him. The woman had well and truly gotten under his skin. But a gripping fear claims him.

“I…I can’t, Hawke. Please,” He waves her off. Shooting her a pleading look before making a beeline for the door.

He’s not in the streets ten seconds after pushing past the crowd before metal boots clang behind him hurriedly. Aveline knows not to touch him, so instead she races ahead. A bulwark blocking his way as she jumps in front of him.

“Not now,” He says quickly.

“Yes now,” He can practically hear her frowning. “You’re not scurrying off to your mansion,”

“I’m not scurrying,” He snaps, looking at her offended.

“Running away, scuttling, escaping-I don’t care what you want to call it. You’re not doing it with me,”

Perhaps in a bout to try and combat the horrible ache in his chest, Fenris briefly muses if this is what it would have been like to have had a mother. Aveline might as well pinch him by the tip of his ear and drag him back inside Hawke’s estate. He won’t entirely rule it out either.

An immovable object if there ever was one. Yet, being quicker, Fenris manages to side-step her. Continuing the climb towards his mansion. Unfortunately, Aveline refuses to take the direct hint.

“Aveline,” He warns despite knowing she’ll continue following him either way.

“Best not do it out in public,”

“I don’t want to do this at all!”

“Well, tough!” She sternly states. “Just be glad it’s not Hawke who chased after you,”

“Would she?”

Aveline doesn’t answer for a few seconds. “No, she went up to her room and asked us all to leave,”

Fenris flinches. “I…”

“I know,” She nods, seemingly understanding him nevertheless. “It’s…certainly strange. Knowing what she is. What she can do,” Her tone shifts, going from authoritative to the kind he only hears from her when she visits him in his mansion alone. When she’s with someone she trusts, somewhere away from the hustle and troubles that embed themselves in Kirkwall.

“It’s still her though,” She shrugs, her armour clinking with the movement. Followed by a curt snort. “It very much is still Hawke,”

They arrive at his mansion. Fenris heads through the door first, not waiting for Aveline. Hopelessly hoping she’ll give up her chase.

Charging up the stairs and towards his room where he knows a few bottles of Tevinter wine still remain in their crates. He tears one out from its home, biting the cork clean free, as Aveline observes from the doorway with obvious judgement pinching her face at his lack of decorum.

“Is it?” He frowns, responding to her earlier point and unable to see just how any of this was like the Hawke he thought he knew. “I used to think she wouldn’t lie to me. That her of all people would remain clear. And this?” He scoffs bitterly with a bitterness that is slowly consuming him. Staring down the bottle. “This of all things, Aveline?”

“We don’t know her reasons,” She responds matter-of-factly. “I certainly don’t try to understand why she does what she does. It’d be like chasing my own tail if I tried. Except that she probably thought it best,”

Fenris reluctantly agreed with that. In her mind, perhaps Hawke felt justified in keeping her magic to herself. But it didn’t soothe the sting of betrayal. Not one bit.

“Whatever her reasons…” He rubs at his face. “Whatever…justification. I can’t…look at her the same way,”

He takes a swig of the wine. Pressing the glass neck to his lips and nearly hitting his teeth. Its contents warm; rolling down his throat uncomfortably like oil.

“Has it really changed anything, Fenris?” She asks sincerely when he pulls the bottle away. “Has it? You’ve barely moved from guarding her door. And last I checked you were the one all up in a frenzy trying to get her home safe-”

“Because she wasn’t safe!” Something ugly rears its head within him. Like a dog off its leash. “She was barely alive! Do you think I’d just roll out the carpet for the Templars?! Is that the kind of man you think I am?”

“For any other mage, sure. For Hawke? Of course I don’t. That’s my point,” For a second Aveline looks weary. “Though I’m sure Hawke won’t like that about you,”

“No, she won’t. But it isn’t like I have no cause to be the way I am. However unkind. However unfair,”

“Of course you do. I don’t want to think about how this is making you feel. But try to think about how this is making her feel too,”

“She betrayed me,”

“And she’s convinced she’s never going to see you again,”

Fenris pauses. Whatever heated response cools in his veins like ice and he rolls his head down in shame. He couldn’t wrap his head around her, he couldn’t see past the immediate hurt and betrayal that clung to him with her damn secrets. But he didn’t want this. It never even occurred to Fenris that he could leave Kirkwall. It was never an option for him.

And Aveline had been right. Facing the reality of losing her after the duel was an experience Fenris reckoned would stick with him. He felt inclined to be closer to her, to be at her side more than ever. So that he would never have to go through that again. That she would never endure such agony again. Especially with the entirety of Kirkwall sizing her up for dinner. But as though she spawned spikes all over her body, Fenris still felt a repulsion. A caution to get too close.

He remembers the thrum of lyrium as she touched that night . It hurt. It ached. But he longed for it all the same.

“So….” Aveline stares at him expectantly. “Will we see you tomorrow?”

Fenris feels tired. So very suddenly tired. There’s just so much insecurity in the air, so much tension and hate that if he doesn’t sit down right now it’s like the weight of his thoughts will threaten to topple him. He sluggishly moves to the bench besides the fireplace, taking a slower swig this time of the wine as Aveline waits for his answer.

“Yes,”