Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kissing the desire demon tasted like ash.

Fenris pressed harder anyway. His lyrium burned in warning, screaming danger, magic, wrong. He didn't stop. The demon wore Hawke's face. Younger. Sharper around the edges. Close enough.

He touched the illusion's cheek with the back of his hand. Traced where the scar should be across the bridge of his nose, and his thumb drew red on the rough skin. The demon was digging deeper, pulling more details from the bleeding wound in his mind.

Hawke's smell hit him with sweat and leather and the soap he used to steal from Lowtown merchants. Fenris didn't know if the demon made it real or if his own broken head did. Didn't matter. It was close enough to split him open.

The demon's mouth curved into a sneer against his lips.

His hand phased through. Talons crushed the throat before the thing could speak, before it could offer him anything else in that stolen voice. The head snapped free with a wet sound, horns scraping damp brick as it rolled into shadow.

Fenris wiped the viscous blood off his face. That nagging emptiness was back quick to chew a hole through whatever he'd felt a minute ago.

“Pathetic,” he spat on what was left of the corpse.

He grabbed the torch from the ground where he’d dropped it and headed forward along the narrow passage, unsheathing the sword.

He'd been chasing the Venatori bastard through this passage for an hour, maybe more. Still half-drunk from the night and bootless, and he only realized because his feet had gone numb somewhere between the third turn in the passage and the desire demon that had blocked his path. Always demons and blood magic.

He squinted into the dark ahead. The torch cast an unsteady light against the damp stone. Then, he found what he had been hoping for—a corpse. Demons rarely wandered places like that by themselves, it was more common to meet them alongside their summoner. 

The chances of bumping into a living mage or a dead one in this situation were relatively equal. This one had been dead a while. The smell of rot and shit and something sickly-sweet hit him first. Even after all the corpses he'd seen, this one was bad. What had the fool eaten before he decided to spice things up with a desire demon—a pickled nug?

The passage twisted and turned. Some corridors ended in blank walls, forcing him to turn around. But in a few minutes he finally found a hatch. He shoved through into a room with a high vaulted ceiling. 

“Hound’s ass!” he muttered, pushing the torch out first, and then hauled himself through the narrow gap to the crypt.

Pulling out cobwebs from his hair and sweeping off layers of dust from his pauldrons, Fenris looked around. The torchlight made the shadows jump and twist on the walls.

Tombs. Four rows of them on each wall, topped with triangular plates. Names and titles carved into stone. Septimus, Abbot of Winterkeep, Magister of the Tevinter Imperium 7:11-7:54 Dragon; Ignatius, Abbot of Winterkeep, Magister of the Tevinter Imperium, 7:54-7:63 Dragon; Legat, Abbot of Winterkeep, Magister of the Tevinter Imperium, 7:63-7:89 Dragon… 

Fenris's lip curled as if he smelled something awful besides the faint tang that is common to all mausoleums. 

The wall he'd come through matched the one across from it, except for the names on the tombs and the bottom left corner. One of the tombstones was smashed inward. Broken pieces were scattered across the floor, indicating that someone had kicked through from inside the passage.

He stared at the breach. Something cold turned over in his gut. The bile he'd been swallowing down since he started the chase rose in his throat. He turned away, and ran up the narrow steps fast, casting a glimpse up at the mosaic above the exit: 

“Vires in fide et magica,” the abbey's motto read. Strength in Faith and Magic. 

The crypt opened into a larger polygonal chamber with a high ceiling with openings in each wall. One was taller than the others, framed with carved stone. He headed for it.

Two minutes later, he stood in the abbey's courtyard, the torch left in the crypt.

The morning was still dark. The moon was barely visible behind heavy clouds. Puddles had frozen over, thin ice cracking under his feet. He had to watch each step to avoid plunging into cold mud.

He spotted the chantry spire and hurried there, keeping close to the buildings, staying in shadow.

The abbey was quiet. He heard nothing but his own breathing and the soft squish of mud under his feet. No voices. No movement. Like the place was abandoned.

He didn't like it.

The silence pressed against his ears. Made the tips strain for sounds that weren't there. Something felt wrong here. Something heavy and waiting.

He crept to the chantry's massive stained glass window, rose on his toes to peer inside. His breath left a faint white circle on the glass. DArk and empty, as far as he could see. 

The massive door handle was shaped like a snake eating its own tail. He pulled, slow and careful.

The sturdy door opened without sound.

He slipped inside.

The smell of incense hit him first, sweet and spicy. Even in Tevinter chantries, they used the same shit. Despite everything, he'd always liked that smell. Better than the stink of cities, anyway.

He moved down the aisle. For a second, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. Or maybe the architect had been a sick bastard. But the closer he got to the altar, the clearer it became.

Under the domed ceiling, the statue of Andraste rose three meters tall with a massive sword in her hands. But something was wrong with it.

Her arms weren't lowered in that usual proud pose. They were stretched out, bent at the elbows. One hand gripped the sword's hilt. The other held a fistful of hair.

A girl's hair.

Fenris stopped walking.

The girl was young, maybe fifteen. She wore a novice's robe. Her head hung by a thread of flesh, nearly severed by the statue's sword. He could see bone and tendon where the blade had cut through. Blood stained the metal, dripping slow and thick, pooling at the statue's stone feet.

Finally, that bile that Fenris had been keeping under control burst out. His stomach heaved. He made it to the nearest pew before he threw up behind it.

Too late. He'd come too late. The Venatori had already been here. Already taken the relic. And this girl-

White dots swam in his vision. He gripped the pew's backrest hard enough that the wood creaked. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He needed to check the vault. Confirm what he already knew.

He wiped the cold sweat off his forehead with his arm.

When he looked up, his heart stopped.

A girl stood at the main entrance.

Thirteen, maybe. Barefoot. Wearing only a thin nightgown. For a breath, he thought she was a ghost. His hand went to his sword hilt.

Her hair was braided in two thin braids. Her eyes were glassy with terror as they locked onto him. Then they slid past him to the statue behind, and her mouth opened and closed without sound.

A pool spread beneath her bare feet, steaming faintly where it met the cold tile.

He'd seen that kind of fear before.

Fenris let go of his sword. Raised a hand toward her in a slow and careful gesture,  unsure what to say, what to do.

"Hey, I-" He winced. "Fasta vass."

The girl went still. Took one deep breath.

And then she screamed.

Chapter Text

The girl kept screaming. High, thin, endless.

Fenris opened his mouth to say he hadn't done it, that he'd just found the body, but nothing came out. His throat had closed.

Behind her, shadows moved in the courtyard. Torches lit up in the dark. Voices shouted.

He ran.

He caught the girl's shoulder as he passed, moving her aside, firm but careful, not rough. She was light. Fragile. He didn't want to hurt her more than he already had by being here, by finding what he'd found.

His feet hit the cold stone. Then mud. Then frozen slush outside. His breath fogged in the night air. Snow bit at his toes, reminding him of his lost boots. 

Two lights moved toward the church from the direction of the crypts. He wasn't going back that way. Not through the passage. He turned and bolted for the nearest wall.

Windows lit in the building to his left. Two stories, solid stone. The whole abbey woke at once. More lights appeared. Some of them floated, blue-white spheres drifting toward him. Magic.

His lyrium flared in response. Hot, angry, lighting him up like a torch. A clump of earth hit him in the shoulder. A spell. He stumbled from the impact but kept moving.

Not fast enough.

They surrounded him before he reached the wall. A dozen figures, maybe more. Mostly women in white nightgowns, cloaks thrown over their shoulders. Two men with swords pointing at his chest. Three mages—two girls and a woman—already casting barriers, magic shimmering in the air between them and him.

“Knife-eared!” someone croaked.

"What is he?" another voice cried out.

Fenris raised his hands slowly. "I'm with the Inquisition. I was sent to investigate the Venatori-"

"There's blood on him!" One of the young mages pointed, her shield spell wobbling. "Look!"

"Wait, just-" But the crowd was shouting now, drowning him out. Accusations, questions, panic.

Fenris looked down. His clothes were stained in demon blood, dirt, probably his own vomit somewhere, but nothing fresh. 

"His hands! Look at his hands!"

He followed their stares to his palms. The exposed strip of skin between his gauntlet straps gleamed wet in the torchlight. Red. Blood.

His palm. When had he-?

He hadn't touched the body. Hadn't gone near the girl's corpse except to look. So how-?

"Don't move!" someone yelled.

Something cracked against the back of his skull. The world tilted and went dark.

~

Fenris woke to the whisper of muffled young voices.

He kept still. Assessed.

He had enough experience to understand he had been imprisoned. HIs hands were tied behind him, shoulders screaming from the angle, cold stone floor beneath him, damp moldy smell of a cellar. The bitter taste in his mouth. The dull pounding in his skull where the hit landed.

How long? Hours? Days?

No, not days. His bladder ached, telling him his body was fighting to keep him dry but losing the battle. Morning light filtered through a barred window, thin and gray. Several hours then. 

"Xintia said Mother Claudia sent Lena to the rookery. She saw her going up the tower steps."

"To send ravens? At this hour?"

"Must be. Why else could she be up there?" A pause. "What will happen to the abbey if the dagger isn't found?"

"I don't know. Father Decimus looked like he'd seen a ghost when he came out of the vault."

"You think he worked with someone? A mage?"

"Had to. Someone stole the dagger and got away. He stayed behind to..." The voice dropped. "To do that to Paulina."

"Why would he? Why would anyone do that?"

"Look at him. He's got lyrium in his skin."

"What does that have to do with-"

"Blood magic, Lucilla. Same as whatever made Andraste's sword cut up Paulina. You need power for spells like that."

"But he's not a mage."

"Doesn't need to be if he's got pure lyrium in him. That's what it looks like, anyway. Why else would he do that to himself? I tell you, to summon demons. And steal relics."

"Maker preserve us." A pause. "What will Father Decimus do to him?"

"Whatever he wants. Come on, before Mother Claudia catches us down here."

Fenris cracked his eyes open. White dots swarmed across his vision. His head throbbed in time with his pulse.

He tested his bonds. Iron shackles, heavy, locked tight around his wrists. His shoulders throbbed. The girls' footsteps scuttled closer.

"He's awake!"

"Go, go, go!"

They scattered, giggling nervously, feet clattering up the stairs, saying something about Mother Claudia and seeing the prisoner.

Fenris blinked until his vision cleared. Pushed past the sticky film over his eyes.

The cell was small. Stone walls, iron bars, one narrow window too high to reach even if he could stand. One staircase leading up. No other exits. No hatches. The window seemed too narrow for his shoulders, even if he could reach it. Might open onto the cliff face anyway, if he'd figured the abbey's layout right.

His armor was still on. They'd been smart about that, probably didn't want to risk him waking while they stripped it off. But his sword was gone. His pack. Everything.

He flexed his hands. His lyrium flared, then died. Magic seal. He recognized the feel of it pressing against his markings, smothering them. Danarius had used the same type when Fenris refused to entertain his "guests," locking him for days. Decades passed, yet he found himself in another Imperial cage.

Then, he'd been dying of heat and thirst. Now, he was cold and hungover. 

He scanned the cell again. A rusty bucket in the corner. He'd need it soon. The bars were solid, no weak points he could see. 

He heard footsteps overhead and sharp, scolding voices. The sisters from before reached upstairs and got caught. Then heavier steps. Measured. Purposeful.

Fenris went still, listening.

A man's voice came, low and stern, giving orders. Something about "securing the intruder" and "waiting for the investigator from Minrathous."

So they'd sent for help. 

Cold settled in his gut, heavy and familiar.

An investigator from Minrathous. A magister, most likely. Or someone with ties to the magisters. Someone who would recognize what he was.

He'd built a reputation over the past three years. The Blue Wraith, they called him in the slave markets. The ghost who freed cargo that belonged to powerful men. Men who'd paid good coin for their property and didn't appreciate losing it.

Men who would pay even better coin to own the one who'd been costing them.

The taste of copper flooded his mouth. He'd bitten his lip without realizing.

He didn't want to think about what they'd do if they got their hands on him. How they'd make him pay for every slave he'd freed, every shipment he'd ruined, every operation he’d burned to the ground. The archons would bid against each other for the privilege of owning a unique item like him.

No. He wouldn't go back to that. He'd die first.

The footsteps descended, but lighter than the man's. 

Fenris strained, watching the stairway.

A woman appeared. Young, maybe thirty. Pale, blonde hair tucked under a bonnet that marked her as senior clergy. Imperial Chantry symbol on her robes, pressed and clean. Her posture was rigid, controlled. Her face carefully composed.

But her eyes were red-rimmed with a fresh grief. Her hands trembled slightly before she clasped them together.

She stopped when she saw he was awake. Hesitated.

"Maud said you have a concussion." Her voice was flat, toneless with effort. She held up a flask. "Water."

She cautiously moved closer to the bars. Her gaze flicked to the staircase, to safety. Her fingers fumbled with the flask before she tossed it through the bars. It hit his side with a dull thud.

Fenris looked at her hands as she pulled them back. Ink stains. Black and stark against her pale skin. The way they spread told him she'd been writing recently. A lot.

She noticed his stare and tried to hide her hands behind her back. "It's not dirt. It's ink."

She bit her lip. For just a second, making that excuse mattered more to her than her trembling hands. More than whatever was making her eyes red. She straightened slightly, as if trying to reclaim some composure.

Then she looked at his cell. At the bucket in the corner. The filth on the floor. Him. Her nose wrinkled.

The moment passed. Whatever she was ashamed of paled in comparison to what she was looking at.

Fenris didn't care. Let her be disgusted. He smelled like demon blood, human blood, vomit, and his own sweat. Not his problem.

He pushed himself up to a sitting position. Every muscle protested. Catching the flask's cork in his teeth, he tilted his head to work it free. She watched, silent, as he struggled with it.

Finally, it popped loose. He met her eyes—held her gaze deliberately—and threw his head back to drink.

The water took a wrong turn. He choked, coughing hard, water spilling across his chin and chest. He couldn't catch his breath, couldn't stop the spasms. His chest heaved. He slumped back against the wet stone floor, gasping.

The sister stood there for a moment longer. Listening to him struggle for air. Her face was unreadable.

Then she turned and walked away, disappearing up the stairs.

~

Fenris lay in the dark, breathing hard.

They thought he'd killed that girl.

He couldn't prove he hadn't done it. The blood on his hands said otherwise.

He could tell them about the Venatori if they cared to ask instead of shouting accusations. Could explain the Inquisition sent him, that he'd been tracking their operation for months. Could describe the demon in the passage, the rotting mage, the route through the crypts.

If they'd listen.

But they wouldn't. They'd made up their minds the moment they saw him covered in blood with lyrium burning under his skin. Elf. Killer.

And he wouldn't beg forgiveness from the Imperial Chantry. Not even if it is in some forgotten outpost in the Frostbacks. Not anywhere.

He'd spent too many years on his knees for Tevinter magisters. He was done with that.

Let them think what they wanted. The truth would come out or it wouldn't. Either way, he wouldn't grovel.

But that didn't change the fact that the girl was dead.

If he'd kept moving instead of letting the demon distract him, if he hadn't stopped-

But he had. Because for one pathetic moment he'd wanted to believe Hawke was still there. Still reaching for him from the other side of the Veil.

He'd arrived too late. Again.

And now he was locked in a cell while the real killer escaped with the relic.

His fault. All of it.