Chapter Text
“Every time she looks away, you stare at Hawke with those sad puppy eyes.”
Fenris froze, swinging round to glare at the blood mage. “There are no puppy eyes.”
“It's all right, you know. Even you can be happy once in a while. It won't kill you. But your face might crack if you smile, so be careful.”
He gritted his teeth, muscles in his jaw jumping. “There are no puppy eyes!” he grated. “I am not a dog!”
“No,” Anders interjected. “Dogs are better trained. It’s a wonder Danarius never taught you any manners.”
Rage, blinding and hot, filled him, blotting out every other thought. The others continued to walk, but he stopped dead in the middle of the street, head down and harsh breaths hissing through clenched teeth. He curled his hands into fists, the points of the gauntlets driving heedlessly into the flesh of his hands and drawing blood. His arms shook with the strain of not ripping the abomination’s heart out of his chest.
They noticed that he’d stopped, and he could sense them turning to look. Merrill’s and Anders’s words stirred ugly, sick memories, and he fought back a rising wave of nausea. He needed to leave, now, before any questions were asked, before Nerys began to worry over him with that terrible insight and understanding that was its own sweet form of torture.
Fenris spun on the ball of his foot, and strode away, his long-legged gait taking him swiftly away from the party. Let him be fast enough this time that she couldn’t catch up. Let him go somewhere where she couldn’t find him. Let her once, just once, not follow him when he fled to lick his wounds in private.
The scrape of a boot heel behind him told him that that would not happen, and he whirled to face her, responding with aggression where running had not worked. “Do not follow me!”
Nerys pulled up short about five feet from him, her expression bewildered. “Fenris, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong!” he snapped.
Hurt and confusion flickered across her face briefly before resolving into concern. “Something is clearly wrong. What is it?”
“I do not wish to talk about it!” he snarled, causing her to take a reflexive step back. It shouldn’t have felt good to see that, to see that flash of alarm and fear. But the wolf—the animal, the beast—inside him reveled in it and howled for more. He shook his head dumbly as if to scatter the thoughts. He had to end this, go now before he did something he would truly regret. Fenris spun away from her again, running and making no pretense that he wasn’t fleeing. He heard her call his name once, but ignored it.
His flight carried him to his crumbling mansion. He bolted inside, seeking not the sanctum that was his room, but the cool, musty cellars below the estate. The markings on his skin were the only light he had to guide him as he fled down dark staircases and through silent rooms filled with dusty wine racks and dustier bottles.
Collapsing into a corner, his pressed his back against the stone, drawing his legs up against his chest and wrapping his arms around them. It reduced the shaking of his limbs, but did not still it completely. He dropped his forehead to press against his knees as unbidden memories rose up and overwhelmed him.
He could never tell her this, never show her what lay just below his scarred surface. He couldn’t bear the shame of having her, of all people, know how broken he was.