Work Text:
Snow is falling through the holes of the roof. It’s been blasted, torn away, splinters of wood littering the floor. It creaks underneath his footsteps, wet and abused from outside weathers. The bed is cracked, broken, feathers stuck to whatever surface they could find. Smiling at you in the morning, the sun on my face, and the freckles on my spine. My lips move, voice soft with sleep, calling your name. There are dark, dried, blood stains on the floor, adding to the evidence of a violent struggle. Why would he come here? What was he looking for? He turns, past the broken door, stepping back out into the snow with his troops. The village nearby burns.
They make their way back to the main camp where his master awaits him. He bows when he enters, low and sweeping, before falling to one knee. He keeps his eyes lowered, at his master’s feet. “We have taken the village with no casualties. We have heard that the usurper has gone to Haven, in the Frostback Mountains.” His master makes no sound at that. He worries he has failed him somehow, fallen short in his duty, and he despairs. His master rises from his chair, approaches him, touching his head. A gesture of affection. Fenris smiles. He has done well.
“You will ready my Templars.” Danarius. Dead. “I will take back what is mine.” Fenris moves to his feet, but keeps himself bowed as he exits the tent. Snow sizzles in his wake, melting where his disfigured arm touches it. Mutilated, mangled, red, they’re pouring it down your throat, you are burning from the inside out, and I am crying out your name. Fenris grimaces and shakes his head, shakes the errant voice from his mind. Danarius needs him clear, unfocused, able to do his duty. He must not fail.
A broken bird goes to the Inquisition. She is uninvited, unwelcome, beaten and bloodied. Varric drops all the papers in his arms when he sees her. Even Cassandra’s jaw drops, seeing the Champion standing in the doorway of Haven’s Chantry. She limps towards Varric, falling to her knees in front of him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “They took him,” she says, “They took him from me.” Varric holds her tightly, the fear beating in his chest.
“Who birdie? Who did this to you?” he asks. Her head is in the crook of his neck, her arms shaking. He runs his hand through her hair and finds it crusted with blood. Half her face is covered in it, and there’s evidence of poor healing on the side of her where her armor is ripped and torn. Varric keeps looking at the doorway, watching for her ever present shadow. He doesn’t appear.
“I can still hear him calling my name,” she whispers it, as if she’s afraid to say the words. “They wanted me to watch Varric. They wanted me to watch them taint him. He kept saying my name. Varric, he kept screaming my name.”
“Who did this to you Hawke?” Varric asks it again, and her breathing hitches.
“Red Templars. They’re coming. Fenris leads them.”
The Herald seals the Breach and Haven does not celebrate. Its soldiers stand at the trebuchets, torches in their hands, watching the mountains. Hawke is still pale around the edges, but her armor is repaired and a mage more skilled in healing has fixed her fumbling attempts at it. Her staff is in her arms, her knuckles white as she clings to it. Dark circles hang under her eyes, evidence of her inability to sleep. If she closes her eyes she sees him being dragged away from her. She sees them tilt his face upwards, pouring liquid lyrium down his throat. His markings flare, angered at the intrusion. She watches blue turn to red. If she sleeps she hears her name over, and over, and over.
Hawke straightens when they finally see the lights appear. The red Templar horde moves in neat and ordered formations, as best as the beasts can manage. Their commanders watch them from afar. She recognizes the tall disfigured being that leads them. The Elder One. Corypheus. Twisted darkspawn and magister, she had killed him, she had killed him, she had killed him! But there he stood, and there he stood beside him. Fenris seems so small, so tamed beside the creature. One arm is a twisted hunk of red lyrium. Her favor is still tied to his other wrist. His markings crackle, his skin sickly with it. She swallows the urge to face the horde alone and run to him.
The trebuchets begin to fire, breaking their formation. The Red Templars begin to stream down, beating against reinforced wall. It is only a matter of time before they break through. They will hold as long as they can, while Haven’s citizens funnel out the secret path, away from the battle. It is their duty to attract the attention of the Templars and keep it focused on them. Hawke does not think that will be difficult. The rage beats through her bones, the angry flapping of a caged bird, and when she lets her magic fly, it is brutal and it is messy.
She moves on instinct alone, fighting now second nature. Her thoughts are blessedly empty, focused instead on the Templars that climb over the wall. The Herald fights in the front, while she remains on the hill, in plain view. See me, see me, see me. She sees him. She can barely look away. After every death, her eyes flick back to Fenris. Her Fenris would know his Hawke. She would save him. It is the dragon that takes them all off guard. The time to run has come. She begs the Herald to let her stay behind. The Herald refuses. Cullen and Varric pull her away from the battlefield. Away from him.
Danarius calls him his vessel. Corypheus. What are you doing? You need to find me. The Herald – Inquisitor – comes to the Arbor Wilds to stop them. But he is the vessel. Fenris will not fail. He sets the Templars to work, there is no time to solve foolish puzzles. They will forge straight ahead, and reach the Well before the Inquisitor. The usurper who has dared to defy his master. Fenris you are a free man, you belong to no one. He grits his teeth and presses his hand against his temple. There’s a woman’s voice in his head, a voice he recognizes but cannot place.
“Fenris!” It’s that woman’s voice again, in his head but not. He turns to see the Inquisitor, their party, and her. “Fenris.” She says it again as she strides forward, staff in hand, looking up at him from their position below. Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you.
“Hold them off!” He shouts, “Danarius needs the Well!” He watches her face crumble at his words, equal measure sorrow and shock.
“Danarius is dead! We killed him! Fenris! Please! Fenris!” Her words follow him down into the caverns, the mausoleum with corpses in every corner. I am yours. Have you forgotten? Come home with me. He yells in frustration, crumbling a wall with his anger, that fist of red, and orders the Templars forward, forward, he must complete his duty. There is no time to appreciate the beauty of the Well, the Temple. He wades through the water that leads to a great tree, its branches holding up the Well. The Templars kill without mercy, striking down the ancient elves that haunt this place.
“Fenris.” I’m here, I love you. He turns, his Templars flanking him.
“Inquisitor,” he snarls, the green on their hand cracking with energy. She steps in front of the Inquisitor, pushing them back. “Kill them all!”
“Leave Fenris to me!” She shouts, sprinting forward, her staff meeting his arm, a sword made out of the lyrium swimming in his body. “I’ve come for you,” she says, magic in her palm as she blasts him backwards. “I’m keeping our promise.” He launches forward onto his feet, striking forward, and she is forced to move back as he strikes at her again and again and again. “I still remember the future we talked about.” If there is a future to be had, if there is a future to be had, at your side.
The Inquisitor and his party make quick work of the Templars. She shouts over her shoulder. “Go! Take the Well!”
“No! You can’t take the Well from Danarius! You mustn’t!” He moves to get around her, but it’s that magic again, pressing him down as he screams, watching the Inquisitor run.
“Danarius is dead! You are free! We killed him together!” You aren’t alone. She yells as she moves forward, electricity crackling between her fingertips. She pours it into him, but its blow is tempered, soft, meant to wound not to kill. He screams as he activates his markings, the red glow emanating from him. He moves quickly, quicker than she, and he is forcing her back.
Her footsteps splash in the water of the pool as she steps backwards, the water boiling around his arm and the red lyrium that covers it. He raises it – and strikes. She screams as it pierces flesh and the wood behind her, pining her to the tree. He slides close to her, his teeth barred, his eyes unfocused. She puts her hands on his face, gentle strokes on his cheekbones. “I’ve missed you, love,” she tells him, giving him a weak smile. She brushes hair behind his ears, rubbing dirt from his brow. She presses her forehead against his even as he snarls. “I’ve missed you so much.”
She moves one hand to her belt, igniting flames upon the metal of her dagger. It’s not an easy thing, cutting through flesh and bone, and she holds Fenris to her as she hacks at his corrupted arm. He screams into her neck, his free hand biting into her, bruising on her waist. She cauterizes the wound as best she can as the arm falls away from him, and from her, sizzling into the water. His screams subside, and he practically falls into her. She falls with him.
Hawke holds Fenris in her arms, tight against her chest, their legs naturally wrapping together, submerged in that water. His hand makes its way up her arm, to her neck. “Hawke.” His voice is so small, so soft, she almost doesn’t hear him at first. Corypheus appears on the balcony at the entrance, screaming his rage. She holds Fenris closer, protectively, but he pays them no mind as he goes to the Well. “Hawke,” he says again, and she looks down at him, brushing tears away from his cheeks.
“There you are,” she says, “I found you.”
“Hawke, I’ve been so –”
“I know. I’m here now.” He looks at her, almost studying her, counting every freckle on her face. His fingers find her lips, running over them roughly with his thumb, his arm shaking until he can’t hold it up any longer. He lowers it gently, until it lies limp, and sighs contentment and closes his eyes. Red, not lyrium, is mixing with the water. She leans forward and presses a kiss to his forehead. “We’ll go home,” she whispers, “we’ll do all the things we talked about.”
“A boy,” he says, “and a girl.”
“They’ll have your nose,” she says.
“Your eyes,” he tells her.
“Ears with little pointed tips. You’ll teach them how to read.”
“You’ll teach them how to fight.” She laughs even as her bottom lip quivers, her jaw tightening. His breathing is becoming watery, his lungs filling with blood. Each breath is a struggle, each word a desperate fight. She wants him to open his eyes. She knows he cannot.
“We’ll have a little farm. All the dogs we can manage. All the books we can buy. No one will know us. We can just be us. We can be together. We can – Fenris?” He’s gone still in her arms, his lips slightly parted. “Open your eyes,” she says in a strangled whisper, “please.” Her arms are constantly re-adjusting, unable to settle, unable to pull him tight enough to her. She rocks back and forth, pulling at him, calling his name, forehead against his and please, please, please. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t open his eyes.
“We weren’t done talking,” she cries. “We weren’t done. We still had so much to do. We weren’t done.” The light is fading in the Temple, the sun setting. His body grows colder, but the lyrium stays warm. It is cruelly musical, singing to her as she fades, her head resting on his. She closes her eyes, her hand on his cheek, still wrapped up in him. The lyrium grows, covers them, and protects them. Green is slowly replaced by red, a tree of its own, branches reaching to the heavens, the lovers locked inside.