8Warnings / AU / character death / mentions of previous sexual abuse
Lyrics / The Devil's Tears | Angus & Julia Stone
This is un-beta'd.
—
THE DEVIL'S TEARS
Marigold Faucet
—
"They say death is only a journey. Does that that help?
It just raises more questions. Journey to where?"
—Fenris and Hawke, All That Remains
—
He said: 'I am the Devil boy, come with me
And we'll make many storms'
—
Fenris wakes to the light of the moon.
Chains bind him, naked and cold, to a large stone table. He remembers this place, its dark cruelty reaching out to him through the haze of a half-forgotten pain. He does not want to be here, does not want to hear the harsh chuckle from across or feel the too warm fingertips poke and prod, pull and pry before they tear into him and remake him anew.
Fenris remembers this.
He remembers the calm before the storm, the agonisingly slow preparation that comes before pain strips him bare and wipes him clean. There will be time, he thinks, like there was before for fear and anticipation to rob him of his wits. He begged last time, terrified and alone with only snippets of conversation, half-heard promises of pain to come.
This time is different.
Because this time he is not alone.
There is a figure, dancing on the edge of his periphery, and he thinks he ought to fear it, hate it and loathe it. Yet the familiar spark (that catching of rage that can ignite at the slightest provocation) is missing and all he has the thud of a heavy heart weighed down by a grief he does not yet comprehend.
The figure moves closer; quick, quiet steps bringing them to his side. It is not the first time an acquaintance (there are no friends in the Imperium, only enemies and allies separated by a thin line of circumstance and deceit) of Danarius has come to gawk at his prize. Its different this time, of course it's different because the lyrium is already burned beneath his skin and Fenris is not ignorant to his value: the lyrium alone is a fortune, the power it holds is immeasurable and symbolically he proves that no slave truly escapes their Master, no matter how far or how long they run.
He does not think he will have another chance.
At freedom (at love).
Fenris ignores the figure—the she—by his side. He expects them to congratulate Danarius and marvel at his handiwork (honeyed words and a knife at their back), but there is only silence.
This time is different.
Because a sharp cry of anguish comes from his right and there is no place for anguish that does not come from his own heart, his own soul in the belly of Danarius' greatest cruelty. Yet instinctively, he turns towards it (like a puppet pulled taught on its strings) because he knows that sound, his heart knows that sound (recognises and treasures it with a grim desire) and it has no place here. His heart thuds painfully as shaking hands reach out to him and he jerks away, because it is a cruel trick meant to test him and break him and it cannot be real—there is too much hope, too much grief held in his heart and in the hands that reach for him.
She does not belong here.
Real or imagined (and he does not know which he desperately craves most), she does not belong here.
But, this time is different.
Because this time—she touches him, solid and real, and he hopes and he grieves, please, oh Maker, please—
Hawke is here and he is not alone.
—
He offered me the universe,
But inside my heart there's a picture of a girl
—
When Aveline tells him that Varania is here, Fenris almost doesn't believe her. It has to be a trick or a misunderstanding, Aveline has seen green eyes where they are blue, red hair instead of brown because the light had caught behind this stranger and blinded her.
Varania has denied him audience for so long, almost as long as Fenris has known how to read and write, and though he still does not understand every word, he understands enough to know her disbelief and rejection. So when she writes and tells him she will come, he almost doesn't believe it.
"Are you certain it's her?" Fenris asks, pacing to calm his nerves.
"An elf, matching your description, on the ship you named," Aveline says. "And alone, as far as I could tell."
"I need to know if it's a trap!" Fenris shouts. It is not good enough, the information too simple, too easy. That Varania would come, a spectre from his past, is suspicious. He has spent much of life expecting, and receiving, the worst and if that makes him seem a little too cautious, a little too paranoid, then so be it.
"I did as you asked Fenris," says Aveline gently, before getting up to take her leave. "Now it's up to you."
Hawke arrives, catching Aveline by the door where the two hold a quiet conversation. Fenris only manages to discern a few snippets, like: you talk to him and had my fill and is something wrong. He has not told her, Hawke, of the correspondence between him and his sister wanting to keep it secret in case nothing ever came of it. Yet, something did and has, so when Hawke sits in Aveline's empty chair and looks at him with nothing but concern he can't help the frustrated curse that passes his lips.
"Is everything all right?" Hawke asks.
"It's my sister," Fenris says after a while. "I didn't tell you, but I followed up on Hadriana's information. Everything she said was true."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Hawke asks, without accusation or condemnation.
"I did not think it important, not at first," Fenris explains. "I eventually contacted Varania and sent her coin enough to come meet me…"
"And?" Hawke asks, prompting him to carry on.
"And," Fenris continues. "Now, she's here."
"So, she was in Qarinus after all?" she questions.
"Minrathous," Fenris says, spitting the word like venom. "Which made things more difficult, but it is as Hadriana said—she's not a slave. She's a tailor."
"You're worried," Hawke says, catching his frown. Fenris wants to laugh, Hawke, as always, is consuming his thoughts and in a different life (one where he is not too cowardly to stay) he might welcome it, but not now; not with Danarius still looming over his shoulder.
"Getting a letter to her was difficult," he replies, frown deepening. "And she didn't believe me at first, but now she's finally come."
"You're worried Danarius knows," Hawke states.
"The more it seems he doesn't," Fenris says, anxiety gnawing on his nerves. He wishes he had never written those thrice-damned letters (and he is utterly glad that he did). "The more certain I become he does."
"What are you going to do?" asks Hawke.
"I can't not see her," Fenris replies. "But…"
"You're afraid that Danarius will be there," Hawke supplies for him. At Fenris' pained nod, she adds: "We're all afraid of something Fenris. Some of us fear the same things."
"Come with me," Fenris says, after a long stretch of silence. He knows he has to go, Varania will not linger long and if it is a trap, if Danarius has come and if he has not, then either way Fenris does not want to face this alone. "Please, Hawke. It would mean a lot to me."
"I'll come," smiles Hawke. "I'll always be there when you need me."
He cannot thank her enough for this.
—
Some call love a curse, some call love a thief,
But she's my home
—
"Hawke?" Fenris whispers, throat tight and dry with grief. She does not reply, does not look at him, her body weighted and stooped with sorrow. Her fingers skim along the chains and fetters that bind him, and he thinks she is here to save him—his own guardian angel come to raise him from perdition. He remembers Danarius across the room too late to warn Hawke and can only watch in horror as the Magister crosses the room in quick strides.
"Hawke," he says with urgency, willing her out of sight, but Hawke does not move. Her fingers continue tracing nonsensical patterns along his skin—he does not feel their chill or intangibility over the panic that strikes at his nerves—and Danarius is there at her side. Neither acknowledges the others presence and for a fleeting moment Fenris thinks Hawke has willingly given him up—that she is not here to save him and is here instead to show her cruelty and malice by aiding Danarius—a viper in tall grass.
"Hawke?" Fenris asks, a small pleading voice that causes Danarius to chuckle as his own fingers—hot and tangible against his skin, real and nightmarish, sickening in the loss they ought to represent—inspect Fenris' lyrium markings with painful fervour. Hawke does not look at him and he needs to her to look at him, to refute her betrayal. She does not turn to him and instead presses her hands against her face as her body shudders with quiet sobs.
"Hawke!" he is shouting now. Danarius hands are gripping so tightly and Fenris knows what is coming next—that agonising draw of lyrium, like a heated blade through his bones and nerves. How can she stand there? How can she let this happen? Why won't she help him?
Hawke does nothing.
Fenris' heart breaks before the pain wracks through his entire body, he does not know how his body contorts and convulses after a decade free from this. It is blinding this pain, white and hot and bursting from every pore, exploding in every cell.
Hawke!
He thinks he's screaming her name over and over, but there's only cold laughter and silent sobs he cannot hear, but feels in his heart like a weighted stone.
Hawke!
And the world goes blissfully dark.
—
And she's as much a part of this broken heart,
But see broken bones always seem to mend
—
Fenris' is fairly certain he is going to be sick.
The walk to The Hanged Man feels longer than it should. Each step bringing with it a new wave of nervous nausea, that makes the world sharpen and tilt with each clenching beat of his heart. Hawke has assured him that should he wish to turn back, they will do so without a moment's hesitation. Fenris has considered it, he has dreamed every nightmarish outcome of this visit and woken with a half-dozen screams in his throat, but pride and desire keep him walking forward. He will not turn back now.
Sebastian and Aveline walk behind them at a steady pace, Merrill—the Witch—natters ceaselessly between them. It grates on his nerves, her abundant enthusiasm (more so than her blood magic it feels) but he is glad—glad!—for her presence, and that of the others.
Hawke walks beside him and does not offer conversation. Fenris would consider it pleasant in any other circumstance, they've often spent evenings in amiable silence broken only by the scratch of a quill or the turn of a page, and occasionally, though with diminishing frequency, the silence is broken by the low murmur of a question, a request for aid in tackling a particularly difficult word and the soft, patient answer that follows.
Occasionally, Hawke will bump into him, an arm, an elbow and occasionally a shoulder. Fenris know it is not accidental and it brings a small smile to his face (a bigger one comes when Hawke catches her elbow awkwardly on his gauntlet and quickly withdraws it with a slight hissing breath) to know that she is here by his side.
Sebastian joins them a little while later, blushing lightly as he leaves a bemused Aveline to explain, in hushed and secretive tones, whatever social faux pas has come to pass to a bewildered Merrill.
Fenris is thankful for the additional company, more thankful still that Varric and Isabela await them at their destination (he does not think he can take their teasing, as light-hearted as it is) and that Anders had declined (to put it politely) their invitation to join them, citing a sudden rise in illness following the recent rains, though the lantern remain unlit above the clinic door. He is thankful, because he has little time for an abomination's scorn.
Hawke's laugh jolts him from his thoughts, a bright smile lighting her face in a way that was so rare once upon a time. Sebastian is laughing too, regaling Hawke with the tale of an unfortunate brother and some equally unfortunate, though humorously proportioned vegetables.
Fenris is unaware of how much time passes, or how far they have yet to go, only that with each step his stomach feels tighter, his head lighter and his heart hurts with every passing beat. Then Hawke will bump into him again or laugh or smile and things become clearer in that instant, the next few steps become easier and he believes that everything will be okay.
And suddenly they are here.
"It's not too late," Hawke says to Fenris with her hand outstretched by the door. Fenris hesitates, looking behind him knowing that no one will think less of him if he turns around and walks away. Fenris does not turn back, instead he takes Hawke's hand and with her help, he crosses the threshold.
Varric and Isabela wave at them from the bar, but he barely notices as the world narrows to the lone figure at the table before him. Fenris isn't sure he can speak, let alone breathe because she is real, she is here and he remembers her.
"It really is you," Varania says. She feels different, colder than the warmth of feeling swelling in his chest at the sight of her.
"I remember you. We played in our Master's courtyard whilst Mother worked." Fenris says, catching snippets of memories all bearing her face, younger, happier and calling him—
"Leto," Varania responds coolly, but still she does not look at him. "That's your name."
"What's wrong?" Fenris asks, because there is still some innocence left. "Why are you so—?"
"Fenris," Hawke calls suddenly over the rushing in his ears. There is something wrong, there is something terribly wrong and he is so afraid. "We have to get out of here."
"Ah, my little Fenris," Danarius calls from the top of the steps. Everything is cold, inside, outside and it's all pressing on his skin, freezing his blood and stilling his heart. "Predictable as always."
"I'm sorry it came to this Leto," Varania says turning away. She told him! She took his trust, his weakness, pried him open and left him bare.
"You lead him here!" Fenris snarls and there is the anger, here is the rage and suddenly he is burning with it.
"Now, now, Fenris," Danarius says, malicious mirth clear in his eyes as Varania moves from Fenris to stand behind him. "Don't blame your sister. She did what any good Imperial citizen should."
"You—" Fenris says, his fury making it difficult to think. "I never wanted these filthy markings, but I won't let you kill me to get them."
"How little you know, my pet," Danarius chuckles with a dismissive wave. "And this is your new Mistress then, The Champion of Kirkwall? Impressive."
"Fenris," Hawke says, emphasising his name (because he isn't a pet or a slave or a beast). "Doesn't belong to anyone."
"Do I detect a note of jealousy?" asks Danarius with a poisonous smile. "It's not surprising. The lad is rather skilled, isn't he?"
"Shut your mouth Danarius!" Fenris shouts, lyrium flickering to life beneath his skin. If the feeling before was rage and anger and fury, then this must be wrath in all its terrible glory.
"The word is Master," Danarius snaps. For a brief moment the calm is shattered, hands drift towards weapons and magic swells in the air, but then Danarius smiles and turns his attention towards Hawke. "Perhaps your Champion is more…amenable than you."
"Leave her alone," growls Fenris.
"What say you Champion?" asks Danarius. "Return Fenris to me and I will see you richly rewarded. Money, power, you name your desire and it is yours."
"You speak as if you know my heart," Hawke replies. Fenris' heart is pounding, why hasn't she said no?
"Hawke, please," Fenris suddenly begs. He has so much anger, but it is fleeting in her presence. "We can end this—together."
"You know," Danarius comments dryly. "You held affection for me once. It is a shame to see it wasted on one such as her."
"You speak as if you know my heart," Hawke repeats, ignoring Fenris and Danarius in a single breath. "But you are a fool if you think I would ever, ever betray him. Fenris is a free man, and he is most certainly not yours to take."
"Pity," sighs Danarius, before the world explodes in blood and pain, and the fighting begins.
Hawke stands beside him.
She does not turn him aside.
Fenris does not know what he has done to deserve such love.
—
I'll taste the Devil's tears,
Drink from his soul, but I'll never give up you
—
This time Fenris wakes to the light of early dawn.
Hawke sits on the empty space by his naked thigh, quietly humming and playing with the hem of her robe. The light is almost blinding, blocking Hawke's face with bright bursts of light. She is saying his name, he thinks, but he cannot hear over the pounding of his heart or the panicked breath in his lungs.
"Fenris," she soothes. "Fenris, you need to calm down."
"Hawke—" he chokes out.
"Breathe, Fenris, breathe!" Hawke calls with urgency.
It is a cruel blow, Fenris notes, that Hawke would use such authority. He was never quite free from his life as a slave and Hawke has never demanded anything from him before—always a choice, always a way out—but her tone brokers no argument, and he feels that ingrained desire to comply though he hates her for it (it matters little that she is trying to steady his breath and keep him awake).
"Why are you here?" he asks, weary and bitter and oh, so tired.
"I…" Hawke hesitates, mouth opening and closing uselessly before voicing her (largely inadequate) lie. "Followed you."
"To laugh at my misfortune?" Fenris demands, a sneer on his face, all lethargy burned from him in a surge of anger. He does not console the warring images of Hawke, does not try, because kindness and compassion have only ever been a means to an end—this end; because what other explanation is there?
"What?" Hawke looks stricken, pale and so very hurt. "I—how—how can you ask that!?"
"Then explain to me why you are not bound or dead?" Fenris snorts. It is surprisingly easy to believe Hawke has betrayed him—such is the natures of mages—despite the lingering feeling of doubt in the back of his mind. "You are not invisible Hawke."
"You don't remember." she responds simply, eyes thoughtful as she mulls over this new information. She opens her mouth to speak, to explain perhaps, but something breaks behind her eyes and her mouth closes hopelessly over unspoken words.
"Remember what?" he snarls, giving voice to his greatest fears. "That you have betrayed me?"
"I—" Hawke begins, but Fenris cuts her off in his increasing anger and despair.
"Everything you told me has been a lie—"
"No, you don't understand—"
"To think I trusted you—"
"If you would only listen—"
"I was a fool to think you different from the Magisters!" Fenris all but roars.
"Fenris!" Hawke cries, flinching away from him as if he has inflicted a physical blow. He wants to rage at her, to scream his scorn and derision until Thedas crumbles under the weight of it all, because…because, how could she? He has been a fool, has always been a fool and he hates her for it.
"Ah, my pet, you are finally awake," claps Danarius. Fenris grimaces at that ever-present smile Danarius has worn ever since he woke in this cold and empty place. Hawke does not move, despite Danarius at her back. She turns to look at him (she's so tired and so sad), but Danarius does not look at her. He does not look at her, rather, he looks through her.
"He does not see me," Hawke says, moving so that she is between him and Danarius. "Do you not realise Fenris? He cannot see me."
"How?" Fenris asks, blinking tiredly at the ceiling, completely drained by the rage that coursed through him not moments before.
Danarius smiles, unaware that the question is not his to answer, and begins to tell Fenris (in excruciating detail) of the ritual that is to come. It does not matter that Fenris is not listening (not completely) or that his eyes are focused on Hawke, invisible to all but him.
"It's complicated," Hawke mutters during a lull in Danarius' explanation.
"Complicated," Fenris repeats, tone disbelieving in the face of the answers he seeks.
"I wouldn't expect you to understand," Danarius says, his tone flippant and bored. "You are only a slave."
"He is not a slave!" Hawke shouts turning to face Danarius, she glares at him for a long moment before turning back to Fenris, as gentle as he has ever seen her. "You are not a slave."
(There is something familiar about this scene, but his heart clenches and so he turns his mind away from the painful fog of memories swimming in his mind.)
Danarius leaves then, as if sensing the invisible hostility that has permeated the room. He is not welcome to this private moment of tenderness between ex-lovers. Hawke watches him leave, hand on Fenris' cheek with eyes older than they ought to be: "If I could free you Fenris…"
"I understand." he replies quickly. Hawke may have been swift to assure him that he isn't a slave, but it changes little of their situation and what's to come. She does not free him, he thinks, because she, like him, understands the finality, the inevitability of this hell they both find themselves in. The only difference being that Hawke has a chance (although she risked much in following him here) and Fenris does not begrudge her that, because—once, perhaps not now with his heart so intrinsically tied with hers—if their situations were reversed he would not hesitate to leave her behind.
"No," she whispers. "You don't."
She's right, Fenris thinks. He does not understand why she lingers.
—
I'll taste the Devil's tears,
Drink from his soul, but I'll never give up you
—
It is Isabela that falls first, purely by accident as she darts from victim to victim, blades gleaming in the darkness that seems to have descended upon The Hanged Man.
Why do you fight?
A falling corpse catches her across the back where the fighting is thick by the bar, and her head cracks and bleeds on the dirty, wooden counter. Isabela falls first, but the fighting continues.
Why do you continue?
Sebastian falls second, his arrows a stinging nuisance as they fell slaver after slaver, corpse after corpse, shade after shade.
Wouldn't it be easier to surrender?
A shade converges on his location, sharp, ethereal talons shredding through the flesh of his arm until it hangs uselessly by his side, bow forgotten on the ground as he desperately tries to fight off the continuing onslaught. Sebastian falls second, but the fighting continues.
Do you really believe that they will save you?
Merrill falls third, blood magic thick and heavy in the air as it turns friend against foe and rents horrors through their minds.
Why deny the inevitable?
Danarius handles her personally, one blood mage against another as he overpowers and overwhelms her, until she bleeds more than she has ever bled before and there is no greenery to shield her. Merrill falls third, but the fighting continues.
Why not return to where you belong?
Varric falls fourth, taunts and bolts sent flying with equal wit and fervour, protecting Hawke as she aids those already fallen.
Wouldn't you rather they be spared?
An arrow pierces his shoulder, another his knee and a third his chest—all laced in poison potent enough to level the hardiest of dwarves—but he does not release Bianca, does not stop firing until the world tilts and his vision dims. Varric falls fourth, but the fighting continues.
Do you really think you can win?
Aveline falls fifth, her body a battering ram, her shield as sharp and brutal as her sword as she deals death quickly to those who dare stand against her.
Have I taught you nothing?
A blast of magic takes her shield, an arrow renders her sword arm useless, her kerchief falls from her neck where a sword has slashed and drawn blood, her armour smattered with black and red as she fights and fights and fights. Aveline falls fifth, but the fighting continues.
Did you think I would not come?
Hawke falls sixth, her hands glowing with a blue light that shifts to the bright spark of lightning or the cold bite of ice in an instant, until eventually they remain their mesmerising, pale pulse as she tends to their fallen companions.
Aren't you tired of running?
A blade slides against her throat, magebane taints her blood as a hand grips her hair and Danarius forces her to kneel at his feet—Fenris' heart stops where it beats in his throat, hands grab his arms but he does not fight them (not now that Danarius holds his heart at the end of a blade)—a smile splitting his face in two. Hawke falls sixth, and fighting stops.
Don't you think you've done enough?
"Enough," smiles Danarius. More blades come to rest at the hearts and throats of their fallen friends. They breathe still because of Hawke, but Fenris finds he cannot—not when Hawke is the hands of his former Master and pointed steel digs into the flesh of those who have given much to aid him. Fenris falls last and Danarius smiles all the wider, "That is enough, Fenris."
Are you ready, Little Wolf?
Fenris falls last, but there is nothing left to fight for.
The worst is yet to come.
—
He said 'I am the Devil boy,
Come with me and we'll break many laws'
—
Danarius has left and Hawke, Hawke is quiet. Its unnerving watching her walk about the room, inspecting every window, every pattern laid out in the grey marble. He wonders how much pain, how much suffering has been further ingrained into every surface since his escape. He wonders if she can feel it lingering.
He has hurt Hawke in some way, Fenris knows this. He recognises the signs from the last time he struck a great blow to her heart. She does not look at him, does not speak to him and all he can do is watch her move about like a ghost—too afraid to voice her grief lest she offend him.
Fenris does not understand what he has done, does not understand what magic Hawke has utilised to keep herself hidden by his side. Perhaps it is something the Abomination has taught her, or the Witch with her blood magic. He has tried to ask, but each time Hawke does not answer him only shakes her head and turns away.
He knows she is crying and like before, he is helpless to comfort her.
The door opens and Varania slips into the room, swathed in the robes once proudly coveted by Hadriana—the robes of a Magister's apprentice—and bearing a bowl of water along with a pristine white cloth. Hawke spares them both a tired glance, before turning away. Fenris thinks she will leave him to his sister and whilst Hawke does not return to his side, she moves no further from him either.
"Leto." Varania murmurs, voice low and cautious. Fenris does not look at her; turns his eyes to the roof and attempts to will this traitorous bitch away. She does not leave and he does not want her here. "Leto."
"That is not my name!" Fenris snaps.
"It is the name Mother gave you," Varania replies in Arcanum, dipping the cloth into the water. Fenris follows the rhythmic movements rather than meet Varania's eyes. He flinches away when the cold cloth touches his skin, moving over aches and pains that are almost forgotten. "But perhaps you are right in saying that it is not your name—not any longer at least."
"Is this not a task better suited to a slave?" he grits out between clenched teeth, face and ears burning with humiliation. He will not rise to her baiting, he is not Leto. What point is there? Digging through half-forgotten memories to find the boy he used to be, who had a sister who would not betray him, when he will have forgotten it all again by the next sunrise.
"I volunteered," Varania shrugs, continuing her work. Fenris does not cover the disbelieving snort that follows,
"How benevolent of you."
"I wish to speak with you," she says.
"I will not listen," Fenris states coldly.
"Then I shall talk at you!" Varania snaps at him. Fenris thinks he remembers this, Varania, the older sister quick to anger, impatient and easily riled by Leto: Leto, the younger of the two with an anger all of his own that simmers and boils like hot lead in his belly. His anger is greater, he knows, because his mind snatches at another memory, Varania who is quick to anger but as quick in her forgiveness of the little brother she loved. He, Fenris or Leto it matters not in the face of things, must have wounded her greatly to incite such enduring hatred.
"What did I do?" Fenris asks. "To make you willing to betray me."
"You say you didn't ask for this," Varania spits at him after a moments confused hesitation. "But you did. You competed for it, killed for it and when you won you used the boon to free Mother and I."
"I—" Fenris cannot breathe, so he looks to Hawke because it has to be a lie, but she can offer him no consolation when she does not understand the accusations laid at his feet. He has spent so long blaming Danarius, so much of his anger is tied to this one single fact: that Danarius took him and carved this lyrium into his skin, all against Fenris' will. To take that away…what has he left, that didn't already belong to someone else?
"We had a home!" Varania continues. Fenris wishes her to stop, because he cannot stand the venom in her voice, but Varania cannot stop. Not when her resentment has festered this long: "And a life that you sacrificed, as you offered yourself to Danarius like a lamb, for the ridiculous notion of freedom."
And suddenly, Varania's face crumples in grief as tears slip freely down her cheeks, "The next time we saw you, you were as you are now: empty, broken and Leto no more."
"I—" Fenris croaks, his own throat tight as he shares in her anguish but too proud to let himself break. "Apologise."
"I hated you then," Varania sobs, the wet cloth pressed to her already wet face. "We begged in the street, destitute and starving, because of you and you could not comprehend the destruction you wrought."
"Then you have your revenge," Fenris says quietly. "And emerged the better."
"I have," Varania nods. "But it does not feel as it should."
"It never does," Fenris responds, thinking back to anger and hate he felt at the death of Hadriana when he expected there to be relief, satisfaction and perhaps a modicum of happiness.
"Who was she?" Varania asks, revealing a weather worn and stained strip of red silk. "Your Champion, if she was not your Mistress."
The question should not be so difficult, but then their relationship had always been so ill-defined by themselves and those around them. Fenris finds himself staring at the token, a symbol of the gift he took and then rejected—three years wasted in fear of love. A foolish, irrational fear he wishes he had beaten sooner, not now when it is too late.
The answer comes in the form of a memory, of a time when Leto still had a mother and father both. He does not remember the appearance of either, only the bell like laughter of his mother as a deep, rumbling voice whispers breathless in its own mirth: festis bei umo canavarum.
"The death of me," Fenris finally says and Varania smiles (a sad thing full of pity and regret), tucking the swatch of red back into her sleeve. He does not ask her to do what he cannot, to care for it in a way he has not and perhaps one day return it to Hawke so that she may bare it as he has.
And maybe, it was time to be honest with her.
Before it's too late.
—
He offered me eternal life,
But inside my heart there's a picture of a girl
—
"Tell me Champion," Danarius says in a low, taunting voice that skitters across the room like oil on water. "What did you hope to gain by this?"
"Nothing," Hawke responds stiffly, looking solely at Fenris. "Except, perhaps, that Fenris might be free of you."
"A noble cause to be sure," purrs Danarius. "But are you sure that is your only…motivation?"
Fenris growls low in his throat. He does not want Hawke to know, to keep her silent suspicions locked tightly away where they are never given voice. He never told her and if he is asked (and Danarius does ask, Danarius asks a great deal before the night is through) he will say it was to protect her but if he is honest—and he is more honest, more open with Hawke than he has ever been—it was—is—to protect himself and what he once perceived (foolishly) to be a secret shame to great for her to bare between them and then she would have turned him away with nought but scorn and derision, revulsion and disgust. All those terrible things that might have broken his heart.
"Not all desires are as base as yours," Hawke snaps. Fenris' heart swells (with pride and terror), and Danarius backhands Hawke across the face. He should have trusted then, as he trusts her now that Hawke would never turn away from him (and that she would never hold him responsible).
"You do not deny it," Danarius says, eyes crawling over Fenris. "As you did not deny it before."
Hawke says nothing. Fenris says nothing and it is all the confirmation Danarius needs because he chuckles, "I don't blame you."
"It's not like that," Hawke mutters.
"Of course not," clucks Danarius with a patronising pat on the cheek. "Tell me Champion, because it has been such a long time since I've had the pleasure, do you think him skilled?"
"Oh," Danarius laughs, smile turning vicious. "How she blushes!"
The words are reminiscent of Isabela at her most vulgar, but without the light, drunken (and sober) teasing that accompanies it. Hawke had blushed that night, when they had lain together, eyes downcast and cheeks flaming much as they are now. It is unfair that such a look—not so intimate, as not to have been shared at late night games of Wicked Grace when Varric and Isabela compete to see who can offend Hawke's sensibilities first—should be mocked, when it is remembered in only happy memories.
"Why are you doing this?" Hawke asks, voice tight as she tries to hide her physical betrayal. Fenris does not blame her, not as he did before when Isabela had made reference to that night. He thought Hawke had gossiped, like so many of the blubbering Hightown elite but it was only later (after he had accused and berated and raged) that he realised Hawke had said nothing, only blushed and turned away.
"I find it amuses me," Danarius shrugs. "You disappointed me though, Champion, I heard you defeated an Arishok in single combat with nothing but your dismal Ferelden magic and yet you succumb so easily to me."
"Hawke…" Fenris says with a low, warning voice. He knows Hawke wants to reply with her own form of blatant, observational honesty. She is lacking in quick wit and her disposition isn't hard enough to carry any verbal threat, but she has always been good at soothing the fires of other people's ire (Fenris' most of all) with irrepressible kindness and the logic of truth. He loves her for it, her ability to sway an argument but Danarius will not be swayed.
Fenris holds to the hope (surety, because his heart brokers no other option) that amusement will keep Hawke alive.
"Do you think of me?" Danarius asks, eyes flashing to Fenris' with a sudden intensity. "When you lay with her."
Fenris' thinks he ought to grow cold, for the rolling twists in his belly to solidify and sharpen, but he does not because he looks at Hawke and sees no doubt. So it is without fear, without reservation that Fenris says to Danarius, "No."
The smile on Danarius' face slips and he looks genuinely furious, before the mask slips back into place with an exaggerated sigh,
"I grow weary of these games," he says, blade poised once again at Hawke's throat. "It is time we returned home."
It is then, and only then, that Fenris' heart turns cold.
Let her live.
—
Some call love a word, some call love a thief,
But she's my home
—
"Hawke?" Fenris asks, drawing her attention from her inspection of the room.
"Fenris," Hawke returns flatly.
"I owe you an apology," Fenris says, swallowing dryly.
"You have nothing to apologise for," assures Hawke.
"I should not have left you," Fenris states. "That night… we haven't spoken of it."
"You didn't want to talk about it," Hawke says gently.
"I hurt you," Fenris says, lifting a bound and heavy hand to brush his fingers against Hawke's unblemished cheek—shouldn't there be a bruise? Fenris thinks, unsure why. Hawke catches his fingers with her own and presses a kiss to his palm. "If I could go back…"
"There are many forms of magic in this world Fenris," Hawke says. "But we can never go back and I would not ask you to."
"Still," he says. "If I could go back, I would have stayed, told you how I felt."
"Oh," she smiles. "And what would you have said?"
"That nothing could be worse than—" Fenris starts, heart stilling as he remembers—
Oh. Oh—
"Hawke," Fenris cries, a low howl rumbling from his heart as realisation hits; blunt as a hammer and sharp as an axe—and oh how it hurts. "Hawke, you cannot be here."
"But I am," she says, pressing a kiss to his fingers. "I am here, because you are here."
He does not know what to say, does not know how to still his tears, so they remain in silence until the sun has dipped below the horizon. Fenris does not want to think what demon his grief has conjured to him, does not have the heart to banish this false-copy of Hawke.
"You are a demon," he says, his hand falling bone-limp in her—its—fingers. There is no fire, no heat or derision in his voice, only tired resignation. This thing with Hawke's face (and all the other pieces he had come to love) is a cruel trick summoned by Danarius to torment and break him.
"No," Hawke—not-Hawke—replies. "You are stronger than that."
He wants to laugh, to say you do not know me and I betrayed her to your kind once before, but Hawke—his-Hawke—had absolved him of that long ago.
"If I were a demon," Hawke says, as if sensing his thoughts. Her hand, cold, so very cold, presses against his chest, against his heart and she smiles at him. "You would know in your heart, if I was a lie."
It is true, Fenris realises. Demons poison the very air and set the lyrium in his veins singing in a painful kind of way. Hawke does not feel the way demons do; she feels as she always has, calming, soothing and bright. It is Hawke and if it is an imitation, then he welcomes it because there is nothing to lose.
"Then what are you?" Fenris asks.
She looks away—
"A memory," she says. "A ghost; to comfort you before the end."
—
And she's as much a part of this broken heart,
But broken bones always seem to mend
—
"Danarius, take me!" Fenris cries, struggling against the faceless slaver that holds him. "Let her go!"
"Oh, my pet, you have forgotten your place," smiles Danarius, twisting his fingers further into Hawke's hair. Fenris' stomach twists painfully at the small cry that catches in her throat. He will not—cannot—allow Danarius to harm Hawke, but Danarius simply chuckles at his desperation, "And for that I think you ought to be punished."
Fenris tenses, awaiting the blow that will inevitably come; his mind racing through every punishment Danarius has bestowed upon him. He will gladly take every cut, every bruise, and every ounce of pain if only to spare Hawke. He will return with Danarius, let him take every memory, every hope and every dream, but he will not let him take Hawke.
"Please, Master," he will throw himself at Danarius' feet, will kiss his boots and bear the humiliation. "Let her go."
"No!" Hawke cries. Fenris does not look to see the horror in her eyes—that same abject disgust whenever they discussed the brutality of Danarius—and that anger whenever anyone dared to call him a slave. "He is not a slave!"
The blade skitters across Hawke's neck, silencing her with a startled gasp. Fenris too, has no breath with which to shout, to beg and plead. It is only when he sees the knife slice a shallow cut that Fenris feels his heart start beating again. Fingers gently wipe the blood that slides slowly, but freely, from the wound. Danarius bares no kindness as he inspects the red substance staining his fingers: "I offered you a chance to walk away Champion, but you have kept my property from me for far too long."
"Danarius!" snarls Fenris.
"Enough, Little Wolf," says Danarius sharply, red mist, red blood, Hawke's blood, glowing in his outstretched hand. Fenris waits, all too familiar with the workings of blood magic and the pain it will cause—
Hawke realises before him the blow that is to come—
"Fenris, I—"
Her heart clenches and stops, and—
Fenris breaks, and—
—Hawke is gone.
It was not supposed to end this way.
—
I'll taste the Devil's tears, drink from his soul,
But I'll never give up you
—
"I wanted to save you," Fenris says, his voice tight as Hawke strokes his cheek. He does not deserve such affection, not when, not when—
"You died."
"Do not blame yourself," Hawke says in a soothing tone.
"He killed you," Fenris rasps, unshed tears clogging his throat. "Because you sought to protect me."
"That is not such a bad thing," Hawke smiles.
"Hawke..." Fenris warns. He does not want to hear her justification, does not want to her to attempt and absolve him of this crushing guilt.
"To die for lo—" Hawke catches herself, frowning. "I never did get the chance to say it, did I?"
"Say what?" he presses. He dares not hope, not now, not after and not before. His mind has gone back to her unspoken words a thousand times since Danarius ripped him from Kirkwall and, and Hawke is smiling at him now: a brilliant, beautiful thing that lightens and shatters his heart in one easy blow.
"Fenris, I love you," Hawke exclaims. If possible her smile stretches further, grows brighter as her whole body seems to fill with a light all of her own. This is the Hawke he remembers, brighter than the stars and he is blessed that she shines for him.
He would tell her all of this and more, but Danarius returns before Fenris can respond. Hawke assures him, in hushed whispers meant only for him, that she knows: I know, I've always known and I have always, always understood.
"If there was a future to be had," he murmurs, keeping his eyes on Hawke and away from where Danarius makes his final preparations. "I would have walked into it gladly by your side."
"Oh, Fenris," Hawke says, tears clouding her eyes.
"I don't want to lose you," Fenris admits, panic gripping him. He is going to lose her for a third time and he cannot, cannot, cannot accept that. "He will take my memories and he will take you."
"I am yours," Hawke says. "I'm not his to take."
"There is nothing I can do," Fenris states. "I will forget you."
"Perhaps," Hawke whispers gently. "But you'll find your way back."
Danarius calls across the room that he is ready and Fenris knows what is to come:
"Hawke, please—" he begs. "Stay—"
Hawke's fingers are cold, colder than he remembers them, as they glide across his cheek, catching his tears before they can collect in the hollow of his ear. They both know what he means, though he cannot give it voice: stay as Danarius strips me of everything I am and I am left screaming and please stay when I have nothing, when I am a slave and I do not know you.
She presses her forehead to his, her eyes wet with the promise of tears as she rests her hand against his cheek. Fenris presses into it, relishing the feel of her knowing this to be the last time they will ever be together. He does not look away, her free hand rests solidly on his pounding heart; she presses the ghost of a kiss to his lips, the wisp of a memory soon to be taken, and smiles,
"Always."
And that is enough.
—
I'll taste the Devil's tears, drink from his soul,
But I'll never give up you
—
Fin.