Work Text:
Days at Skyhold had always taken on a different form each time a new faction swore their allegiance to the Inquisition.
The allied mages, and their leader Fiona, accepted the outstretched hand tentatively, despite taking on considerable damnation for their folly at Redcliffe, and sought to make themselves quite scarce in those first weeks, doing what they could to avoid any overlong gaze in the attendance of the few Templars that had come to Skyhold under Cullen’s command.
The time that followed was tense, underlined by bitter squabbles about space and autonomy and too much freedom, but both factions fell into pace with each other soon enough, each being more grateful for the other’s presence far more intently than anyone cared to admit.
In time, Celene’s most distinguished chevaliers presented themselves, a gift of support for the assistance the Inquisition had provided at Halamshiral. They eased a heavy burden, taking up some of the more vicious front-lines – providing a level of training and commitment that bolstered moral in a way that allowed even the Commander time to breathe.
Among their allies, they could count Chantry mothers, Dalish scouts, nobility from every corner of Thedas – from Grand Dukes to the smallest houses with only a single holding to their name; reavers, smugglers, keepers, mercenaries, Crows and Carta, merchant princes, wilder folk, and freemen hailing from even the most distant bogs and forests.
Each time, it was the same; the period of adjustment after their long pilgrimage, their formal vows, their awe and, given time, their eventual sliding into place amongst the others.
It was never smooth – never entirely seamless (petty bickering and whole-hog brawls were inevitable, even in true camaraderie), but it worked. And while there was always that period of trying to ease into the massive, ever-shifting mechanism that was the Inquisition, there wasn’t much that seemed to cause a stir in their hold anymore, as if everything they had encountered up until that point had robbed them of their capacity to be surprised by anything short of witnessing another divine miracle.
And then it happened: a chilly morning in the first week of Bloomingtide saw the biggest, most raucous fuss since Zaída had been named Inquisitor in the early days of their arrival.
Varric had led her aside, tried to explain the state of things and his reasoning behind some misgiven duplicity, but it was conveniently vague and, failing proper illumination, he eventually gave up and instead opted to simply show her the reason for his secrecy.
Whatever she had expected, this, of all things, had not been counted among them.
The wind whipping over the battlements swallowed most of their exchange; staid pleasantries that invited more questions than answers, but one thing was for certain.
“Cassandra’s going to skin you alive, Varric,” Zaída sighed eventually, resting her elbows against the mortar of the ramparts. This was not a mess she was looking forward to cleaning up.
“Don’t I know it.” And if the look on his face was any indication, he really, truly did.
What mattered in the end, however, was this: the Champion of Kirkwall had come to Skyhold. And she had brought a friend.
It took days for the hold to settle; after Cassandra and Varric’s inevitable clash, her threatening to hang him off the undercroft for his traitorous tongue, the eventual sulking on both ends, and all the while soldiers, templars, mages, and nobles flitted around the courtyard, trying to haggle for the Champion’s attention, to beggar her with questions, praise, and sometimes abuse.
The time eventually came when Lyra Hawke was little more than another unique fixture; a champion with an international reputation, and the banner under which the initial Circles had rebelled, but she had a stake in this fight just like everyone else. More peculiar now was her companion, the silent figure who had arrived with her on the battlements and chose to hover in her immediate orbit, like a dour, taciturn ghost.
It didn’t take much to suss out his identity – he may have neglected to introduce himself, or allowed himself to be announced by either Hawke or Varric (they exchanged knowing glances, a bark of a chuckle on Varric’s end that took the shape of “Elf.”), and the trio seemed content with this, a familiar pace set by no one else but themselves that enforced an interesting style of privacy.
Despite this, however, she had read Varric’s book – between those tattoos (brands, the dwarf had emphasized) and his stern demeanor pointed like daggers at everyone but Hawke herself, Zaída concluded that this elf had to be the escaped slave the Champion encountered in the earlier chapters of the tale; a fact which, more than anything, piqued her unassailable curiosity.
“That’s him, isn’t it? Fenris, the Tevinter fugitive.”
Zaída had been watching him for over an hour now, gazing over the practice ring in the courtyard from her perch on the ramparts. Varric had approached her after a while, he and Hawke strolling idly by while she studied him intently. He had been battering a practice dummy with an impressive training sword – a massive, unwieldy thing that stood nearly as tall as he did.
He hefted it with familiar ease, and it cut a striking silhouette. She had never seen one of her kind choose such a brutal instrument, largely due to the strength needed to wield it deftly, but also because it required a head-on approach that wasn’t conducive to their flanking styles. Seeing him dash back and forth with little duress was fascinating, and she wondered if the abilities Varric had written about so extensively helped him with his swordplay, or if he was simply that well-trained.
“The one and only but, word to the wise? I wouldn’t let him hear you call him that. He can be a little…,” Varric regarded her carefully and finally settled on a decidedly neutral,” testy.”
“Understatement of the age, my friend,” and it was Hawke’s turn to laugh, a quirk of her lips that burst into a smile so freely that Zaída found herself smiling in turn.
“And those things in your book – the lyrium, the magister, what he can do – that’s all true?”
She perked up then, eyes still tracking his movements (parry to block, low sweeping swings that scraped the ground as he dashed forward).
“More or less,” Varric admitted with a noncommittal stretch. “I may have embellished a bit for the sake of poetic symmetry, but the frame of it’s all there. I couldn’t make that shit up if I tried – trust me.”
She considered his words for a moment.
When Zaída decided to undertake a specialization, her advisors scoured the map for the most capable tutors in a multitude of disciplines. She spent weeks gathering information not only from the tutors themselves, but by pulling every book she could find off the shelf to help better illuminate each possible path.
In the end, Solas, more than all the others, had influenced much of her decision when he let slip that the abilities of a Knight-Enchanter descended from a long-lost elven discipline.
“Arcane warriors – seasoned mages that could wield the arms and don the armor of even the most brutal warriors by focusing their will and connection to the Fade,” he told her, wistfulness welling in his voice as he spoke.
“Knight-Enchanters are a crude second, cobbling together their techniques with whatever scraps they manage to find –”
“But that means the technique still exists! Even if they’re just a splinter of what they were… better that than dying out altogether,” the excitement in her tone wasn’t lost – a blithe titter that bounced off the fresco and up into the rookery.
“I… suppose that could be true,” Solas settled on finally, tight-lipped as ever. It was all she needed to proceed, and proceed she did.
The discipline had been hard-won through vicious, unflagging training, but after months of bruised ribs and busted knuckles, she was finally given leave to count herself among the elite few that called themselves the Knight-Enchanters.
In her studies, however, grew an obsession. It could have been due to the mark, her existing link to the Fade in a physical way that served not only to bolster her shift from tangible to incorporeal, but to conjure a blade where none existed moments before.
Regardless, she sought out any and all information concerning similar techniques – begged Josephine to requisition any tomes they might find on the subject. Leliana offered a unique, unanticipated insight – the Hero Of Ferelden had acquired the knowledge of which Solas spoke while exploring the depths of a long-forgotten ruin.
A mage capable of wielding a sword spun from stars and donning the heavy armor of a king without sacrificing her magic or impeding her casting – the stories were incredible.
“While in the heat of battle, she seemed to barely exist in this world – a shimmer of hazy light that brought with it savage bloodshed. She was a force to be reckoned with, to be certain.”
There was affection in Leliana’s voice that seemed almost misplaced on the backdrop of such violence, but Zaída didn’t question it, asking only that Leliana keep her word in trying to locate the Warden when her other duties finally spare her.
Now, it seemed, she was presented with a unique opportunity. As far as she could gather, Fenris was easily the closest a warrior could get to the Fade, and he was able to school his ability into martial techniques that went far beyond what any arcanist could imagine. She had to see it in person.
She slinked over the rough-hewn flagstones and down the steps without another thought, choking down the kernel of giddiness already welling up in her throat. Zaída watched him carefully as she approached, padding silently over the tamped down earth, and he seemed to be contemplating the practice dummy carefully, back facing the ramparts.
“Those feet of yours must be cold up here in the mountain air – I could actually hear you approach.” His voice was a throaty rumble, deeper than what she expected, and she stopped, considering him for a moment.
“I imagine they’re ‘bout as cold as yours, friend,” she leveled him with a broad smile, circling half around to get a better look at his sword.
“Is there something you needed, Inquisitor?” he asked her tightly, pivoting in place to watch her watch him.
He had his hair pulled back in a loose knot, but the front had all fallen forward, hiding much of his features under a shock of white.
“Yes, now that you mention it! More of a humble request, if I’m to be honest,” Zaída explained, her tone meandering as she rallied herself.
“I read about you in Varric’s book, about the things you could do…” she trailed off, stretching upward on the balls of her feet before settling back down.
“And?”
He watched her carefully now, eyes little more than stony slits as he leaned against the pommel of his enormous sword.
“And, I wondered if you’d be willing to show me,” Zaída exhaled the rest of her words in a deep sigh that rattled through her body.
She could see his jaw working as he leveled her with a glare, digging the tip of his sword into the packed earth beneath their feet.
“No. I only use it during combat,” he began, fingers tightening against the pommel.
“Then would you care to spar with me?” she grinned, not missing a beat.
It took all of just a few moments for Fenris to narrow his eyes again and give her a very stern and immediate “No.”
She hadn’t been expecting him to decline and it must have been obvious on her face because Varric chortled from the stone steps behind her suddenly and Zaída couldn’t help but wilt.
“Aw, it’s not like you to turn down a challenge, Elf,” he smirked.
“Especially not against a mage!” Hawke added matter-of-factly.
There was a smile there, one obviously schooled to a fraction of its usual width, warm and boisterous like so much else of Hawke’s personality.
His response came out as a short puff, more physical indignance than audible, and she was certain he was going to turn her down once more, rebuke her with a glance and sent her trotting.
He didn’t.
Fenris was off like a shot, a sudden surge of energy that tugged at the air around her, puckered at the seams of the Veil, and she didn’t see him until it’s very nearly too late. He burst back from the ether, visible then where he wasn’t before, the tip of his sparring sword lighting near her feet.
She recoiled just in time, rolling her step back in a crooked leap that very nearly felled her, but she caught herself and used the momentum to spring up against the fence blockading the practice arena.
“Oh, very pretty. But how’re we gonna know who wins if that’s how you plan on startin’?” she drawled and watched him bow his head in consideration.
“First to contact, then. Limbs and face aren’t off limits, but the winning strike will have to be at the core,” Fenris allowed after a moment, sweeping a gesture between his neck and hips.
“Can I use my magic then? Or am I just supposed to swing my stick at you and hope it hits?” Zaída tittered back, nose wrinkling as she braced against her perch.
Fenris quirked a brow and pivoted, pulling a practice staff off the weapons rack.
“You can try,” he murmured, a ghost of a smile flaring for a single moment before he tossed the staff at her and disappeared again from sight.
She snatched the rod out of the air, pulling it to her body as she rolled out of her perch. She could sense him, the same kind of energy that crackled in the air when Cole phased in and out the Veil – much stronger than anything she’d mustered with her own abilities.
It was complete incorporeality, however brief, and she had to focus on the sensation in order to track him on the field.
He flickered a few feet in front of her and she took initiative at a play for offense, dashing through the Veil and his incomplete body, to materialize behind him.
She’s fast, very fast, but Fenris had experience on his side – he caught her before she could strike his back, pivoting like a snap just in time to block her three quick blows. He seemed surprised however, eyes just a little wide around the edges, and she chuckled – a silvery chime that came more like a taunt than genuine laughter.
“Catch you off guard, then?” Zaída chirped, circling around the reach of his sword.
She tapped at the end of it with her staff playfully, trying to goad him, and she was certain she heard Hawke hooting scandalously. Fenris narrowed his eyes, a sharp glower that seeped ice, moments before he closed the gap between them with improbable speed.
Zaída had to dash across the Fade seams again, a semi-circle that brought her around behind him, avoiding a harsh, overhead swing that was seemingly intended for her head.
She had another opening, an opportunity to smack him across the shoulders with her staff, but he anticipated her evasion, pivoting again on his heel to meet her sweeping strike. The sudden jolt in mid-swing, the quickness in which he countered, threw her off pace, allowing him the opportunity to shove her staff out of its defensive position and off to the side.
“If this is all the Inquisition has to offer, I can’t say I’m too impressed,” he grunted, voice heavy with the labor of his breath.
He raised his sword overhead again, a lightning surge that barreled at her, and she was forced to drop to a knee, palming the hilt of her spirit blade.
She barely summoned it in time, sword singing to life in a burst of crackling energy that reverberates against the edge of Fenris’ blade. It rattles in his hands, a momentary distraction, as she tumbled out of the edge’s path into a furious onslaught, lunging forward to force contact between the blades.
He’s on the defensive now, having to track his own footwork to avoid tripping backwards under the weight of her assault, and the crowd that gathered stood, irreverent hollering punctuating a groan of cheers.
She dashed in half-feints, leaving limned trails of mana tearing across the threshold of the Veil. Zaída couldn’t maintain incorporeality as long as her opponent seemed to be able to, and so she made the most of her speed in misdirection, turning away on her heel only to slam the humming edge of her blade against his sword in the brief respite between each step. The sound of his leathers bumping against the wooden fence was barely audible over the din of their sudden audience and that, she thought, marks the end of this little tussle.
“I guess a big sword doesn’t cover for poor defense,” Zaída hummed, teeth flashing as she drew up her sword for a finishing blow.
It didn’t last.
Fenris caught her fingers on the downswing, cracking her knuckles harshly with the butt of his pommel. The weight of it threw her aim off course, fingers crumpling suddenly out of sheer pain, and that’s all it took to sever her concentration, even briefly. The blade flickered out of sight for only a moment, but it was long enough for Fenris to smack the hilt out of her hand with the flat of his sword and to bring his knee up in the small gap between them, knocking the wind out of her as she tumbled to the ground.
The sound of metal scraping against the ground seemed to punctuate the gravity of his actions, highlighted by the hush that fell over the crowd gathered around them.
She could hear his feet padding against the dirt as he approached, the dizzying tightness in her lungs suddenly accompanied by a thrum of panic as she watched him settle the tip of his sword directly over her heart.
An eternity passed in moments as her heart hammered in her ears, squinting against the halo the sun cast behind him. There was a tightness in his mouth, a brief, upward quirk that she was not entirely certain she actually saw and then –
It was over.
Fenris prodded her against the chest with the tip of his sword – barely more than a playful poke (should she dare to call it that).
The audience burst, apparently sagging under the weight of their collectively held breath, and she wasn’t sure if they’re angry or elated.
She would be content to just lay there, mulling over the shame until the earth cracked open and swallowed her whole, but Fenris seemed to have other plans. She was surprised to see him extend an engraved hand in her direction, and hesitated for a moment – still considering the prospect of wallowing in defeat on the ground for the rest of the day. But his impatient huff was enough to convince her, and she grabbed his wrist, giving him the leverage to hoist her up out of the dirt.
“Well that was… enlightening. Really, good lesson all around,” she muttered sheepishly, brushing at the fine layer of dust now covering her entire back-side.
“You don’t need to placate me, Inquisitor. You’re the one who lost.”
“Not placating so much as trying to mollify my own bruised ego,” Zaída said, wincing at the truth of it. “Was that last prod really necessary? Like you hadn’t already won with that dirty shot at my sword hand.”
“Of course – those were the rules, after all. I didn’t technically win until my sword touched your chest,” Fenris told her, suspiciously neutral. She thought she saw that quirk in his lips again, a brief flash of something like a smile, but it evaporated before she could call him out.
“I have to admit… I’m a little disappointed. I was hoping that you’d –”
“That I would what?”
“That, perhaps, you might stick around and show me a thing or two. I’m new to all this,” she gestured vaguely to her body, as if that would somehow illustrate her intent,” and you’re so good at it.”
“I’ve had a great many years of practice, Inquisitor. The constant threat of death does wonders for one’s sense of diligence, especially where combat is concerned,” he offers. “It will come to you in time.”
There was a moment, a pregnant pause that rose up between them in the stillness of the air, as a furtive glance from Hawke caught Fenris in place.
“It seems that we will be here for a while yet, however. Perhaps there is a trick or two you could stand to master.”
And with that, he was off like a shot, a lazy, blue haze shimmering where Fenris once stood.