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He hates seeing her like this.
For as long as he’s known her, Hawke has been indestructible. No matter how great the odds stacked against her, she always somehow manages to walk away from every fight clean. He’d never say it out loud, but she is the most experienced fighter he’s ever seen, regardless (or perhaps because) of her being a mage. To call her ‘formidable’ would be a vast understatement.
She’s wiggled her way out of countless life or death situations, either with her sharp wit or battle prowess. There is no denying that she is an artist on the field. Distrust of mages aside, he has never met anyone who can even begin to compare to her. Before now, he just naturally assumed that she would breeze through every fight with the same ease she did the last.
Suffice it to say, when he watches the Arishok run her through with his sword, he is shocked.
Oh, there are a great deal of other emotions, too — namely fury that anyone would dare harm her — but above all else, all he can think is, “How?” How could the most deadly person he’s ever met allow herself to be injured so severely?
She’s escaped plenty of hopeless situations before. Demons, darkspawn, raiders, even dragons; she’s walked away from every encounter the victor. He’s become accustomed to seeing that little glimmer of mischief in her eye when she sheathes her staff and saunters away from the scene of the crime. Perhaps it was naive of him, but he truly thought that nothing could best her.
Until now
It takes the combined efforts of Varric and Aveline to stop him from charging into the battle. His intervention will only make things worse, and he knows that Rowan would just be distracted by his presence and throw herself into further danger to protect him. The Arishok would kill them both without a moment of hesitation.
His brain tells him that staying on the sidelines is the right decision; his heart, however, is not as easily convinced.
Standing idly by while the woman he’s come to care for struggles to pull the sword from her abdomen is one of the most difficult things he’s ever done. He is blinded by fury. He wants nothing more than to rip the Arishok apart limb from limb, to run him through just as he has Rowan and tear his chest open with his bare hands. Were it not for Aveline’s vice grip, he would try.
In hindsight, he should have known that Rowan would be stubborn enough to treat impalement like a flesh wound. She delivers a kick to the Arishok strong enough to send both him and his sword flying. Blood pools on the floor beneath her when the blade leaves her skin, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Such an injury would take anyone else out of commission without question; Rowan simply grabs her staff, grits her teeth, and keeps fighting.
Aside from her labored panting and the Arishok’s shouting, the room is silent. Her friends are fully aware of her resilience, but to see her stand up to the leader of the Qunari with a gaping hole in the middle of her stomach is shocking even to them. It is exactly the sort of wild tale Varric likes to spread about her at the Hanged Man, and just as unbelievable.
She manages to defeat the Arishok, of course; one particularly well-aimed burst of fire kncoks him to his feet, and she takes the opportunity to stab him in the chest with the pointed end of her staff. She sinks it in so deep that it hits the floor beneath his back, and does not remove it until his breath stops and his heas falls back. Even then she twists it for good measure.
The nobles gasp and point as though she is some sort of mythical being, but her friends aren’t the least bit surprised. They’ve known for almost four years that there is no stopping Rowan when she sets her mind to something. A more thick-headed woman they have never known.
She keeps her head high as the Arishok collapses on the steps of the throne room. It is difficult to make out her expression. There is relief, of course — anyone would be happy to make it out of this fight alive — but also something akin to disappointment. It is no secret that she has respect for the Arishok, even if they disagree.
She’s never wanted violence with the Qunari. Had she any other choice, she would have taken it.
For a moment there, it really looks as though she might be able to just shrug off her wounds. The crowd gathers around her and cheers for their savior. Her friends give her a few congratulatory pats on the back. Bitter as she is, even Meredith is quick to offer compliments and name her Champion.
Hawke certainly seems no worse for wear, aside from the blood stains on her tunic; the woman even manages to smile as the townsfolk throw accolades her way. Nobles that have previously never given her a second glance embrace her and thank her for their lives. Orsino gives her a firm handshake and congratulates her on the title. She smiles, laughs, even cracks a couple jokes.
Which is why they are so caught off guard when she collapses in the doorway of the keep.
Fenris is by her side before the others even realize what’s happened. He falls to his knees and holds her face in his hands, desperately searching for signs of life. Her breath fans weakly against his fingers, alarmingly so, and her face goes pale. It seems as though she wants to say something, lips mouthing words he cannot discern, but she doesn’t have the strength to speak. She can only stare up at him as he pulls her into his arms.
Isabela tears the sash around her waist and fashions it into a makeshift tourniquet around the wound, but still the blood keeps coming. A few solitary drops fall from Hawke’s from her mouth. It takes every ounce of strength within Fenris to keep his tears from falling as he watches her cling to life.
Aveline tries to take her, but there is no need; as if she were made of air, Fenris lifts her from the ground, cradles her to his chest, and takes off in a sprint towards her home.
Their friends follow closely behind, eyes trained firmly on Rowan to make sure she is still breathing. Varric looks as though he is on the verge of tears. Isabela mutters angry pleas beneath her breath. Aveline clenches her fists so tightly her knuckles look as though they might pop through the skin.
And Fenris...he simply runs. He runs as fast as his feet can carry him. He runs faster than he did when he fled Danarius in Seheron. He runs faster than he has ever run in his life, praying beneath his breath to any god that will listen.
He cannot lose her. Anything else he will gladly give, even his own life, but not her. Maker, not her.
Anders works on her for hours. Fenris doesn’t like the idea of him working his odd magic on her, but relents that there are no better options. Bodahn, Sandal, and Orana scurry in and out of her bedroom every few minutes, carrying bloody rags. The dwarves have tears running down their faces the entire time — particularly Sandal, who looks moments away from full-blown sobbing. Orana keeps her head down as always, but it is easy to see the stains on her cheeks.
Barkspawn sits outside her bedroom door the entire time, whimpering and pawing at the threshold whenever he hears a noise on the other side. Merrill offers him a treat, but he doesn't move for even a second. No one else tries to coax him away.
The Hawke Estate is quieter than it has ever been.
Rowan’s friends, usually the most raucous and outgoing people in the room, sit in complete silence as they await Anders’ word. They’ve spread themselves all over the sitting room, entirely unbothered by their sorry states.
Isabela has taken to sitting on the desk next to the fireplace, angrily muttering curses beneath her breath. Merrill and Sebastian squeeze their eyes shut in furious prayer. Aveline keeps her narrowed eyes trained on the ceiling, as if arguing with someone. Varric paces back and forth along the length of the throw rug, anxiously tapping his feet and shaking his head back and forth, looking liable to throw up.
Fenris sits next to the entrance of her room, absentmindedly running his fingers through Barkspawn’s fur. He doesn’t move even for a moment.
No one dares remark on how similar it feels to the night Leandra died. They all think it, of course, but no one wants to be the one to jinx things. Not this.
Fenris can still remember Rowan’s ear-piercing scream with perfect clarity. It was the first time in his life he could recall seeing someone so entirely broken. He barely knew Leandra — they’d only spoken once, and even then it was only because she wanted to know his intentions with her daughter — but watching Rowan sob over her lifeless body was one of the hardest things he’s ever had to watch.
That was when he first realized how vulnerable their fearless leader is. For all her snark and sarcasm and wit, she cares deeply for the people around her, almost painfully so. There was a time when he wondered how someone could love another person so entirely, so much that it seemed to consume their entire being.
He doesn’t have to wonder anymore.
Anders is almost trampled when he walks out of the bedroom. He tries to explain her injuries in medical terms, only to have Fenris grab him by the collar and demand that he speak plainly. Aveline pulls him back with a stern frown.
The mage explains that despite the severity of her wounds, it seems as though they will not be fatal, an announcement that has everyone in the room sighing with relief. The sword, by some miracle, missed her vital organs by less than an inch. She’s lost a great deal of blood, but nothing that can’t be replaced after a few weeks of rest, he assures them. The greatest danger is infection, and even then he has a great deal of medicinal herbs stored away to help with such things.
It is almost laughable: the woman was run through with a Qunari sword, and her biggest concern is an infection.
Her friends pile into the room to check on her, despite Anders’ pleas to just let the woman sleep. She is out cold when they barge their way in, hands folded over the wound on her stomach and lips slightly parted; Isabela jokes that she looked like a corpse, only to have Aveline smack her in the back of the head.
The lot of them gather around her bed as quietly as they can. Varric takes a cautious seat on the edge of the mattress and rests his hand on top of hers. Isabela presses a quick kiss to the top of her head, furiously blinking away her tears. Aveline offers a gentle pat on the knee. Merrill, after being persuaded not to tackle her in a bear hug, opts to give her an awkward side-embrace. Sebastian prays over her. Anders grips her shoulder and whispers a few words of encouragement.
Fenris cradles her cheek and lets out a sigh of immense relief.
One by one they file out, with the promise of returning as soon as they are able. Bodahn escorts them all with numerous thanks and invitations to come visit again soon. By midnight, everyone has gone — everyone except Fenris.
He sits perfectly still in the chair next to her bed, one hand wrapped firmly around hers at all times. Their friends have never seen him look so desperate. Varric tried to persuade him to go home and get some sleep before he left, but he wouldn’t hear any of it. “I will stay until she wakes,” he insisted in a tone that left no room for argument.
Not even Aveline could convince him to leave. Until the moment she opens her eyes, he has every intention of staying at her side. An earthquake could not move him.
For two days she sleeps, entirely unaware of the anxious man perched at her side. Fenris demands that Anders check on her again, terrified that she still hasn’t awoken, but his fears are unfounded; with the trauma she endured, she simply needs the rest. This knowledge does nothing to make him feel better.
Bodahn brings him breakfast, lunch, and dinner each day, despite being told that it is unnecessary. He will hear nothing of it, of course; “Mistress Hawke would not want you to starve yourself, serah. She cares a great deal for you, I’ll have you know.” Sandal comes in once a day to check on her, and though he never says much, his presence was oddly comforting. Orana prays over her morning and night, old rites her father taught her years ago.
Fenris doesn’t have the heart to make any of them leave him alone.
He has never considered himself a particularly religious man, never cared for it as fiercely as others did; but the entire time he sits here waiting for her to wake up, he prays.
He prays to the Maker, to the elven gods, every diety he has ever heard of. He begs them to save her, to help her wake up, to take him instead if they wish. Sometimes he goes back and forth between begging and cursing. He makes so many promises he can’t even keep track of them all. It doesn’t matter; he will do anything to save her life.
It is in one of these states, leaned over with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped in furious prayer, that he hears what he swears to be the single most beautiful sound he has ever heard in all his life.
“Well now I’ve seen everything.”
His head snaps up so quickly he almost gives himself whiplash. Rowan smiles at him from the bed, albeit a bit weakly, raising one hand from her blood-stained bandages to gesture towards him. She is still inhumanely pale from the blood loss, and the wound on her stomach has yet to completely heal, but she manages a small laugh.
Maker help him, she is beautiful.
“You praying,” she chuckles, though it does elicit a small wince. “Someone had better go fetch Sebastian. He’ll be jumping for joy.”
He doesn’t have it in him to restrain himself. Breathing an immense sigh of relief, Fenris launches himself out of the chair and sits down next to her on the bed, just carefully enough not to shake her. Her smile only widens. He reaches out and cups her cheek, blinking away tears, and Rowan cannot help but sigh when his skin touches hers. She leans into his touch almost without thought.
To have her rapidly warming cheek against her palm, to feel the blood flowing beneath her skin, to know she is alive — it is all too much. He can’t help but let a few tears fall, even as he tries to furiously blink them away.
Rowan huffs out a shaky laugh and reaches up to hold his hand. “Oh, Maker, please don’t cry. I’ll start crying, too. Surely you’ll spare an injured woman some humility?”
Fenris chuckles and wipes his tears away, still fighting off more that threaten to spring up. Her words are playful, but he doesn’t miss the way that she stares up at him, eyes awash with misty relief of her own. He feels her pulse start racing under her skin. Even now, her palm feels a bit sweaty against his own.
She knows what he said, and he knows what he said, but right now neither of them can bring themselves to be too bloody concerned about it. It is enough just to know that she is alive, that they are together.
Smiling despite himself, Fenris reaches down with his other hand to smooth her hair back. “I’m just glad you’re alright. You scared me — er, all of us. When he caught you, we thought that you were…that you wouldn’t…”
“You’re not that lucky,” she teases. She jokes, but he can see the smallest glimmer of fear in her face; horrifying as the situation has been for her friends, for him, it must be a thousand times worse for her. She has always been the strongest of them, or at least appears to be. To see her in such a state is not an easy thing for any of them.
Fenris shakes his head, expression deadly serious. “No. No, I am the luckiest man in all of Thedas.”
Her face falls, and she tightens her grip on his hand. He cannot remember seeing her so serious in recent memory, not since her mother died a few months earlier. They haven’t discussed anything since their last kiss, since he came to comfort her after what the mage did; but just now, as they hold desperately to one another’s hands and he pushes the hair out of her face, they both begin to understand exactly what is transpiring between them.
He has no way of knowing what was going on in her head, but he has to assume (or at least hope) that it is something similar to what is going on in his.
He loves her. He is in love with her. Deeply, wholly, desperately in love with her. So much that it frightens him. He couldn’t stop even if he wanted to — and he is shocked to find that he does not.
“Will you stay?” She whispers, her voice uncharacteristically small. It is not often that she gets serious, but she always seems more hesitant when she does, less master of the world. He is one of the only people who has seen her this way, and the thought makes his heart lurch. “Not forever, I know you need to get home, but…for now? Just a while longer?”
He gives an immediate, “Of course I will. I am not going anywhere.”
“Promise?”
“I swear it.”
Rowan smiles. He’s given her plenty of reason to doubt him, but she seems convinced that he will make good on his word. She allows her eyes to drift closed once more, no doubt exhausted from the injury. Even still, she does not take her hand away from Fenris’. Whether consciously or not, she turns her head and nuzzles in close to him, resting her head on his lap.
He says nothing, just reaches down to run his free hand through her hair. Her warmth fills the space between them, her scent greeting him like an old friend, and he allows himself the smallest of smiles.
He means what he said. He will stay here forever, if she wishes him to. He would not complain.