Chapter Text
The elves were bickering again.
Varric suppressed a long-suffering sigh. He wasn't worried–Merrill and Fenris got into it every now and then–but it had been a long enough day without hearing Fenris call Merrill a witch, again, and Merrill then defending her witchery, again. They could at least come up with some new insults, Varric thought. He looked ahead to Hawke. Normally he would leave them to it and start his own conversation with her. They might even take bets on who would win; but he could immediately tell that Hawke wasn't in the mood. Stress had bunched up in her shoulder muscles, her gait had become more intentional, her steps heavier.
“You mages would destroy yourselves and everyone around you–and for what?” Fenris said loudly. Hawke came to a prompt halt.
Well, shit, Varric thought.
“Then turn me in.” Hawke's words were quiet, her tone dangerously even. The party quieted. Fenris and Merrill's argument came to an abrupt halt.
“Hawke,” Varric began. His voice was cautious, as if he were trying to disarm a particularly delicate trap. He reached for her hand, but Hawke had already turned away. She walked toward Fenris, her demeanor deceptively casual, but Varric could see how her hand shook before balling tightly into a fist. He followed after and flicked a quick glance Merrill's way. Would they need to intervene? He doubted it, but it didn't hurt to exercise some extra caution. Hawke had been off lately, a little wan and rougher around the edges since Fenris had broken things off. Varric may have been the only one of their friends who knew the whole truth of what had happened, but they'd all noticed that something was amiss. Merrill reached out to touch Hawke's arm, but appeared to think better of it at the last second. She and Varric stood motionless, waiting and watching. Hawke tilted her chin to look Fenris in the eye. To his credit, the elf didn't look away.
“If you think I'm a monster, then turn me in to the templars,” Hawke repeated. Her tone betrayed nothing, but her eyes; Varric had known Hawke long enough to see the hurt there. He suspected Fenris could see it as well, as the elf's look of righteous indignation slowly dissolved into one of shame. He was the first to look away. A moment passed as Hawke held her stare in silence. Finally, she too turned away. Someone else might have mistaken her face for the picture of quiet rage, but Varric could see the glassy-eyed look of impending tears. She was locking her emotions in tight; he knew she'd rather catch fire than let anyone see her cry.
“I'm headed home,” Hawke announced, immediately shattering the tension around them. Without looking back, she lifted her hand in a casual goodbye, and made her way toward hightown.
“Oh dear,” Merrill whispered, “She's very upset, should we go after her?”
“I don't think that's wise, Daisy. Best to let her cool off,” Varric replied. “I pity any poor sap that gives her trouble on her way home tonight,” he added, more to himself than to the others. The three stood for another beat. They didn't look at one another, they didn't speak. Fenris abruptly turned away and walked wordlessly toward hightown.
“Is he going after her?” Merrill whispered.
“Not if he's smart,” Varric muttered. “Come on, Daisy, I'll walk you home.”
-
“Hawke?!” Fenris roared. The lyrium in his skin burned bright with fury, and the pain pushed him forward. Fenris charged through stone corridors and barred cell doors, his greatsword held aloft. He would cut down anyone, mage or templar, who blocked his path.
“Hawke!” His throat burned with her name. He had to find her, he had to get her out. Fenris sped around another corner, and again was greeted with only cold stone walls. “Hawke!” he panted, and turned down another corridor. He would get her out of here. They would escape the Gallows, and then he and Hawke would flee the city and never look back at damnable Kirkwall.
But he needed to find her first.
The Gallows were labyrinthine; no matter what passage he took he found only empty corridors.
I can't stop. I need to find her.
Fenris rounded another corner and at long last came upon a change of scenery. Finally he had found himself somewhere . This wasn't some forgotten catacomb but a room, with sunlight streaming down from lofty windows. The ground floor , Fenris realized with a rush. He was in the Gallows proper, now. If Hawke–a capable mage–were to be anywhere, it must be here. Fenris surveyed the room, and his heart leapt as his eyes fell on a woman pulling down books from a shelf. Even with her back turned to him, he knew her broad shoulders, her mane of thick black hair that gleamed like spilled ink in the sunlight. He lowered his sword and rushed toward her.
“Hawke,” Fenris called, quietly, urgently. “Hawke, come on. I'm getting you out of here.” He closed the distance in a few short strides. His hand grasped her shoulder, and he was relieved to feel her warm and solid under his palm. It was going to be alright. He had found her. He had finally managed to find Hawke and she was alive, she was unharmed, she– Fenris’ breath caught once Hawke's face came into view, the skin of her forehead marked by the angry red brand of the chantry.
This couldn't be. This wasn't right. Fenris blinked, looked at her more closely.
It must be a mistake, a trick of the light. They wouldn't have, she couldn't be–
“Hawke?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Fenris forced his eyes from the raised red skin upon her brow. He made himself focus on her eyes. They were the same icy blue, alert, alive. Fenris shook his head in disbelief. But they were empty, impassive–
Tranquil.
“Messere Fenris, hello,” she said. It was her voice that Fenris heard, but nothing else. There was no joy, no relief or sorrow or fear; the words dropped listlessly from her mouth.
Fenris’ sword hit the stone floor with a clatter. He reached forward, careful to keep his sharp gauntlets from scratching her skin, and cupped Hawke's face in his hands. She didn't smile, or blush, or flinch. Her expression remained excruciatingly vacant, and Fenris felt his gorge rise.
“Hawke, no, ” he gasped, “This can't be real.” Suddenly the air felt too thin for him to breathe. The room seemed to tighten around him, smaller and smaller. “Please, this can't be real,” he begged. He searched her face for something, anything. He brushed a lock of hair from her face as if somehow, if he looked hard enough, he might find his Hawke hiding behind this now empty visage.
“The Knight Commander was grateful for your report, messere. As an apostate, I was a danger both to myself and to the citizens of Kirkwall. Now that I am tranquil, I pose no such risk.”
No, this wasn't right. He wouldn't have, couldn't have–
‘Then turn me in.’ Fenris heard Hawke's words echo through his head.
I did this.
The realization made Fenris recoil as if struck. His hands flinched away from Hawke's face, his shock and revulsion making him clumsy. One metal-clad finger snagged the skin of her cheek and blood welled in the cut, dripping slowly down her placid face.
‘Then turn me in,’ Fenris heard Hawke's words echo through his thoughts; repeating, growing louder until his ears rang with Hawke's voice. He watched in horror as blood flowed freely down Hawke's cheek, down her chin, pooling on the Gallows’ marble floor. Fenris stumbled back.
“I wouldn't!” he cried, “I won't!”
He was falling, Hawke's unperturbed face growing further away, losing detail–
Fenris bolted upright in bed. A scream died on his lips, cut short by his waking. A sheen of sweat covered his body and made his sheets stick uncomfortably to his skin. He raked a hand through his sweat-damp hair, forced himself to breathe, to quiet the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears.
“I won't,” Fenris whispered into the empty dark; breathed slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth.
He needed to apologize.