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Bartrand’s betrayal brought the light-hearted mood of their journey to an abrupt end, as though the confident, ignorant haze they’d been buoyed by had come crashing to the ground along with the ceiling.
The four of them walked in tense silence, none of them wanting to ask the question in the air, or to hear the answer. Anders led the way with the copies of the maps he had thought to keep in his pack. Just in case, he had said.
When they could not walk anymore, they made camp, and grimly pooled and inventoried the supplies they had among them. It wasn’t much. If they made it, it would be by a razor thin margin. There would be no room for error. Anders took the maps to his bedroll to pore over them - checking and double checking the route. Hawke volunteered for first watch in an obvious bid to be alone, stalking off to slump heavily against a ruined column some feet away.
Fenris did not look at Varric - he could offer the man that much. They sat by the fire unspeaking, listening to the rumble of distant stone and their own ominous thoughts.
“Go rest,” Fenris said quietly after a while. “I will take watch with her.”
Varric rose to his feet with an uncharacteristic, weary weight; it made Fenris uneasy.
“If my bastard brother tries to kill us again, come get me.”
“And how about darkspawn?”
“Ah, well. Nah. You two can handle that.”
Fenris smiled, thin, accepting the jest as the apology he knew it was. Varric walked off towards where Anders lay, and Fenris was alone with the fire and the dark shape of Hawke some feet away.
He set about preparing their packs, coaxed the fire low, worried at the gash on his leg (a souvenir of the cavern collapse), adjusted the fastenings on all his gear - and then, finally, he padded over to where Hawke sat.
She was leaned against a hunk of ruined sculpture, one knee up, one leg pulled close underneath her. Her head was tilted back against the rock, and if not for the eerie light of the cavern, anywhere else she might have looked casual. Under any other circumstances.
She flicked a glance up at him, then back at where she’d been staring: one of the bright blue lyrium deposits on a far wall across the cavern. She made half a gesture with her hand that he took as an invitation to sit. He eased himself down and leaned against the hard stone, pulling one knee up to mimic her posture. The rock was cool on the back of his neck.
“I’m furious,” she spat, and then chuckled darkly. “That’s all, that’s the big news.”
He laughed with no humour, all breath. “I can’t imagine why.”
“I didn't want to be angry in front of Varric,” she continued, “I don’t want him to think I’ll hold this against him. But Maker’s breath, I will kill his bloody brother.”
“I respect your inclination towards discretion, although I gather Varric is angry too.”
She snorted gracelessly, and brushed her uneven hair out of her eyes. “Yes. But Bartrand is still his brother. I know I snipe at Carver, but...” She trailed off.
“Carver has less-than-admirable qualities, but has not tried to kill us,” Fenris mused. “For all we yet know, Bartrand may have succeeded.” He angled slightly toward her to offer a grim smile, which she returned.
“I certainly hope not. I’d really not dreamed of dying unceremoniously in a cave.”
Fenris raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And how had you dreamed of dying?”
She was uncomfortably silent then, spending more time thinking on the joke than he had expected her to. When she met his eyes again she looked weary, and her words were serious.
“I suppose I assumed for a long time I’d probably settle down and die in Lothering. Not of the Blight, of course.” She grimaced. “I guess I need to revise my plan.”
Hawke, growing old and windworn in a provincial village. He was unsure of exactly what Lothering was like, but had a fair guess. A swath of farmland laced with famous Fereldan mud. Wooden cottages and dry trees and... vegetables?
It was difficult to reconcile the picture of a quiet life with what he knew of her: all ferocity and flirtation. Perhaps there had been a tavern like the Hanged Man - hopefully nicer - but with the same music she liked, crowing out the windows into the dusty nights. He imagined her laughing in the strong arms of some strapping Fereldan. A farmer? A blacksmith? Or leaned close to a blushing someone, whispering tenderness, fingers laced under a tavern table. Anyone Hawke might have chosen in that other life was probably dead. He frowned.
Kirkwall is my home now, she had said to him that night in the manor. My family is here. Leandra, Carver, Gamlen. And Aveline, he knew. Varric of course, and Isabela. Merrill and Anders. And, he supposed, Fenris. Kirkwall is my home now, and he was startled to find the thought might have been his own.
“Plenty of options to be killed in Lowtown,” he suggested. She grinned.
“Please. We better be filthy spoiled rich when we get back. If I die in that city, it’ll be in Hightown at least.”
“Certainly. At the Rose, perhaps?”
She stifled a surprised, honest laugh, and grinned rakishly at him, eyes teasing.
“What is it the Orlesians say? Le petit mort?”
Hawke looked back ahead at the distant wall, watching the ripple of light from the lyrium ore play on the cracked stone. Soft pulses shimmered gently through the veins in the rock.
“Can you do that?” she asked dryly.
He huffed a laugh, and brought a hand up against his raised knee where they both could see it.
“Not on purpose,” he said. “If I am startled, I suppose, or touched by magic. Intentionally, I can really only...” He finished the sentence by igniting the lyrium in his fingers to its full, deadly brightness.
She nodded, and turned her gaze back ahead as he let it fade. “Terribly pretty,” she remarked, her eyes on the flickering stone.
He brought his hand back to his lap. After a silent minute she spoke again.
“We don’t have many potions or bandages, and we have a long way to go. Someone will need to tend to your wounds.”
He frowned, hearing the question she had not asked. Magic. “You have healed me in battle before.”
She raised an eyebrow, and smiled lightly, doubtful. “You don’t seem to love it.”
“I have found I prefer it over bleeding out.”
Hawke gestured lazily towards the matted blood on the dark fabric of his leggings.
“Shall I take care of that now then?”
He hesitated a moment, then acquiesced, sitting up straighter and laying his leg out so she could get at the inside of his calf. She turned her body to face him and leaned over the gash, appraising it.
“Nasty place, the Deep Roads. I do see why Anders got sick of them.”
He hummed agreement, and watched her study the wound. She looked up at him through her dark lashes, eyes as blue as the lyrium in the walls. Terribly pretty, she’d said of the stone, and he supposed that might be true.
“Look, I’ve been avoiding it, but I’ve got to ask. Your markings, do they hurt?” Her eyes were unusually earnest, and she worried at her bottom lip with her teeth. He swallowed.
“The agony of receiving them faded long ago. The memory lingers. And they exacerbate other pains.”
“And magic? When I've been healing you in battle? Has that been... I mean, it is lyrium, isn't it.” The last was not a question; her gaze wandered away from the injury to take in the markings visible elsewhere, as though really seeing them for the first time - his feet, his arms. She did not look at his face. “Maker,” she cursed in a whisper, and he looked away.
“It is lyrium,” he affirmed sourly. “Magic is amplified. Healing does not hurt.” She did not say anything, so he added, "Do refrain from setting me on fire."
She snorted, and pushed a hand through her hair, easing back a little.
"And, touch? Just, in a general way?"
He sought the words, self-conscious, thinking of all the excuses she’d been making to touch him lately. "Sharp? Sensitive. Fine, when not a surprise.”
Odd, to describe these sensations aloud, as simple truths about himself. In what memories he had, he held their painful origins - the history of touch that had taught him how to feel in his skin. Every lash, every press, every strike. But of course, she knew only what he told her now: his preferences. Odd to be asked, and to answer.
And odd, too, to welcome touch now - but he did, an undeniable warmth blooming in his chest as she reached for him. She placed a hand against his knee, carefully holding the slice in the fabric open with her fingers, then reached down with her other hand to trace along the torn flesh. He felt the hush of cool magic spill into him, lighting the lines in his leg and sending a pleasant chill through him. He shivered into it, and sighed, leaning his head back on the stone. Watching her do this felt uncomfortable, improper somehow; looking away helped distract him from the sudden, alarming intimacy of the moment. The lyrium did amplify magic - and the thrumming pleasure of being healed was not an exception. The cool rush of energy, a prickling through his limbs, the ghost of her fingertips across his flesh.
He tried not to think about how good it felt, or how easy he had found it to allow an apostate close enough to do it.
The apostate had made it extremely easy. He had learned that Hawke was too vicious to be capable of duplicity, too idealistic for any malice, too stubborn to be weak. How swiftly she had whirled into his life and forged trust out of chaos - out of less than nothing - hammering it into steel before he knew it had happened.
Thinking about all that fire under her heels, and amid the fury and fear of their current predicament, it was disarming to find himself in this gentle moment with her. Strange to see her like this.
Fenris hadn't intended to say that last part out loud - but he did, and she scoffed.
"And what is that supposed to mean? Strange to see me like what?”
He thought for a long beat, and then suggested, "Quiet.”
That got a laugh, unsteadying her fingers; he felt the magic slip sideways, which brought another shiver through him, light blooming up his leg. He heard her sharp intake of breath before she steadied herself.
"You know, I’ve actually been healing longer than anything else,” she remarked casually, re-adjusting her hands. The ache opened inside his chest again as she pressed deeper into him. He wondered absently if he had any other wounds she could take a look at. Maybe he would ask Varric to shoot him. "Fenris, are you listening?”
“Yes,” he lied. “You were speaking of healing?”
“It was the first thing my father taught us. He thought the principles - focus and all that - would come in handy when learning more dangerous things. Help us keep control."
"And did it help?"
“Well, I don't know. It certainly helped me hide when Carver and I had been fighting."
He breathed a laugh, but thinking about Carver again made him think about Bartrand, and he guessed the same for her as they fell into an uneasy silence. He stared up at the high cavern ceiling as her healing seeped into him, then slowed, then withdrew entirely. He sat up as she pulled her hands away, and assessed his leg. A faint, neat mark remained where the wound had been.
"Thank you, Hawke," he said, flexing the muscle, tracing the line with his own fingers now. "This will certainly make the journey easier."
"Thank you," came her reply, and Fenris looked up at her, surprised. Hawke smiled at him seriously, and offered her hand, palm up. He hesitated only a moment before reaching out to take it.
She gave his hand a friendly squeeze, and let it go - just a fraction more tender than a handshake. The electricity that ran through his fingers lingered for a moment, and was not at all unpleasant. He wondered if it was still the magic.
"I am furious," she said simply, "and honestly, I am afraid. So it’s good to have people I can trust at my back."
Fenris had no words for just how much he understood that feeling.
"We will return to Kirkwall," he said instead.
"I know," she replied, sounding for all the world like she did believe it. "Get some sleep, Fenris, I'll wake you in a bit."
He obliged her, settling his head back on the rock and crossing his arms; he closed his eyes and tried to rest, listening to the low hum of the cavern, and Hawke's quiet rustling as she shifted next to him.
When sleep took him, he dreamt of Lothering. Greyer, than he'd pictured it. Drab and brown and the dry crunch of dead grass, and the bars of someone else's cage, and the cry of someone else's child, and an argument on a footbridge - and when he woke some hours later, he woke cold.
- & -
The journey was miserable, and very, very long.
- & -
“I have heard that Grey Wardens dream strange things.” Fenris had broken off from Varric and Hawke, who were trailing a small distance behind, embroiled in their own conversation.
Anders grunted an affirmative, but said nothing. His long hair was matted and falling free from its loose tie. He looked like Fenris felt.
“Is this true?” Fenris pressed.
“Yes. There are awful dreams. Darkspawn, mostly. The archdemon, apparently, during a Blight - but I joined up after that whole business was over.” Anders narrowed his eyes, casting Fenris a sideways glance. “Why?”
“Do the Deep Roads strengthen these dreams?”
“Why?” Anders asked again, more severely.
“I have been dreaming things, here,” Fenris admitted.
“Darkspawn things?”
“Sometimes. Not usually. Other things, other places. Just glimpses, or... a feeling,” he reflected. “It is different than I am accustomed to. More.”
Anders mulled that over for a minute.
“These are old places. I won’t dare to pretend I understand the extent of what goes on down here,” he said. And then he snapped, “I don’t want to. I left that life behind on purpose.”
“Indeed. It is a dreadful place.”
And on that, if nothing else, they could agree.
- & -
“Feels good to be killing darkspawn,” Hawke remarked to Varric, as they rested after the latest battle. Fenris sat some ways away, carefully cleaning tainted blood off his sword.
“Oh yeah? You aiming to be the next Hero of Fereldan, Hawke?”
She laughed, and shook her head as she stood into a stretch.
“Just feels right. For Bethany, you know? And Wesley.”
Her sister, Fenris reminded himself. And Aveline’s husband. Familial vengeance, then - not a surprise from her.
“Hey, if you’re taking requests,” Varric said slyly, “I’ve got someone you could put on your hit list.”
She grinned, and clapped a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “Of course. Bartrand can get in line behind Danarius.”
Fenris’ hand stilled on his blade.
She walked off, Anders calling after her about whether there might be room in the queue for the Knight-Commander. But Fenris did not hear that, lost as he was in the sudden arrival of his heart in his ears, and an inexorably alluring vision: the arc of Hawke’s staff slicing through ostentatious robes, a cruel laugh cut short and sputtering, and blue, blue eyes wild with righteous violence in his defense.
- & -
The demon loomed above, wretched and ravenous, the exposed bones of its cavernous open ribs splayed out like a threat beneath hulking rocky shoulders. Fenris, even exhausted as he was, did not miss the way it swiveled its gaze to fix immediately on Hawke.
“I know the old paths, the forgotten roads,” it crooned, voice rumbling in the ground and in their minds. “And I feel your want. And your potential. I would make you a bargain. I can return you home, little one, for but a moment of your time.”
Hawke laughed, and spit, and swung the bladed end of her staff up into its eye.
- & -
“How about these?” Varric held up two jewel encrusted tiaras, dangling them off a finger from each hand. “They’re light, and the stones are real. Worth the ‘sell’ pile, I think.”
“Sell,” murmured Hawke from where she lay propped up against the cavern wall, pointing up at one of them weakly. Then, to the other, “And that one’s for me.”
Varric clambered stiffly down from the pile of gold he stood atop, and gingerly placed one tiara on the top of Hawke’s head, before launching the second into their growing pile of loot.
Fenris was packing the collected items into the empty space their dwindling rations had left in their packs. This was either the luckiest day of their lives, or the first step of their extremely ironic demise, pockets laden down with more gold than he could ever have imagined in his life, and no food. But that was for Anders and his maps to decide.
They were near-starved, delirious, and beaten half to hell by demons and darkspawn and the interminable walking. Hawke was nursing the last rationed third of their final lyrium potion to try and coax her strength back. When she caught Fenris’ wandering gaze, she nodded at him to come over.
“How are we looking?”
He knelt beside her, letting her peer into the pack he carried, nearly full with treasure.
“I could not begin to guess at the value. I shall leave the appraisal to the experts.” He nodded back to Varric, who was picking over the next pile.
Hawke hummed approvingly, and pointed into the bag to a goblet full of rings.
“New bracers for Aveline, I’d say.”
The side of Fenris’ mouth quirked upward slightly. He plucked the tiara off her head and added it to the pack.
“Seventeen rounds at the Hanged Man.”
“I’m going to hire,” she was laughing now, skimming her fingers through bracelets, baubles, like it was rice, like it was sand, “I’m going to hire someone to clean your entire sodden house.”
“You shall do no such thing.”
“And I am going to buy my mother’s house.” She closed her eyes, and suddenly laid her head against his shoulder. “Oh, Fenris, if we live we’re going to be neighbours.”
He flinched when the weight of her fell onto him, and she pulled away immediately, sitting up.
“Lyrium. Sorry. I’ll remember,” she mumbled, and any chagrin he might have felt at his own reaction, or her withdrawing, was quietly smothered by gladness.
That she cared enough not to touch him seemed worth more than anything in the glittering pile.
“Let us endeavour to live, then.”