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He used to think he hated his lyrium, but compared to the Red it’s become like an old friend. In his more lucid moments he thinks he can feel the last vestiges of it withstanding the Red’s invasion, refusing to lay down and die. He wishes he had the same strength of spirit.
Men in triangular robes of ostentatiously Tevinter styling surround him in a circle, gleeful in their smug self satisfaction. He will not be devoured by the Red, they assure the inhuman shape towering over the ritual, he will not become like those mournful creatures dragging their giant crystalline limbs behind them. The Red will be completely contained within the lines of lyrium. He knows it to be true: he cannot feel the plague within his own flesh, only where the markings are grafted. It's a small comfort for it doesn't keep out the Void-begotten song. The discordant cacophony that drowns out his thoughts and leaves him beyond even the ability to speak much of the time.
He is by Master’s side again, or perhaps he'd never left. It feels as if the ritual was only just completed, yet he has fleeting thoughts of balmy jungles and stowing away in the bellies of ships. They seem more dream than memory and they burn him like hot coals if he holds onto them for too long. Master is also not how he thought, tall and imposing more like when he was a child. A strange thought as he could not recall being a child. It is just the Red coiling through his head, mixing up imagination and recollection, though perhaps some lost fragments of memory are whisked along the flow that gradually erodes his mind. It's a salient revelation that soon escapes him.
Master speaks of claiming the fabled Black City like the Magisters of old. It seems impossible to him but he barely has the wherewithal to question it even in the privacy of his own mind. In the end he is but a tool to be used for Master’s endeavors.
She brushes his hair aside, fingers tracing the three dots on his forehead.
“Still blue,” she remarks distractedly.
He stares at the gap in her teeth for it wouldn’t do to look a Magister in the eyes. He finds himself unable to place her but she must be one of the Master’s many apprentices. He knows that Master once had many at one time. But that feels like someone else's memory, someone younger, someone unmarred.
She continues to speak but he can no longer hear her over a swell of the discordant song. Even without seeing her eyes he can feel her pity, and though she avoids him most the time when she speaks to him it is often with gentleness. He can sense there is something about him casting shadows of doubt about Master in her mind, but it can't much concern him. He wonders where Hadriana has gone, he feels there is a reason she isn't present and will not return but can't grasp the memory through the Red. Good riddance either way.
A dwarf recognizes him at the invasion of Haven and he feels he should recognize him in return given the sheer look of horror on the man's face. It isn’t the sort of expression worn by one facing down an unknown enemy. As if to confirm his suspicions the dwarf calls out his name but he doesn't heed it. The constant noise of the Red pulsates in his head and he tamps down his disordered thoughts, focusing again on the mission Master has given him.
It only takes an instant but it's like a blindfold has been removed from over his eyes. Panic floods his system as he takes in the gnarled, claw-like fingers, the clothing fused to skin, the wrong colored eyes. The abomination before him is not Danarius. He feels he’s realized this several times before yet somehow has forgotten. He scolds himself for wishing it were Danarius, but better the demon you know than the demon you don’t. He has no time to ponder it further as the creature takes notice of his naked dread, cages his head with its claws and unleashes its repulsive, pitch-like magic. The Red responds, becoming almost a scream, and he forgets again.
They call it the Temple of Mythal. Glistening mosaics stretch high above him depicting figures with slender frames and pointed ears. A past glory he has no interest in of a people he can barely relate to rotting in the Wilds. He ignores the ancient portraits as he makes his way toward the elven relic that Master has sent them here to capture. He is told he has been made ready to be a vessel for its power, and after master has made use of it perhaps then he can finally rest. For this is the purpose he was made for Master tells him.
As he walks through the clearing he hears a voice calling his name, the dwarf from before. He ignores it, too hard to think, but then a second voice accompanies the first. It briefly stops him in his tracks, his heart hammering in his chest. He should know this voice, with each call he feels the sound tugging at him, pulling him away from his purpose. He forces himself to continue on without turning to look.
The relic is gone, Master is vanquished, furious. He is given no new orders, the Red’s song is thundering in his mind, the sour mockery of a melody ravaging his senses. He hits the wet grass unable to move forward any longer.
A large hand lightly slaps the side of his face, a strong arm is wrapped around his shoulders holding him upright. He stirs and opens his eyes, the face before him swimming into focus. It's a man he should know. A man from another life, a future life that nonetheless feels so long ago.
“Fenris!” The man cries, “Fenris stay with me, please.”
A smile tugs at his cracked lips. He feels content, suddenly. Whole. Even the queasy noise of the Red is quieted by the warmth radiating from his heart.
“Hawke,” he croaks, barely above a whisper.
“Just stay with me,” Hawke says again, “We’ll get you better. Everything is going to be alright!”
“I believe you,” Fenris mutters, still smiling as his eyes drift closed.
It feels like an ordeal has just ended. Amongst the sour notes a clear and pure tone grows stronger: his lyrium still battling to overcome the plague. He lets the darkness take him so that he can at last rest for a time.