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[Drabble] Title or something
Dec. 20th, 2014 02:40 amHERE BE INQUISITION SPOILERS - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED
Fenris had been enjoying the life he'd set up for himself. Certainly, he would have rather been with Hawke, but the Champion was insistent that he move away for a while. Hawke always was too worried about others being targeted for their sake. Or, more likely, Fenris giving his own life to defend Hawke's. It was something he made no secret about being true, and thus, he was living this exiled life, away. Until things died down, anyway.
Fenris still got letters, of course, and now he could read for himself (easily the greatest gift Hawke has ever given him) he could enjoy sitting by his fire, in the small hut he'd fashioned for himself, pouring over tales from his friends of an evening. Hawke wrote often, as did Varric. On occasion, he got one from Isabella, enjoying her life on the high seas once more, or more sedate tales from Aveline, keeping Kirkwall as safe as she could. From Anders and Merrill, Fenris heard nothing, and he liked it just fine that way. Sebastian - well, that had rather gone sour. If Aveline's letters were anything to go by, their once friend was now a very serious threat to a city who needed no more. Pity, he'd always liked Sebastian.
He'd been happily tearing apart Tevinter slavers, fending them off a small family of refugees on the day he found the letter. He'd returned home, his muscles aching from a good fight, hard fought, a small pastry in his hand, a gift forced upon him by people who could not afford to lose the food, but could afford to lose their dignity in refusing to thank the elf who saved them even less. Fenris had mumbled his thanks and gone on his way. The letter was attached to his door, waiting for him.
Fenris recognised Varric's handwriting and smiled to himself, plucking the letter off the door and letting himself in. The dwarf had gotten himself into more trouble lately, and Fenris was vaguely amused by the tales Varric had to tell about the Inquisition and the rag tag members within it. He placed his pastry on the table and opened the parchment.
Fenris.
Already, Fenris knew something was wrong. Varric never addressed him by name in his letters. Usually it was 'Elf', or 'Broody', and one time (when he'd suspected the dwarf had had a little too much to drink) 'Ser GrouchyElf the Third'. Never Fenris. He felt his hands tighten on the parchment, crumpling it lightly under his fingertips.
Shit. I've written this a thousand times already and I can't make it any easier. It's Hawke.
Fenris read on. Varric spoke of the Inquisition, of the return of Corypheus (who, it turned out, was not as dead as they originally thought) of Hawke offering aide. He spoke, of the Grey Wardens becoming corrupted. Fenris did not find that surprising. The only Grey Warden he truly had experience with was Anders, and he did nothing to give them a good reputation in the elf's eyes. Varric continued on, speaking of an archdemon, of a rip in the veil, of the Fade.
He spoke of a choice made by someone whom knew Hawke only fleetingly. Who never spent any true time by the Champion's side, who only knew Hawke as a brief ally, someone to fight alongside in what was to be a short and uneventful battle. Hawke was supposed to get the job done, and return. Hawke was supposed to...
Hawke's dead.
No.
I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.
No.
I know how much you meant to each other. I wish I could take it all away, but I can't. It's bullshit, and I can't. I'm sorry.
Fenris' hands had tightened so much, a tear had appeared in the corner of the parchment. With an angry yell, as if that was the cause of everything, of all the boiling, bubbling emotions swirling inside of him, the earth beneath him threatening to give way at any second. He ripped the letter in half, crumpling it and throwing it across the room, the scream of rage and loss erupting from him like a volcano. He released his always barely restrained anger upon his hut, chairs were kicked over, tables upturned, dishes smashed against the wall, all while Fenris screamed until he was hoarse.
Only when the energy had drained out of him did he stop and carefully pick up the letter again. He placed the parts together, almost reverently, and read the words again, letting them sink in, as his heart sank into the dark pit it had once inhabited so long ago. How it was before Hawke came, and changed his life forever by being someone he could rely on on, someone who understood him, who would be his safety rope, always ready to pull him out of the darkness.
That rope was gone. Hawke was gone. Now, his heart was well and truly a broken, useless thing.
If you need anything, let me know. Hell, come to Skyhold if you want to. I don't know. Let me help you.
But Fenris knew he was beyond help. He didn't care any more. For the first time since those awful days as Danarius' pet, all he wanted to do was curl up and stop existing. I couldn't bear the thought of living without you. He'd told Hawke that, once.
We'll get through this mess. -Varric
It was only then that Fenris let himself cry.
Fenris had been enjoying the life he'd set up for himself. Certainly, he would have rather been with Hawke, but the Champion was insistent that he move away for a while. Hawke always was too worried about others being targeted for their sake. Or, more likely, Fenris giving his own life to defend Hawke's. It was something he made no secret about being true, and thus, he was living this exiled life, away. Until things died down, anyway.
Fenris still got letters, of course, and now he could read for himself (easily the greatest gift Hawke has ever given him) he could enjoy sitting by his fire, in the small hut he'd fashioned for himself, pouring over tales from his friends of an evening. Hawke wrote often, as did Varric. On occasion, he got one from Isabella, enjoying her life on the high seas once more, or more sedate tales from Aveline, keeping Kirkwall as safe as she could. From Anders and Merrill, Fenris heard nothing, and he liked it just fine that way. Sebastian - well, that had rather gone sour. If Aveline's letters were anything to go by, their once friend was now a very serious threat to a city who needed no more. Pity, he'd always liked Sebastian.
He'd been happily tearing apart Tevinter slavers, fending them off a small family of refugees on the day he found the letter. He'd returned home, his muscles aching from a good fight, hard fought, a small pastry in his hand, a gift forced upon him by people who could not afford to lose the food, but could afford to lose their dignity in refusing to thank the elf who saved them even less. Fenris had mumbled his thanks and gone on his way. The letter was attached to his door, waiting for him.
Fenris recognised Varric's handwriting and smiled to himself, plucking the letter off the door and letting himself in. The dwarf had gotten himself into more trouble lately, and Fenris was vaguely amused by the tales Varric had to tell about the Inquisition and the rag tag members within it. He placed his pastry on the table and opened the parchment.
Already, Fenris knew something was wrong. Varric never addressed him by name in his letters. Usually it was 'Elf', or 'Broody', and one time (when he'd suspected the dwarf had had a little too much to drink) 'Ser GrouchyElf the Third'. Never Fenris. He felt his hands tighten on the parchment, crumpling it lightly under his fingertips.
Fenris read on. Varric spoke of the Inquisition, of the return of Corypheus (who, it turned out, was not as dead as they originally thought) of Hawke offering aide. He spoke, of the Grey Wardens becoming corrupted. Fenris did not find that surprising. The only Grey Warden he truly had experience with was Anders, and he did nothing to give them a good reputation in the elf's eyes. Varric continued on, speaking of an archdemon, of a rip in the veil, of the Fade.
He spoke of a choice made by someone whom knew Hawke only fleetingly. Who never spent any true time by the Champion's side, who only knew Hawke as a brief ally, someone to fight alongside in what was to be a short and uneventful battle. Hawke was supposed to get the job done, and return. Hawke was supposed to...
No.
No.
Fenris' hands had tightened so much, a tear had appeared in the corner of the parchment. With an angry yell, as if that was the cause of everything, of all the boiling, bubbling emotions swirling inside of him, the earth beneath him threatening to give way at any second. He ripped the letter in half, crumpling it and throwing it across the room, the scream of rage and loss erupting from him like a volcano. He released his always barely restrained anger upon his hut, chairs were kicked over, tables upturned, dishes smashed against the wall, all while Fenris screamed until he was hoarse.
Only when the energy had drained out of him did he stop and carefully pick up the letter again. He placed the parts together, almost reverently, and read the words again, letting them sink in, as his heart sank into the dark pit it had once inhabited so long ago. How it was before Hawke came, and changed his life forever by being someone he could rely on on, someone who understood him, who would be his safety rope, always ready to pull him out of the darkness.
That rope was gone. Hawke was gone. Now, his heart was well and truly a broken, useless thing.
But Fenris knew he was beyond help. He didn't care any more. For the first time since those awful days as Danarius' pet, all he wanted to do was curl up and stop existing. I couldn't bear the thought of living without you. He'd told Hawke that, once.
It was only then that Fenris let himself cry.