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theharellan · 4 years ago

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Solas Fan Banter

Here’s a compilation of the fan banter I’ve written over the years between Solas and other canon Dragon Age characters, posted for Dragon Age Day 2020. There are references to a canon divergent Solas/nb!Lavellan companion romance. I’ve regretfully not written any Iron Bull banter that I’m proud enough of to feature here, but if anyone has any suggestions for topics I’d be glad to hear them.

Featured characters: Solas, Cassandra, Varric, Sera, Blackwall, Vivienne, Dorian, Cole, Morrigan, Cullen, Leliana, Valta, Renn, and Arcane Advisor Merrill!

Solas & Cassandra

(after receiving the quest Agrarian Apostate)

Cassandra: And he was not even a mage. Shameful. Solas: Would have it been justified if he was? Cassandra: The Templars have sanction to punish apostates. It would not have been beyond their authority. Solas: I would not call that justified, merely legal. Cassandra: The Templars should be better. Solas: The Chantry armed them and gave them an enemy. That might fuel an army, but will only serve to poison their minds against innocent people, apostates or no.

Solas & Varric

(after killing the Templars during the quest Agrarian Apostate)

Varric: I thought at least away from Kirkwall I could get away from crazy Templars. Solas: You believe they were mad? The men I saw were no different from those who confronted us in Val Royeaux.

(after delivering the ring)

Solas: She seems to be holding up well, considering. Varric: Yeah, but I know a front when I see one. Solas: You believe she was suffering more than she let on? Varric: Oh, I know it, Chuckles. That ring might comfort her when the country gets too quiet, but it won’t dry her tears or– shit, do much else, really. Solas: Some wounds only time heal. Varric: And they always seem to leave ugly scars.

(after beginning Here Lies the Abyss)

Solas: You found Hawke after all. Varric: Oh, you know. All those heroics jogged my memory. Solas: Naturally. Varric: What, you going to lay into me, too? Solas: No, no. I understand why you hesitated. (if Hawke is a mage) Solas: To involve her in a Chantry organisation would not have been wise, at least before it had a chance to prove itself. (otherwise) Solas: Given her involvement in this war, I can only imagine there are those on both sides who would blame her for their present predicament. Varric: You mind telling all that to Cassandra? Solas: I would prefer not to.

(after Here Lies the Abyss, if Hawke is left behind)

Solas: I have read your book, you know. The Tale of the Champion. Varric: I don’t know if now’s the best time. Solas: I understand. I only wanted to say that in reading it, I felt your affection for Hawke in every word. I am... sorry, for what happened. Varric: Thanks, Chuckles. Solas: Of course.

(after Here Lies the Abyss, if Hawke survives)

Solas: You said your farewells to Hawke? Varric: Sure did. Sent letters home, debated sending letters to Weisshaupt. The Wardens will need to know the storm coming their way. Solas: You believe Hawke will pose a problem? Varric: Well, maybe not on purpose.

(in the Hissing Wastes, while exploring dwarven ruins)

Varric: I’m surprised you’re not hounding me about how all this makes me feel, Chuckles. Solas: I had thought we established your disinterest. Varric: Yeah, well. I’m thinking about it, anyway. Solas: If you insist. How does this make you feel, Varric? Varric: There’s a tiny part of me that’s really satisfied, you know? Seeing a Paragon of all people living on the Surface, then the rest of me just doesn’t give a shit. Solas: Tradition is a difficult thing to shake, to be conflicted is expected. Do you think our discovery here ought to be shared with Orzammar? Varric: I don’t know about Orzammar, but I can think of a few Surface dwarves who’d be interested in this.

Solas & Sera

Solas: I could not help but notice what you were drawing at breakfast. Sera: What? I wasn’t drawing anything.

(if Sera is romanced)

Solas: You captured our Inquisitor’s likeness well. Sera: Better than you could.

(otherwise)

Solas: There was no mistaking Dagna’s likeness. What were you carrying? Sera: A bowblade. It’s not a thing yet, but if anyone can make one, Widdle can.

Solas: Have you ever given thought to collaborating together on a piece? Sera: Collaber-what? Piece of what? Solas: A painting, or a drawing if you prefer, what medium you decide upon makes little difference to me. Sera: You really think the two of us could work together on anything? Solas: I was under the impression we had been. Sera: That’s different. The Inquisition’s not an ‘us’ thing, or it is, but not us us.

Sera: Say if I wanted to make something with you, what’d we even make? Solas: You ask the question as if there are limitations. Sera: A dragon, then! No, wait, a butt! (beat) Sera: Nothing? Not even a nose wrinkle? Solas: I am not unopposed to the idea. Sera: Ugh, how can you even make butts boring?

Sera: (handing him a drawing) Here, made you something. Solas: What is this? Are those—shoes? Sera: That’s right. One for each toe. You’re welcome.

(After Solas initiates a relationship with Ian)

Sera: So, you and Freckles, huh? Interesting. Solas: Your interest is not my concern. Sera: I always figured you’d wind with someone who’d make the bumping bits matter. Y’know, drop ‘em and rebuild the empire. Solas: It is not the physical product of our love that matters so much as how he makes me feel when I’m with him. Sera: Eugh.

(If Ian is in the party)

Ian: (laughingly) Vhenan, I would choose your words more carefully next time. Solas: Oh. (slightly embarrassed) I did not mean it like that. Sera: Ha! I’ve made him blush. Solas: This is why I didn’t wish to discuss it.

Solas & Blackwall

(While near Ferb’s old fishing pier in the Exalted Plains)

Blackwall: Wonder if the fishing’s good. If we had an hour or two… Solas: Do you consider yourself an angler, Blackwall? Blackwall: I wouldn’t go that far, but I do enjoy the sport of it. Solas: I’ve never considered it a sport. Blackwall: Probably because you’ve never gone fishing just for the fun of it. Next time we make camp, I’ll show you.

Inquisitor: So, how’d your fishing expedition go? Blackwall: You should’ve seen the size of the gar I wrangled. Solas: It was not half as impressive as he believes. Blackwall: He only says that because all’s he caught were minnows. Solas: (scoffs) Inquisitor: So... where is it? Blackwall: We threw it back, of course. Wasn’t like we were going to eat it. Solas: A convenient excuse.

(Along the Storm Coast)

Blackwall: Ever heard of the pale ship that appears on the mists? The Windy Marcher – I think that’s what they called it. Solas: I cannot say I have. Blackwall: An old story, no idea where it started. Must’ve heard it a dozen times in the Free Marches, always a different ending. Solas: As is often the case with legends, the content and moral changes with the teller. Blackwall: One man claimed he’d seen it himself, said the ship was captained by beautiful spirits who’d called him to the sea. Solas: A case of wishful thinking, I assume. Blackwall: He was a bit of a lonely bastard.

(After Revelations)

Solas: You and Cole seem more friendly, of late. Thom: He took some getting used to, but his heart’s in the right place. There’s enough darkness in the world without pushing away the good. Solas: I imagine it was chilling, knowing he could break your cover on a whim. Thom: That did keep me up some nights, yes. Sometimes I wonder why he didn’t say anything. Solas: Perhaps he saw in you what the Inquisitor sees. Thom: Well, I’m grateful. On both counts.

Solas & Vivienne

(After the events of Bring Me the Heart of Snow White)

Solas: I heard the news of Duke De Ghislain’s death. As I understand it, the two of you were close. My condolences for your loss. (if the Inquisitor gave Vivienne a regular wyvern’s heart) Vivienne: (coldly) There was a chance at saving him, but he is beyond saving, now. At least, by mortal hands. Solas: Then I am all the sorrier. (otherwise) Vivienne: He was at peace, and we had the chance to meet at least one last chance before he passed. Solas: Be thankful for that closure, it will bring you comfort in the days to come. Vivienne: It already has.

Solas: How do you feel about the moniker ‘Madame de Fer?’ Vivienne: Oh, I think it’s darling. Why do you ask? Solas: Iron is cold, unyielding without the proper tools, some may use it as an insult rather than a mark of respect. Vivienne: Of that I’ve no doubt, but let them. I embraced it wholeheartedly, and from then on no one could ever truly use it against me. Solas: True enough, such a tactic has worked for others before.

Vivienne: You will be wearing shoes to the ball, won’t you? Solas: My comfort is not worth jeopardizing the Inquisition’s image, so yes. Vivienne: Many elven servants in Orlais go barefoot, it would hardly be a scandal. Still, it would be beneficial. We must all present as a unit when the time comes, not a single hair out of place. Solas: That will hardly pose a problem for the two of us. Vivienne: (makes a sound almost like a laugh) Right you are.

Solas: There are rumours that your name be put forward as the next Divine. Vivienne: I wonder who might have started those. Solas: After all that has happened these past few months, you believe it possible they will accept a mage into their fold? (if the Inquisitor completed In Hushed Whispers / is a mage) Vivienne: Whyever not? Magic is what solved the problem, after all. Solas: Magic has solved countless problems over the centuries, and yet it is still reviled. Vivienne: I am not any ordinary mage. If any mage can achieve status of Divine, I am she. Solas: On that, we agree. (if the Inquisitor completed Champions of the Just and is a non-mage) Vivienne: With the Inquisitor’s support there is nothing I cannot accomplish, my dear.

Vivienne: The Inquisitor gave you that hood not half a day ago and it already has a hole in it. Solas: Two, in fact. Vivienne: Are you afraid we’ll forget you’re an elf if we go five minutes without seeing your ears? Solas: My estimation of your abilities is not that low, Enchanter, and I would be careful were I you. Two holes cut in a hood is not nearly as desperate as donning a pair of horns every morning.

(After Ian is made Tranquil during his personal quest)

Vivienne: I hope you know what you are doing, my dear. The Rite of Tranquility is not something easily undone. Solas: As I understand it, the Seekers did it quite regularly. Vivienne: And through a far gentler process. What they did to Ian was barbaric, but undoing it is not necessarily a kindness. One might even call it selfish. Solas: I never made any claim to selflessness. Vivienne: Go through with it, and he will relive what happened to him every morning and night for the rest of his life. Solas: (with restrained anger) Do not pretend as though you suddenly care for his well-being now, you showed little regard for him before. Vivienne: It is a warning, nothing more. Solas: Your warning is heeded, but it changes nothing. I am under no illusion this will be simple, but to give up on him now— I would be no better than the Circle that once wanted this same fate for him.

Solas & Dorian

Dorian: That book you have on your desk, Solas… Solas: There are many. Which are you referring to? Dorian: There’s one that looked to be in Ancient Tevene. Do you speak it, or are you just keeping it around to look clever? Solas: I would not go so far as to say I speak it, but I understand it well enough. Dorian: How did you go about learning it? Solas: Memories of Tevinter’s empire litter the land, there is hardly a place in Thedas where the world does not remember it, and with memories come language. Dorian: So you learned through the Fade? Solas: I did, though my pronunciation leaves something to be desired. An unfortunate consequence of learning any language alone. Dorian: I might be able to help, but only if you give me the satisfaction of hearing you muddle through it out loud beforehand. Also, I’ll be next in line when you’ve finished reading that book of yours. Solas: (snorts) Very well.

Solas & Cole

Cole: So they’re nobody, but somebody. Empty shells, filled with someone else’s memory. Solas: For the most part, it seems. Cole: If they’re heartless, why are they so angry? Solas: Perhaps it was not so much the absence of feeling, but the lack of recognition of said feelings. Cole: Belief makes them real, even if they’ll always be different.

Cole: It remembered. Delight in discovery, always pushing further into the unknown— someone like that does not simply disappear, and yet... it cannot remember his name. Solas: Names are not so as important as the spirit of the person they belong to. Cole: It remembered the person. Sadder, but stronger. If I ever return to the Fade, I would like to meet it. Solas: Nothing would delight it more. Cole: Oh, I know. I think we’d be friends.

(After the banter where Solas helps prevent a panic attack)

Cole: You breathe in— one, two, three, four— then out— one, two, three, four— feel the grass beneath your feet, magic between your fingers, remember what is and what was. How long did it take you to learn? Solas: More time than is ideal. Cole: I’m sorry. Solas: There is some comfort in knowing I’ve learned enough to help others with such struggles. Cole: I’ll count with you, if you need. Solas: Thank you, Cole.

Solas: I’m curious how your efforts are coming along since we last spoke. Cole: Josephine misses how saffron tastes, but she hasn’t asked the chef to purchase any. I wrote it on a list when no one was watching. Cullen doesn’t like my letters. He says they don’t make sense. Solas: I cannot imagine he devoted much time to understanding them. Cole: No. Listening is... difficult, when you’ve been taught not to.

Cole: Eyes fall shut, but they do not drift away. Their feet are tethered, tied to the ground. Solas: Even dwarves who lived and died on the Surface never dreamed. Cole: But they are still remembered. The song drowns out their thoughts, but it does not smother them. If I listen, I can hear. Solas: I have seen fewer glimpses of dwarven history than I would like, but there are always memories preserved by particular attentive spirits.

(When passing through the kitchen, or lingering nearby. Solas stands over the stove and Cole sits on a nearby counter, hitting his leg against the wood.)

Solas: Would you like to try it, Cole? Cole: Would it not be a waste? I don’t need to eat. Solas: To overindulge, perhaps. A taste will do you nor the world any harm, a good meal is about more than survival. Cole: Then I’d like to try it, please.

Cole: You don’t have to eat, Solas. Solas: Strictly speaking, no. Cole: Sometimes you do anyway. Solas: When the urge takes me, or if refusing would be seen as ill-mannered.

Solas: If I could ask for your opinion, Cole. Cole: It remembers the garden. The sun bakes it red, colour working through it like a blush upon a maiden’s cheeks. Solas: Excellent. And this? Cole: It was lost in weeds for weeks, neglected and forgotten. It tastes like oversteeped tea. Solas: I see. Then we will find another.

Cole: And it remembers the ocean? Solas: It knows the mountain streams and rocky coasts as well as any well-seasoned traveller, though the paths it takes are laid with smoother stones. Cole: Rough edges wicked away by river waters. Soft enough to stand on without any shoes. Solas: Though one must still take care not to fall. (optional) Inquisitor: Speaking from personal experience, Solas? Solas: I suppose one might say that. Cole: Feet forget the ground, flying out from beneath him, but the rest of him doesn’t follow. Solas: (tinged with embarrassment) As I said. Inquisitor: (chuckles) (otherwise) Cole: But you always get up again.

Solas & Cullen

Cullen: I’m curious how you’ve avoided Templars all these years. Solas: I would prefer not to say. Cullen: I’m no longer a Templar, you know. Solas: Then why do you still wear their heraldry? Or am I mistaken? Cullen: I… Solas: Templar or no, your support for its cause endures. I would not endanger fellow apostates by revealing our methods.

Solas: Master Tethras tells me you served in Kirkwall. Cullen: Varric has no shortage of stories, that one just so happens to be true. Why do you bring it up? Solas: My travels have taken me there, on occasion. Cullen: I admit, I’m curious what your impression was. Solas: All the world is steeped in tragedy, but in Kirkwall the Fade overflows with it. Spells flow from the fingertips with such ease you may forget the Veil altogether. Cullen: That doesn’t surprise me, the amount of abominations I saw during my years there… Solas: They were but a symptom. Kirkwall’s sickness ran deeper than what any one spirit could cure.

Solas & Leliana

Solas: I have heard the Inquisition call you many titles. Sister, Nightingale, Spymaster. Leliana: I have worn many masks, some I’ve liked more than others. Why do you mention it? Solas: Which do I refer to you by? Leliana: (laughs) Whichever you prefer. You may use Leliana, if you wish. Solas: Then I shall see which suits you best.

Solas & Josephine

Josephine: It took several tries, but we managed to remove the wine stain from your sweater. I apologise again for Lady Vérène’s indiscretion. Solas: The fault is hardly yours. It is a pity she is not more open to an apostate’s perspective, but the loss is hers. Extend my sincere gratitude to whoever expunged the mark. I have only a few shirts to my name. Josephine: You know, Solas, now that the Inquisition finds itself in more favourable circumstances, we can afford to purchase you a new wardrobe. Solas: With respect, Ambassador, I value comfort over style. I’m uncertain the Summer Bazaar will be able to accommodate me. Josephine: It would be a most... unusual request, but I believe I know the tailor for the job.

Josephine: Have you found the library to your liking? Solas: I have. I cannot imagine any other circumstance where someone like me could have such unmitigated access to the written word. Most human libraries are not so liberal with their guests. Josephine: I confess, I have never been without books. Ever since I was a child they were always within reach. Solas: Then you must have recommendations. Josephine: One or two come to mind. If I can secure faithful translations, you will have them.

Solas & Morrigan

Solas: You seem well-versed in courtly manners for a woman raised in the wilderness. Morrigan: What are you implying? Solas: That you have a talent for winding nobles around your finger, or that the infamous ‘game’ is not so deadly as they like to believe. Vivienne: Or that more talented souls paved the wave for her. Solas: Another possibility. Morrigan: ‘Tis true that Orlesians overestimate the challenge of this ‘Game’ of theirs. Empress Celene had her desires, and ‘twas a simple matter to keep her satisfied. Vivienne: Which is why you’re with us. Morrigan: With you at my side, I could not help but notice. Vivienne: Believe me, dear. Court enchanter is a trifle compared to where my sights have set.

Solas: I found your son atop the rotunda’s scaffolding today. Morrigan: He has long been fond of climbing, and Skyhold’s trees are too new to bear his weight. Solas: It was no harm. My only regret is I did not have an answer to every question he asked. He is a curious boy. Morrigan: (laughs) That he is.

(During What Pride Had Wrought, upon finding the mosaic of June)

Morrigan: Ah, clever June. The most elusive of the elven gods, insofar as legends are concerned. Solas: Their silence is deafening. Morrigan: I take it you have insight? Solas: Merely that he does not deserve what little credit he is given. Time has forgotten the name of whosoever built the first aravel.

Solas: Rumour spread that Kieran went missing. I trust your presence here means you have found him? Morrigan: I… yes. Solas: He is unharmed? Morrigan: Yes. Solas: Then I am glad. And… you? Morrigan: I have much to think upon, but my son is safe. Everything else can come after.

Solas & Renn

Solas: Tell me, Lieutenant, why did you remain with the Legion? Renn: Having trouble seeing why it’s your business. Why d’you ask? Solas: Escaping would be a simple matter of finding the right battle to slip away from. Freedom would only be a few day’s journey from where we stand. Renn: I couldn’t abandon my men... or my city. Solas: You show great loyalty to Orzammar, considering you will never see it again. Renn: Yeah, well. You never forget your home. Solas: No. I suppose you don’t.

Solas & Valta

Solas: “But the truth is the truth— no matter how political it may be.” Valta: Do you disagree? Solas: Just the opposite. The truth does not change with our ability to stomach it. I am glad a historian such as yourself agrees. Valta: A shame the rest of the Shaperate doesn’t agree with us. Solas: True, but if they had you would not be here, on the brink of uncovering secrets buried centuries ago. In their attempt to keep you out of the way, they unknowingly set you upon the path to even greater knowledge. Valta: Orzammar will know the truth. If I don’t make it, then the Inquisitor— Solas: You are not yet dead, Shaper Valta. Do not count yourself apart from the living so soon.

Solas & Merrill

Merrill: You snort when you laugh. Solas: I’m well-aware. If you are about to ask me to stop, I’m afraid I’ve tried before. Merrill: Oh, it’s not a bad thing. It might be the most charming thing about you. Solas: Damned by faint praise. Merrill: It is a very charming laugh.

Solas: Why did you leave your clan? I read Varric’s Tale of the Champion, but I suspect most of it was a lie. (if present) Varric: Hey! I’m right here. Solas: You did well to lie. To name her as a Dalish mage would be to paint a target upon her back. (otherwise) Merill: I left… I— it wasn’t exactly my choice. There was a mirror, tainted by the Blight. I thought we should fix it, even if it meant turning to blood magic. My Keeper disagreed. Solas: You cleansed the Blight from an eluvian? That is remarkable. Merrill: I used to wonder if it was worth it. I sacrificed so much to get it working, years of my life, my— I’m just glad we’re getting use out of it, now.

Merrill: You’re wrong about my people, Solas. The Dalish aren’t as lost as you think. Solas: They cast you to the streets of Kirkwall, exiled you for the crime of pursuing the duty they tasked you with. Merrill: Some of them said such awful things, they looked at me like I was already a demon, but… that doesn’t mean there isn’t good, too. Sometimes I wonder, had my Keeper not been so against me, if things might have been different. Merrill: I don’t know what they said to you, but I know what their scorn feels like. It hurts, but… there’s so much to admire. Solas: You still feel for them. Merrill: They’re my people, they always will be. No matter how much they might hate me, I’ll always love them. Solas: Put like that, I suppose I understand the sentiment. Merrill: It’s a lonely feeling, isn’t it? Solas: It never ebbs, no. Merrill: Then just— remember them, when you think unkind thoughts about the Dalish. The people you miss, the people you don’t, and what you’d sacrifice for them both.

(in the Exalted Plains, outside the boundaries of Hawen’s camp)

Merrill: (giggles) Datishan was asking about you before we left. Solas: Datishan… Hawen’s little hunter? Merrill: Who else? She wanted to know when you’d be back. Solas: What did you tell her? Merrill: I told her you needed time, that good stories don’t grow on trees. You will go back, won’t you? Solas: It seems I shall have to, or else suffer the wrath of her arrows. Merrill: You joke, but she almost poked out my eye last night. Solas: (chuckles)

#dragonageday #solas #dragon age #dragon4geday #unofficialdragonageday #dragon age inquisition #fan banter #dare to be in the company of those stronger than you ( banter )#( my writing )#[ i'll be reposting the couple new things i wrote for this later ]#[ scheduled post ]

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jenniferhawke · 5 years ago

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Eleven full moons

((A companion piece to “No longer beautiful” (but it can be read as a stand alone as well). I wrote this for the Dragon Age day prompt “Endings”. I took inspiration from a RP I wrote with the amazingly talented ‘Fenris Leto Liberati’ in the FB DARP community. This one’s for you, dear.))

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Fenris stares into the hearth of his chambers, watching as the flames consume yet another book he deems useless. The stolen manor is full of them -- magical tomes mostly. Things he has no use for. On particularly restless nights such as this, when his blood burns with a poisonous hate, when he thirsts not for wine but vengeance, he throws old belongings into the flames. They are likely not Danarius’, probably having belonged to the previous owner of the estate, but Fenris pretends. He pretends they are his former Master’s, and when that is not enough to sate his ire, he imagines what it would be like to see the magister himself consumed by the devastating flames. Fenris longs for the day when he will finally be free from this madness.

Eleven full moons have passed since the day he killed Hadriana. He thinks of it often, he wishes he could remember it fondly. But no such joy is found when reflecting on her death, not when words of a sister had been breathed to life moments before Hadriana’s demise. Eleven moons, and yet no word from any of Varric’s contacts on where this sister might be. If things were different, perhaps he would have moved on from Kirkwall by now. Perhaps he would have returned to Tevinter, a place he vowed never to step foot in again, and seek out answers for himself. But he cannot leave … not when it means forever saying goodbye to the one good thing in his life.

Even though eleven full moons have passed, Fenris has not forgotten that night. With great clarity, he remembers every little detail. Lips as soft as silk caressing his own. The taste of summer rain gliding against his tongue. Heart racing as if it wished to part from his chest. A caged animal being freed from his prison at words that touch the depth of his soul. A steely heart softening as they join as one. The promise of a better life, of a world free from anguish found in her loving embrace. Hidden memories birthed anew and ripped away by the cruel hand of a former Master, a threat always breathing down his neck. The realisation that he cannot give her what she deserves, no matter how desperately he wishes to remain at her side. Desperate eyes pleading with him not to leave … pleas that he ignores all the same, for it would be kinder this way, even as it kills him inside.

Fenris closes his eyes, feeling the warmth of the fire, wishing it was the heat of Hawke wrapped up around him. It would be easy to walk the short distance to her home, to beg her forgiveness, to find absolution in her tender embrace. But Hawke will never be safe with him. Not with the threat of Danarius always looming above him. The memories that haunted him after they lay together served as a cruel reminder that he’d never be free of Danarius. Not until Fenris could watch the life from his eyes fade away as he had with Hadriana’s. Perhaps it was selfish of him to stay in Kirkwall. His association with ‘The Champion’ alone placed her in danger's path. But he couldn’t leave Hawke. Even if he broke her heart and ended their relationship before it had a chance to truly flourish, he would remain at her side until she ordered him to leave. Fenris nearly balks at the thought. Perhaps the old ways of a slave never truly left him, jumping from one master to the next ….

“Is this a bad time?”

As if his intrusive thoughts somehow beckoned her to come forth, Fenris turns to see Hawke in his doorway. She does not step forward. Even after all this time, she always waits for his permission to come forth, always respecting his boundaries. He nods, and she steps into the room. As she nears, he can see the dark circles under her eyes, the weariness that has replaced a once brilliant gleam.

While eleven full moons haunt Fenris, it is eight moons that haunt Hawke. Her mother’s death had stolen the vibrance from within her. Another reason to detest blood magic. Once, he found himself jealous of Hawke, jealous that she had a family, jealous that she had happy memories to reflect on. But perhaps in this matter, he is the lucky one. He could not truly mourn for a person he had no recollection of. And Hawke … how she loved Leandra. Much has happened to Hawke in such a short span of time. The death of her mother, while the sharpest blade, was one of the few. After she’d been named Champion of Kirkwall, Isabela, her best friend, fled the city. The pirate, while never pretending she was anything less than selfish, was still Hawke’s trusted companion, her partner in crime. Without Isabela there to share drinks with, to confide in, Hawke seldom left her estate other than when Kirkwall had need of it’s Champion. Occasionally, she attends Varric’s games of Wicked Grace and Diamondback, but any laughter given is forced. And although Hawke doesn’t speak of the bitter betrayal of her friend the pirate, Fenris knows how it chips away at her, how it adds to the burden she already bears.

“I always have time for you,” he says, walking over to the table they often conversed at, when times were simpler. “Sit,” he extends his arm, waving at the chair across from him as he takes his own seat. Hawke does not visit him nearly as often as she once had. An awkwardness surrounds them after their night spent together, but the mage has never held it against him. Still, she turns up at his doorstep again and again with offers of coin if he wishes to help her on her many errands, Kirkwall always needing aid from its beloved Champion. As Hawke sits across from him, the scent of lavender and honey wafts towards him, the smell of soap on skin, and once again, Fenris is reminded of that brief respite of torment when he found an escape from the madness in her bed. Studying her, he watches the way she bites her lower lip, a nervous habit of hers. “What troubles you, Hawke?” he asks.

Her eyes meet his hesitantly, as if she is studying him. “You,” she says, her voice quiet, unlike the confident tone he had grown to know. “You once asked me what has magic touched that it hasn’t spoiled. The answer is you, Fenris.”

Suddenly, his heart is pounding once more, not unlike that night eleven full moons ago. But it is not giddy as it had been then, instead the icy grip of fear gives him pause. They have not spoken of that night, and it worries Fenris as he wonders why she might be bringing it up now, after all this time. “Hawke- “

“Please,” she says. “Let me continue.” Hesitantly, he nods.

“We’ve never talked about what happened between us. I wanted to give you time but … it’s nearly been a year. I thought maybe we could discuss what happened.”

It is just as he feared. Fenris had hoped it would not come to this. He hoped that when he left her, she would see him for what he truly is … a broken thing. Something that would only serve to hurt her again and again. “What brought this on?” he asks.

“Sometimes it helps to talk.”

“And what am I to say?” he snaps. “Nothing has changed, Hawke.”

Despite the brashness of his tone, she maintains her calm demeanor. “I told you I would wait as long as it takes. I just need to know that I still have a place in your heart. That one day … when you’re ready, we can pick up where we left off.” Hawke lets out a sigh, her tired eyes searching his own. "You'll come back to me one day, won't you?”

“Is this truly what troubles your mind?” Fenris asks. “That single night we shared?” she blinks at his callous tone, looking stunned as if he has struck her. Guilt picks away at his mind. Fenris stands, walking away from the table and turning his back on her. Once again, his eyes gaze into the burning fire. Perhaps he needs to hurt her for her to move on … perhaps it is closure that she really is asking for. Perhaps it is what she requires in order to find someone better suited to give her what she needs. The thought of her with another is madenning, but if closure is what she needs … he would do what has to be done. To spare her of further heartbreak down the road. For all he knows, it could be another decade before he faces Danarius. He would not string her along with broken promises. Not when she has the chance to find happiness with another. Someone better.

“Leave, Hawke. There is nothing for you here.”

“So that’s it then?” she asks, a tremor in her usually steady voice. Fenris grimaces, heart dropping to know it is his words that wound her so. But he can’t give her a thread of false hope. Not when he is so uncertain of what the future holds for him. If Danarius were dead, things might be different. But so long as the magister lived and breathed, an invisible chain would always hold him in place. He wasn’t free. Not truly. And what of his sister, still in the clutches of Minrathous? So long as she was out there somewhere, he had to focus his efforts on finding her. He could not give Hawke the life she deserves. Not when he’s a feeble shadow of the man he could be.

“It is done. I have said all there is to say. You should move on.” He still faces the flames, not brave enough to look her in the eye. If he were to, she would see it in his eyes …that his callous words are but a charade for the true longing in his heart.

An insufferable silence follows, but when Hawke finally makes a sound … a single, silent sob, his ears twitch as if a detonation of gatlock has taken out half of Hightown. How his heart lurches at the sound, and it takes every ounce within Fenris to stay still. All he wants to do is turn around and tell her how he really feels. How there is a constant ache within him every moment she is absent from his arms. There is nothing that Fenris wants more than to swivel on his heel, to march over to her and to kiss her so hard until their lips are both bruised and they can no longer breathe.

But he does not turn around. He does not tell her how much he aches for her, nor does he kiss her with every ounce of passion within him. Instead, he listens to how she flees from his room, feet scurrying down his worn out steps. He listens to the slamming of his front door that follows a broken cry, a sound so heartbreaking it shakes him to the core.

“I am sorry,” he says aloud, head hanging with guilt. Fenris does not sleep that night, nor the night that follows. When he does sleep, he dreams of nothing but Hawke. Hawke and her midnight hair and her ocean eyes, eyes that gleam with the tears he denied himself of seeing. Even in dreams, he can feel her heartache, and when he wakes, it is to his own tears running down his cheeks.

Fenris drinks. He drinks and he breaks things, and when he tires of that, he drinks some more. Weeks pass, and the only time he leaves his manor is when he runs out of food. No longer does Hawke come to his door to collect him for errands. Instead, company shows up in the form of Varric and Aveline who voice their concerns for his well being. Their concerns, not Hawke’s. They do not speak of Hawke, and Fenris has better sense than to ask.

A short time after the twelfth full moon has come and gone, he spots her in the market. She does not see him when she turns around. Her eyes are gleaming, but unlike in his dreams, they do not gleam with tears. Laughter is in her voice that carries across the market. Not her forced laughter of late, but true glee, the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard … until it isn’t.

Anders, the abomination is with her, and Fenris watches in horror as he wraps a horrid hand around the small of her back, holding her close as they walk away. Hawke clings to him as one does to a familiar lover. Suddenly, Fenris is dizzy, feeling as if the air has been knocked from his chest. When he said she should move on, he had meant for her to find someone better. Someone kind and deserving of her love. And Anders is the least deserving person of this.

Now, all that’s he’s left with is a world of regret. Fenris knows now, above all things, he absolutely cannot leave Kirkwall. He will not leave Hawke with a viper in her midst. Even though it will hurt to stay, he owes her at least this.

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