Chapter Text
It was good to see the dwarf again. Even better to see Aidan smiling the way he was—big and bright and warmer than any sun. The two were already lost in their own little world, trading stories faster than Fenris could keep up.
“And then, I shit you not,” Varric said, giving Aidan a sharp poke in the side, “he flew in riding a void-taken archdemon!”
“Is this before or after you saw a mountain fall on the Herald?” Aidan asked dryly.
Varric waved a hand. “You think I’m making all this up—”
“I do seem to recall you had a talent for embellishing a good yarn.”
“—but I’m telling you, Hawke, this shit’s gotten weirder than anything even I could imagine. I mean, glowing hands, gaping holes in the sky, Templars melded with red lyrium? Red lyrium, Hawke.” He gestured wildly toward his own face. “Just stuck on there like some kind of glowing red goiter. Weird as balls.”
Aidan laughed and lightly bumped their sides together. He looked relaxed for the first time in weeks, months, longer, the dark shadows beneath his eyes seeming to lift away bit by bit the longer he was here. This? Was good for him. They should have come long ago. “True enough,” he said easily, casting Fenris a quick glance and smile that still, always, had coils of warmth unfolding in his chest. “So does this mean I’ve been replaced as the hero of your story? An odd Arishok battle or two can’t hold a candle to this.”
Fenris turned his back on them to hide a private smile of his own as Varric (loudly) protested. The grand hall was mostly cleared out, save a flicker of movement up on the far back promenade and a pair of guards stationed at the heavy door just below. He was aware of muffled banging drifting through the door to the right of the makeshift throne and the general sense of life moving on beyond these walls. But for the moment, here, now, the place was theirs.
He tipped his head up, taking in the crumbling old statues and hastily patched stained glass. Banners hung from a quarter of the archways, matching fabric spilling from a box of crates lining one wall. The whole place spoke of the beginnings of things. Even though the Inquisition had been going strong for some time now, he got the sense that it wasn’t until its Inquisitor was named that true progress had begun.
He wondered what this Inquisitor—this Herald—this mysterious driving force would be like. They said he had unspeakable power in the palm of his hand. They said he could walk from the Fade and face down archdemons and build empires with a single closed fist.
The thought had Fenris shifting anxiously, fingers twitching subtly back toward his greatsword. He glanced over toward Aidan again, trusting the relaxed joy flowing through their bond but needing to see him standing there all the same. Over Aidan’s shoulder, he could just make out the fourth member of their small party—quiet for the first time since they’d stumbled across him out in the wild.
The boy, Feynriel, had retreated back into a shadowy corner, arms crossed tight over his chest. His head was down, blond hair pulled free to veil his face, though it was obvious enough something was bothering him. Fenris considered going to ask what was wrong, but the impulse toward open kindness—an unexpected side effect of being around Aidan for so long, he was damn sure of it—still set awkwardly inside him.
Instead, he deliberately turned his back again, giving both the boy and Aidan-and-Varric some semblance of privacy…which was why he was the first to notice something was subtly wrong.
Someone slipped into the hall and paused to whisper in one of the guard’s ears. The guard stiffened, then turned on his heel and hurried out. Fenris watched, tensing himself, as the second guard gestured down toward them in question.
Eyes fixed on them; vaguely familiar eyes. But then the hooded figure shook her head and moved along the wall—along the shadows—each step calmly measured yet quick. She was rushing while fighting any appearance of being in a hurry, and Fenris was certain he wouldn’t have even noticed her if he hadn’t already been on high alert. Varric didn’t flick a glance her way, and Feynriel seemed lost in his own world. Only Aidan hesitated, looking over at Fenris, sensing his growing unease.
“Fenris?” Aidan said, interrupting Varric’s story. His voice was low, soft, but Fenris felt it down to his bones. What’s wrong, the intonation implied, as clear as if he’d said the words.
“I am uncertain,” Fenris replied, watching as the shadow slipped into the far doorway to the left of the throne. “Varric, where does that door lead?”
Varric tilted his head, catching the direction of Fenris’s gaze. “Oh, the kid’s been given a room up that way,” he said, as if the kid weren’t the figurehead (the actual leader? Only time would tell, he supposed, whether the advisors actually let this new Inquisitor impact the course of history on a grand scale) of Thedas’s latest greatest hope. “Nice enough view, but it’s more pain than pleasure, if you ask me. Stairs,” he added, as if that explained everything.
“Ah,” Fenris said, eyes locked on that single closed door. Something was happening through that door, up those stairs. He couldn’t hear anything, but the hairs along his arms were standing up, and he had to fight back the urge to grab Aidan by the wrist and drag him out of Skyhold.
Danger, the part of him that never fully quieted whispered. Danger, danger, danger.
Aidan’s knuckles slid subtly along his spine as he moved closer. “Do we need to intercede?” he asked, sotto. It didn’t matter whether he’d seen the cloaked figure or not—Aidan would be reading the shifting eddies of tension coiling through Fenris. The desire to flee, to fight, to protect, to confront.
“You catch something, Broody?” Varric added, coming up on his other side. Fenris was ridiculously gratified to notice that Varric was already loosing Bianca in her straps. It had been a long time since they’d fought together, and yet that old battle-trust was still burning strong.
Yes, he almost said before hesitating. What had he actually seen? He’d become increasingly paranoid after they’d been forced to flee Kirkwall. Perhaps he was overreacting. “I am…uncertain,” he said again, gaze ticking back toward the main hall doors, where the second guard was slipping back into place as if he’d never gone. “It seemed—”
The Inquisitor’s door banged open and a man stalked out, black hair dripping at the ends. He tugged at his robe, looking caught somewhere between amused and wildly out of sorts. “That can all wait until later, of course,” he said, glancing back over his shoulder at the shadowed woman—yes, familiar; venhedis, where had Fenris seen her before? “Now, I think, it is far more important to…”
He stumbled to a stop, words trailing off as he took them all in.
Fenris had a stark impression of hyper-intelligent dark eyes, a ridiculously curled moustache, Tevinter-style robes. He was already bristling—even though he knew this must be the ‘Vint who’d taken up with the Inquisitor in secret—but the man’s gaze snapped past him to someone over his shoulder. Aidan?
“Faste vaas,” he said, eyes widening. Then, sailing past the three of them with a laugh and a flourish of dark robes, he added, “Feynriel, Maker, but it took you long enough!”
What, Fenris thought, pivoting to unabashedly stare as the showy mage swept Feynriel up into a hard embrace. He actually lifted the boy off his feet with it, and Feynriel gave a breathy squeak, hands pinwheeling before he managed to grab purchase against muscled biceps, his own robes twitching as he awkwardly flailed.
Wild, loose blond hair fell all around them as the ‘Vint grinned and hugged him tighter. “Look at you,” he tsked, laughing, the last of his annoyance all but gone. “Blowing in here wild as any Avvar and smelling worse than a goat. I should have known you prettied yourself up in my dreams.”
Feynriel gave him a weak shove as he was dropped lightly to his feet again. There was still a shade of something dark in his eyes, but he was smiling again, at least. So strange to think this alienage brat from Kirkwall knew one of the Inquisitor’s inner circle. “Well, I had to live up to your example, didn’t I, Dorian?” he said. Then, eyes darting over Dorian’s shoulder, he added in a low undertone: “Oh! Is that him? Your Voice?”
Your Voice. Not the Herald. Not the Inquisitor. But your Voice, as if that took precedence. Fenris supposed in this strange company, it actually did.
He turned back toward the dais, curious despite himself to see this man who was shaping nations and making Chantry sisters tremble in fear. A tall, surprisingly broad-shouldered figure was stepping out behind the hooded woman, brown eyes fixed on Dorian and Feynriel, brows lifted in curiosity. He was handsome, if boyish, with a scattering of golden freckles and shaggy bronze-brown hair and—
And—
And Maker take his hide, melt away some of the height and add rounder cheeks and Fenris was suddenly catapulted back several years, onto a lonely beach where he’d gone to die. He could practically taste the salt in the air, feel the biting cold, memory churning up shards of the past to pierce his present.
“Taran?” he demanded, startled, shocked, rocked back on his heels. The pieces were clicking together for him faster and faster—like a whole damn mountain coming down on his own head—as the boy he once knew blinked over at him out of the face of the man before him, an echoing recognition in his widening eyes. “Taran Trevelyan. The Inquisitor from Ostwick.”
He should have known. He should have put it together before now. He should have realized that his world was anything but simple, and it would drag every thread of this tapestry together, weft and weave, until it all formed some great bloody unfathomable whole. Void.
Taran blinked rapidly, then grinned, sudden and blindingly sunny. If Fenris hadn’t recognized him before, he certainly would now. “Fenris!” he said, practically bounding up: a boy again, all the gravity the Inquisition had placed on his shoulders shrugged off with a laugh. He came close—close enough that Fenris tensed in preparation—but Taran didn’t grab him up in the welcoming hug like Dorian had Feynriel.
No, Fenris thought, as Taran came to a stop just before him, vibrating with joy and beaming bright enough to eclipse the sun, no, this boy knew him. Knew him from a time when he was at his darkest, his lowest; he wouldn’t reach out without permission.
And, feeling ridiculously pleased at the realization that came on the heels of that: he remembers.
“Taran,” Fenris said, letting himself smile back, just a little. “It is…good to see you.”
The words felt wholly inadequate to the emotion, but Fenris was all too aware of eyes on the two of them. He glanced over, and sure enough, everyone watched them with unabashed confusion and curiosity: from Aidan’s cocked head to Varric’s lifted brows to Feynriel’s slow blinking to Dorian’s…what, was that jealousy? Bah, idiot man.
The hooded woman lifted her chin, looking between Taran and Fenris with a measured assessment that cooled his blood, and he had a vague memory of crossing paths with her in the Kirkwall Chantry. What had she called herself then? The Nightingale?
Taran either didn’t notice or didn’t care that they were the center of attention. Or perhaps the boy had simply been forced to grow accustomed to the feeling; that, too, was a chilling thought. “It’s good to see you too, Fenris,” he said, practically vibrating with joy. “And looking so well. I take it things are… Are… Uh.” His gaze ticked toward their small crowd of friends, finally noting their presence. “…well?”
Fenris glanced back toward Aidan, feeling that strong tug of memory—the present and the past converging. He’d left Kirkwall, certain that he had killed the man he loved. Despondent, despairing, he hadn’t even cared when the ship bearing him across the Waking Sea broke apart and he ended up washed onto a desolate shore. Fenris remembered so very clearly the ice of waves breaking across his huddled form and the desperate hope that each breath would be his last.
And then…a boy. Standing silhouetted by the sun, young and kind and thoroughly unexpected.
Fenris wet his lower lip, throat constricting as Aidan instinctively moved toward him, drawn by the kick of his pulse and that long-ago taste of despair. “I am…well,” Fenris said, rougher than intended. He turned at the whisper-soft brush of Aidan’s knuckles against his spine, impulsively taking the other man’s hand. He didn’t want there to be any misunderstanding. “This,” he said, “is Aidan Hawke.”
Taran’s brows shot up, and Fenris could actually see him shuffling around the puzzle pieces. Fenris hadn’t talked much about why he’d left Kirkwall, but it was clear he’d been running from heartbreak, and the path their many conversations had taken over the months they’d shared (Fenris taking work as Taran’s swordmaster, of all things, running the boy through constant drills on the moors overlooking the endless sea) must have given their fair share of clues.
Aidan, Maker bless him, offered his free hand and a genuine smile. “Hey,” he said, as casually as if he met Inquisitors every day. “It’s good to finally meet you.”
“Yes,” Taran said. He looked between Fenris and Aidan even as he took the offered hand, and Fenris could see the moment he understood. That return smile grew, transformed, became so dazzlingly bright again it was difficult to look at. Fenris had to turn his face away, feeling, just, much too much. “I am so glad to meet you, too.” Then, with a laugh: “Champion.”
Aidan groaned playfully, and that seemed the cue everyone needed to shuffle in to join the conversation.
“Hawke here seems to think I found myself a new hero,” Varric said with a crooked grin, looking between the two of them like a proud father.
“You know each other?” Dorian said at nearly the same moment, casting a quick, dubious look toward Fenris. He held up both hands at whatever he saw in Fenris’s eyes before frowning over at Feynriel. “Wait. You came together? You know each other?”
“Leliana,” Aidan said in greeting, a secret, impish smile playing at the corners of his lips. “It’s good to see you again.”
Taran straightened, surprised. “Oh!” he said. “You know Leliana?” Then, before Aidan could answer: “No, no, of course; I guess that makes sense.”
Dorian snorted. “No, it does not,” he said—dramatic, flashy, and instantly becoming the center of attention…exactly as he wanted, an annoyed part of Fenris whispered. “Is there anyone here who does not already know each other?”
Taran pointed toward Feynriel. “He looks new to me,” he said. “But I’m guessing that’s Feynriel.”
“Feynriel, Hawke, Fenris,” Leliana said, voice clipped—perhaps a little amused? It was tough to say with her, but she was clearly not inclined to linger on the moment. Fenris found he instantly liked her. “Taran, Varric, Dorian. And I am Leliana. Now that all of us are acquainted,” she added, turning to Taran, “you wanted a council called?”
“I did,” he agreed…then visibly hesitated, glancing toward Fenris. “But, well. I don’t want to be rude.”
Dorian waved him off warmly. “I will take care of getting Feynriel settled,” he said. “We have far too much to catch up on to miss you for at least another hour or three.”
“I can take care of Hawke and Fenris,” Varric added. “Show them around, introduce them to the others. Curly’s here, you know,” he added to Hawke. “Knight-Captain Cullen? Well, Commander Cullen, now that all the weird shit in Kirkwall is behind us.”
“Yes,” Aidan said dryly, letting Varric usher him a few steps away with a single glance toward Fenris. He could feel the amusement running through each word, making him want to smile in return. “I’m sure now that we’re all with the Inquisition, the weird stuff is far in the past.”
Feynriel glanced back toward the far door, then softly cleared his throat. “I’ll be… I need air,” he said, slipping away. A frown grew between Dorian’s brows as he watched the half-elf go, worry clear enough in his expression that Taran edged closer.
“Do you need me?” he asked, sotto, one hand lightly touching the other man’s arm before quickly falling away—as if he was all too aware that they were in public. That whatever they’d managed to build together had to be kept behind closed doors and thick walls. As if there was danger in the subtle caress.
Fenris set his jaw, even as Dorian tipped his chin up toward Taran’s with a smile. “No, amatus,” he said, and there was no mistaking the tone of his voice. Fenris recognized it instinctively—felt it, every time he thought of Aidan—and even though he was strongly inclined to dislike this showy, flashy Tevinter mage…he felt his shoulders beginning to relax.
Magic, it turned out, didn’t ruin everything it touched. Sometimes, it even burned away the impurities to leave something heartbreakingly beautiful in its wake.
Maybe it would be that way with these two.
(Or, a sullen part of him whispered, maybe Dorian would prove himself a snake and Fenris would be able to strike off his head, throw Taran over the pommel of a horse, and ride him and Aidan away from all this Inquisition madness.)
The thought almost made him smile.
Dorian pulled away, visibly reluctant, and settled his robes. “I’ll be with Feynriel,” he said with a grand wave of his hand; his rings glittered in the dull light. “‘Getting air.’” He stepped away with a quick, questioning look cast in Fenris’s direction. Hawke and Varric were already nearly to the big double doors.
Taran watched his would-be lover go for several full beats before sighing and turning his attention back to Leliana. “I assume Josie’s already in there?”
Her thin lips quirked. “When is she not?”
He laughed. “True enough.” Then, tilting his head toward Fenris, “I’d like to catch up, once you’re settled.”
“Yes,” Fenris agreed, because it would be good to hear the story of how a lonely Ostwick boy had come to lead the known world. Venhedis, the last they’d seen each other, the lad had still been using a wooden practice blade as often as not. He felt unexpectedly old now. “If only to see what a mess you have made of my teaching.”
Taran grinned sunnily at that as, down at the other end of the hall, Aidan and Varric fondly heckled Cullen as he made his (flustered) way past. “You’ll be horrified,” he promised. “I can’t wait.” Then, with a parting wink, he followed Leliana in through a nearby door, leaving Fenris alone on the dais.
He turned once, slowly, taking it all in. The unornamented throne. The patched stained glass. The pillars showing signs of being rebuilt, and a roof that had been neatly—but not completely—repaired. The banners and the signs of life blooming everywhere: hope a palpable thing in the air, despite all the darkness in the world.
Something good was happening here, Fenris decided, finally moving to rejoin Aidan and Varric at the other end of the hall. His footsteps echoed on stone, underscoring their teasing jibs and laughter, and he felt wonderfully light inside despite his usual natural cynicism.
Something good would come of all this. Something right.
Or we will all die trying, he forced himself to add with a private smirk—and even that felt hopeful in its own twisted way.