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greypetrel · 2 years

Note

Ok because I'm falling down the Aisling x Fenris hole with you - could I ask for affection meme #29 - Meeting eyes across a distance and knowing what the other is thinking?

You are all enabler!

(and I want to thank you. x°D Really I was so anxious at posting that fic, I’m so glad it got some appreciation)

(reminding you all that this is much an AU, don’t worry, we’re staying in Cullen territory in Canon. … She has a kink for Templars and bisexual disasters tho. You can mock her.)

Also it’s coming in more parts! Because why suffering twice when we can all suffer more.

Soundtrack!

And Part 1 if you missed it

If I Make it to the Morning

( Meeting eyes across a distance and knowing what the other is thinking )

*Between Hasmal and the Tevinter border, 9:41, Firstfall.*

At first, the voices and tales of the Herald of Andraste didn’t caught Fenris’ attention. He just shrugged them off, not paying attention to the latest imposed saint and saviour there to solve everyone’s problems. He had spent his time in Kirkwall with the Hawkes, not enough to have him stay, but enough to learn that one person was but one person, and couldn’t be held responsible to solve the World.

He learnt about the Conclave, learnt that the Herald was an elf, and a Dalish one. But after a fleeting thought, wondering if he crossed their eyes at the Arlathven, all that time ago, he took his sword and was on the road again, after the next slavers.

He had no interest in joining the Inquisition, and if Varric needed him, he knew how to find him and contact him. It was none of his business, after all, three years with a clan and two days at an Arlathven didn’t make him a Dalish.

There were weird groups of mages, lately, crossing the border in the middle of the night and with no cages. It was clear, tho, that they weren’t exactly up to much good. The first group that Fenris ambushed didn’t look that assuming. He admittedly just saw Tevinters acting suspicious, followed them and attacked when it was clear that they were up to no good, interrogating their chief.

Venatori, he called their group. At the service of the Ancient One to restore Tevinter’s glory. Add the usual slurs and empty threats, Fenris just ended him and got on with his work, gathering documents and the informations he could. He didn’t fully understand what was going on, there definitely were some pieces of the puzzle he missed -first and foremost who this Ancient One was-, but the mentions to Red Lyrium were enough for him to catch on that Venatori meant, too, kill on sight. He sent word to Varric as soon as he got back to Hasmal and his informators, attached the document he found, and got on with his life.

*Close to the Tevinter border, 9:42, Wintermarch.*

It passed a month before another attack to another group of Venatori almost ended in disaster. He thought he had counted them all, tracking them down as they crossed the border and made their way out of the beaten path, hiding the way hahren Oshyn taught him, minding his steps not to make noise, blend in the environment. It was useful for spying as well, observing the enemy without being seen, and he was grateful for the effort the Lavellans put up with him. Except, this time he miscalculated.

He didn’t see that there was a second group, bigger, further back on the path, that descended on him as he was almost finishing the first. He cursed, thought back on his strategy. They were too many, and he was getting tired: his chance was falling back -dodge a fireball, parry another, jump back when there’s the crack of lightning, plant your sword in the ground and your hands away, shut your eyes and close your ears, the way she told him to- and retreating back in the trees, hoping he still remembered Oshyn’s teaching enough to lose them in the woods.

And then, an arrow struck a soldier. Another felled the next. Barriers were casted as a contingent of soldiers and scouts came out all around him, telling him brashly to just move.

They sported Inquisition insignia, a flaming black eye in white field, cut in half by a sword. He stared, not understanding what they did so far north. Far beyond the reaching of the Chantry. If they crossed the border and entered in arms in the Imperium, it would have caused a diplomatic disaster, and for what he knew, the Inquisition wasn’t so politically sound to withstand offending Tevinter, Herald of Andraste or not.

When the battle was over, he approached what looked like the Officer in command, and asked. They were kind, and treated him as equal. Mistook him for a Dalish, but it wasn’t the first time it happened, and he often took it as covering, not bothering to correct the mistake of seeing a tattooed elf and going for Dalish.

“We’re here on the Inquisitor’s personal orders, hunting slavers and Venatori. You shouldn’t engage neither on your own, particularly the Venatori: they’re dangerous and the prisoners are taken for experiments.”

“So close to Tevinter?”

“Yes, it’s a conjunct operation. The Inquisitor’s Tevinter advisor has contact in Minrathous. Magister Tilani joined forces with us for this operation.”

He frowned. A Tevinter advisor in contact with a Magister? He heard of Tilani, she wasn’t high on his list of targets, but still… Maybe he should have paid more attention to the Inquisition, after all, if its hand reached so far north and its leader had… Such sympathies. Weird.

“Can you tell me more about the Inquisitor? With a Tevinter advisor?”

The scout laughed, shaking her head. He followed her around, helping how he could in searching bodies and retrieving documents, orders and everything useful.

“Forgive me the laughter… You’re not the first to have doubts. The Lady Inquisitor was the Herald of Andraste, and much like her patroness, she doesn’t look at provenience, if the intentions are good. Whoever wants to help defeating Corypheus has a place.”

A Dalish elf with sympathies for Tevinter. It could… No. No, it couldn’t be. She was one of many, and she wanted to stay in the clan. He shooed that thought from his head and made another question.

“Who’s this Corypheus?”

“The Ancient One, yes, the one that the Venatori follows.”

“So, a Magister.”

“So they say. Some rumours say he’s darkspawn too, tho… But he was the one who opened the Rifts and the sky, and destroyed Haven, Lady Lavellan tho closed the Breach and dueled him in Haven… She’s the best bet against him.”

“… Lavellan, you said?”

“Yes, didn’t you know her name? I thought the Dalish knew. Do you know her?”

“… she’s a mage.”

“Yes, but-”

He thanked the Scout, a little too brashly for politeness, and was out of the clearing before she could ask him who he was exactly. And thinking back, really, how many weird elves could he think of that would have welcomed a Tevinter noble as advisor? How many elves were so prone in getting caught always in the weirdest shit so gloriously?

He needed to get South.

*Exalted Plains, 9:42, Guardian.*

It took him way longer than he would have liked to reach her.

He had considered tracking the Lavellan, just to ask… Anything, really. Because the idea of facing the Keeper and the whole clan, after almost 8 years since he left without even a goodbye was still more appealing than facing her, after leaving with yes, a goodbye, and also a conversation that left her in pieces and took the light away from her eyes.

But he owed it to her, at least. He owed it to come personally, not go looking for voices and rumours from people who knew her, not write and ask Varric how she was faring and if he believed she needed help.

He hadn’t been thinking straight, but he felt his heart in his throat and a sense of dread. He had to go and check. Even if it meant having her tell him in his face that he went way past her stupidly wide boundaries and she hated him. Just a quick detour. Check if she was fine. Offer his sword if she needed it. He owed it to her. She has just saved his life. Yet again. He was free, now, and he was done running.

But, by the time he reached Skyhold, not difficult to find once he crossed to Ferelden and found forward camps and bases flying the flaming eye all around the Storm Coast and Crestwood, drinking anecdotes and informations he could find and hear, she wasn’t there.

It was, honestly, impressive to see what she had accomplished: the tall, imposing fortress bustling with life and activities, the camp in the valley. Oh, he knew she was highly intelligent, and would have been a good leader, once her time would have come… He never expected this. As he never expected to find back from Kirkwall Knight-Captain Rutherford – now Commander, and underlining heavily how he was no more Knight-Captain- to burst his cover of “Former Lavellan member”.

It took him too many explanations to let him, Sister Nightingale and Lady Montilyet to agree and tell him where the Inquisitor was. Varric barged in, fighting guards, to vouch for him, and yet fell surprised when Leliana asked him if it was true that he knew the Inquisitor. He couldn’t answer, because he never told him which clan he knew, never told them all more than “I hid three years among the Dalish”, when Merrill noticed some idiosyncrasies he picked up and she instantly recognised. Luckily, Cullen didn’t forget he was in the Gallows too, fighting against Meredith, and it was him, in the end, who convinced his colleagues. It calmed him to see she had people around that were protective of her. The actual her, not the Inquisitor mask.

He tagged along in the next supply caravan, headed to the Exalted Plains. It wasn’t a long trip, at least.

He was welcomed by destruction. Trenches in shambles, a countryside on fire, soldiers from both parties of the civil war gathering to burn corpses, Inquisition forces working hard to keep everyone supplied, the roads safe from bandits, clean up what they could.

They pointed him North, saying the Inquisitor hadn’t been back from a couple of days. That was busy, as the Inquisition’s forces repaired the bridge to Citadelle du Courbeau, helping a Dalish Clan that was camped in Halin’Sulahn. She was bound, tho, to be at Fort Revasan in three days time, to cross the river and go check the situation in the Citadelle. Voices ran of more zombies and demons.

He sighed, not surprised that they kept having such a bad timing amongst the civil war and her fulfilling her duties to the People. As the great First that she was. He headed north, leaving the beaten path, spotting traces he didn’t really like and felt familiar from the last three, aimless years.

He climbed to the top of a low hill, facing down to a flatter strip of land where a tall, dilapidated elven building still stood and he saw it: a small camp, lit by a couple of fires and tents with the Tevinter snakes painted on top. Very unwise, to make themselves so visible and recognisable. Particularly because they were so few, all but five people, two of whom lying asleep.

He unsheathed his greatsword and slowly walked down, laying low and hiding behind fallen rocks. The position wasn’t the best, just a turn of a head and he’d be spotted. Nonetheless, he trudged on hiding until he couldn’t anymore. He was spotted and then he ran. He faded through a tent, stabbing down to the sleeping mage there, right in the middle of his chest. One less.

He faded again through a fireball, charging one of the mages, the one that alarmed the others. It wasn’t difficult, he just had to pay attention and care for his surroundings, ducking and dodging and taking his time. He had energies to spare, the long journey left him eager of getting back to work. One Venatori less, throat sliced neatly.

The third had him retreat, casting a rain of icicles he had to jump back to dodge. Not a problem, he could circle him, maybe drag the assassin they had with them in the fire, or over one of the ice mines that were casted -as if he didn’t know what they were, the idiot didn’t even put some effort in making them inconspicuous to the warrior elf glowing blue with lyrium. Amateurs.

A snap of wood behind him signalled one of the rogues, he girated around, swinging his sword –

Swiiish.

The assassin screamed in pain, as an arrow struck him right in his eye. He heard a feminine laughter, very nasal, from behind him, but didn’t stop to look, slicing through the soft belly of the assassin and leaving her on the ground to die, turning again to parry another fireball thrown at him with the flat of his weapon.

“See? I got the bull’s eye, Bull! Got it? Ah ah!”

The same voice of the laughter cheered, followed by a booming one, a laughter hidden behind every syllable, from right on his left.

“Great job, Sera-baas! Move, broomstick!”

The ground trembled, as a Qunari run after him and sliced the mage he was aiming at as if it was butter. The mage jumped behind, wounded badly but apparently not down, more resistant than one would think, or with a better armour hidden in flowy robes. The Qunari yelled. “Crap!” as he jumped back, too close to fully avoid the fire that was thrown at him. He hissed, swinging his axe to get distance, ignoring the pain and the burn. Fenris didn’t lose time, jumping right at him, zig-zaging to avoid being targeted too easily. He killed that mage by stabbing him in his chest, deep, but it left him open to the last warrior, his sword stuck in the leather brigandine the mage was clad in.

“Boss!”

He heard the Qunari yell again, as he struggled -damn Tevinter clothes with their too many straps- to free his sword and himself.

He felt it, then.

The air crackling in static all around, buzzing with energy and the distinct smell of ozone. Noise of hoofs, a horse neighing. And then-

It thundered, loud and strong. It had been eight years, but Fenris’ body, apparently, remembered, closing his eyes and letting go of the hilt, staying impossibly still where he was as the air filled with light and thunder, the woosh of flames adding up and warming the air on his face was new, and then everything quieted again. He opened his eyes and the last Vint was lying on the ground, unconscious and burnt from the lightning that just hit him, twitching jerkily as the electricity ran through his nerves, his clothes on fire in more than one part, hair completely burnt down.

They were younger, in a carefree day, years ago. It was spring, the air was full of the smell of fresh grass and flowers. He was sitting against a tree with a book she had lent him to exercise, as she slowly padded her way in the underbush, staff held tight in her hand and steps overly measured, toes checking the ground for twigs before placing her weight on it. She wasn’t a hunter: she may be not so bad when she asked him to teach her to wield a sword, but… The tongue out of her lips, the overly concentrated expression betrayed her uneasiness, long hair splaying all around, leaves stuck in the locks. She launched a rock in the undergrowth, quickly falling into position and calling on her mana as three rabbits ran away, scared. He closed his eyes and averted his eyes, not moving one bit as she told him, as thunder fell from the sky, precise as an arrow, and shocked one of the running rodents dead. She turned with a big smile on her face, expression lit up by more than the speckles of the sun that filtered through the canopy, proud of herself and looking at him for recognition.

“What for?” He had asked, barely containing a smile. He was there from a couple of years, they were unlikely friends, and he found it was difficult to stay grumpy and angry when Aisling was looking at you with that level of enthusiasm.

“Dinner, silly!” She laughed.

She wasn’t catching dinner anymore, but the precision, dead-set and carefully gained through a lot of methodical exercise, was still unmistakably hers. And yet, she wasn’t laughing anymore. She wasn’t alight with enthusiasm, and her hair weren’t long and with leaves or flowers decorating them.

She sat on a pinto horse, staff in her hand, looking straight at him with a hard expression on her face he didn’t think she even had in her. Her hair was shorter, brushing her shoulders and left loose, parted on top of her head so some stray locks covered her brow and her Vallaslin. Which was weird per se. She was very proud of her tattoos, always had been, and most often she braided her hair back to show them. Her face had lost the last roundness of childhood, her mouth had a harsh turn to it. She still wore leg wraps even with clothes and a leather cloak that were unmistakably human in cuts and materials, toes free on the stirrups.

Their eyes met, they kept looking for a long time. He notice briefly the other elf on the saddle with her, an archer taller than her that was glaring suspiciously at him, the second Mage in flowy white robes and moustaches that Fenris remembered from another life, or the Qunari of before asking questions he didn’t hear.

There she was. Aisling Lavellan, looking at him in the eyes.

Eight years had passed, but it was just like it was yesterday that they spoke for the last time. There was something he couldn’t recognise, but he still believe he knew, roughly, how to read her. He had spent a lot of time learning it, after all, and put his effort into it. With suspect at first, because she was a mage and she was eager, striving to get better, curiosity later, because she was careful and loved what she was doing, and a youthly, foolish and thought unrequited first love, lastly. They were both older, now… But she was still her, and he was still him.

He stepped forward, not breaking eye contact, until the archer rose her bow, the Altus got his staff in position and he had the Qunari’s axe at his throat, forcing him to held his chin high.

“Bull.” She just said, assertive. Her Keeper’s tone.

“Are you sure, Boss? We don’t know-”

“I knew him.”

He didn’t lose how she clicked her tongue on her palate, making the horse move without any other movement, stopping him in front of the Tevinter. Protectively.

She didn’t have to ask him, he didn’t have to answer, they still communicated silently as well as the day he left, after all. There was old hurt, distrust, and incomprehension. And yet, something steely in her eyes, that was maybe not her, but the Lady Inquisitor. He contracted his eyebrows, knowing she was reading him as well.

She lowered her eyes, nodded.

And then he spoke, for the others more than for her.

“I came to offer my sword to the Inquisitor.”

And then, someone punched him, hard, right on his right cheekbone. He fell to the ground, hissing in pain and scrambling to the side, to face-

A very angry, seething with rage, Radha Lavellan. Sharper to the corners, hair considerably shorter, daggers sheathed and hands still clenched in punches. If looks could kill, he would be dead and buried right there and then.

“Radha.” Aisling called, a note of tiredness in her voice.

The Rogue stepped back, without saying a word, still casting angry glances at him.

“Who is our new guest, darling?” A soft, low voice came, still from behind the horse.

“A person we once knew. He won’t hurt anyone, let him come.”

There was that, at least.

*Skyhold, 9:42, Spring and Summer.*

She wasn’t angry with him. She didn’t seem so. But, she wasn’t the bubbly, friendly person of before.

She accepted him in the Inquisition, leaving to Leliana and Cullen to decide how better to take advantage of his abilities after he explained that he had spent the last 4 years after Kirkwall to hunt slavers down, on his own.

He didn’t expect to find both Raina and Garrett Hawke there, greeting him with Varric as one would an old friend. Even if he was the one of their rag-tag group that fought alongside them for the shortest time. But, they at least were welcoming.

Aisling avoided him, polite when they needed to interact, with a coldness she never had, not getting closer. He tried to speak to her, but she wasn’t reachable anymore. She didn’t want his apologies, she told him that he could be free, she didn’t need his help and didn’t want for him to stay if he didn’t want to, or if he just felt like it was his duty. He professed his wish to… Make amend, somehow. She just refused him, saying there was no need, nothing to amend for. Things happened.

He disagreed, and he stayed. Not that she seemed to mind much in good or bad.

But, she assigned him to missions, never ordering but always asking, mindful even after all that time of not making him feel trapped or forced. Radha slowly stopped looking at him as she would have stabbed him in his back, if it wasn’t for Aisling. It was something.

They danced around the other, gravitating, as they had done when the Lavellan brought him in. He knew she was observing him, he could see her looking at him from time to time. He was doing the same, both looking and not approaching. Space was what they had, space was familiar and a good compromise, as Fenris did his best to show her he was there, and he was not running, not leaving her to face a weird darskpawn-Magister alone. He could do that for her, and it wasn’t all that unpleasant.

The company was good, he got along with the Chargers -he knew the Iron Bull was familiar, after he named Seheron he knew. They never spoke about it, but they both knew. Varric… Was Varric, a knack for making you feel welcomed everywhere. He called her Lucky. It was, indeed, still Aisling Lavellan, the weirdo who thought people were good. She collected quite the rag-tag group, still making friends first and foremost with the most unlikely people around. Magisters and Altus -those were hard to accept, he stuck around as she and Dorian experimented, as Alexius joined them sometimes. He stuck around, a dagger at the ready, refusing to leave when she asked him, once, and even after she told him that Dorian had her utmost trust. Little by little, at least, he saw she was right, that the Altus really seemed to care, and the old Magister had no more bite to him. The Spirit, Cole, was the second on his list of curiosities that unsettled him: because of course she would have made friend with a Spirit in human form that read minds. And then Sera, whomever she was -he quite liked her, tho-. A Ben-Hassrath agent, and a good one, that acted like a mother cat and corrected her form with her spirit-blade. The ex Knight-Captain of Kirkwall lent her books, and they laughed together -he didn’t know Cullen was able to laugh. Apostates and Templars and Orlesian nobles charmed by her. She made it work, and he was admired.

Admired, and sad, because he knew her when she was young, and she never was that demure, and calm. Maybe it was just him and Radha that could see it, but he saw it: she was keeping her distances, keeping always three steps away from all her inner circle, save from Dorian.

She smiled more with him, as they spoke Tevene between them and experimented on magic. On that, she was still brilliant, as much as he was, and he had to admit, as much as she didn’t trust the man, they worked well together, filling each other gaps and spurring each other on. She has always been talented and elegant, thinking outside the box and, at the same time, controlled. But with him?

They made rain on the Keep. A real, true rain that filled the reserves of drinking water and saved people a long and hard trip to fetch it. And, as they travelled across Thedas, helped people as well.

As the months passed, as they found a comfortable rhythm around each other, they crossed eyes again, from time to time. Aisling started speaking to him again, unsurely and tentatively. She never touched anything much personal, always kept her distance. But, she asked about how he was. Asked him for his opinion on matters that weren’t work. Suggested him a book she thought he may like. He made a detour from the kitchen, when he passed and saw they had just taken out of the oven a tray of lemon cookies, and brought them straight to her in the library as a thank you, because he remembered she liked lemon sweets best.

One day, she told him she read about Danarius in the Tale of the Champion. That she was happy for him. And for once, her smile was sincere. As many, many times before, she tugged back the small, shy smile she had just for him. He smiled back, for old time’s sake. He hoped she saw that, in spite of everything, he was proud of her. And he regretted every single day he didn’t get back after Danarius found him and he put an end on the story, winning his freedom.

There was distance, still, a huge, gaping hole of eight year of absence, with not a word. They could work around it, falling into the most innocent of their old habits -like, he would sit in the library, reading, as Dorian taught her maths and to put magic in theory and they bickered, ten miles per hours in a mix of Tevene and Common following some weird line of thought.

He wanted more, he regretted many things. But if that was all that there could be, all that she had left to give him, he would have taken it. Work. Fixing problems together, on different sides of the same room. Exchanging glances and knowing, still, what the other was thinking. Avoiding to speak about the regret, the longing, that at least he started to feel again, after some months. That was left for sideway glances. She could concentrate on finding another person. One that wouldn’t have left.

*Adamant Fortress, 9:42, Kingsway.*

She didn’t want him in his party. It was predictable. She invented an excuse, but he really didn’t need one. He followed Raina, as he had done in Kirkwall, up the battlements.

They fought, they crossed path with Aisling, in her Keeper armour, making thunder rain from above in that way she and Dorian had to weave spells together, drawing together from the Fade to enhance each other’s power. She had Dorian and Solas with her, with the addition of the Iron Bull. As the Battlements were freed, she stopped them to assess the situation and instruct them further.

“We need to get to the inner courtyard and stop Erimond. We’ll head there, Raina and Stroud with us.” She instructed them, turning to him, Radha, Sera, Garrett and Varric. “You stay here, keep the battlements free for our soldiers, cover them as they climb. Garrett, you know what to do to call me if another Rift opens up here. Ok?”

No, it wasn’t ok. He frowned at her, and for the first time since he arrived, he spoke up to her.

“Let me come with you.”

He told her, looking at her in the eyes. He didn’t need to say why or explain, he knew she knew. He had experience with Magisters. He had known Erimond. He was the best suited, had personal grudge against the man and the category. She knew. She steeled her gaze, tho, furrowing and not budging. A challenge.

“No.”

She stepped back: Fenris didn’t realise he had stepped so close to her.

He sighed, nodding, understanding it was not a matter of ability. It was clear as day on her face.

She didn’t trust him at his side, after all.

He let her go, did what she asked. He wondered if she knew his heart went with her nevertheless.

---

When the dragon came flying, tho, he said fuck it to the plan.

“Broody!”

He heard Varric shouting behind him, as he left his flank open – but he saw Radha running his way, and he trusted that the elf would have covered for the dwarf. She was good and protective, the person you’d want covering your back. And yet, she had no experience with Magisters either, and he did. And Aisling was against a crazy Magister -he saw him, buzzing with power- on his pet Archdemon, and his feet took flight. He ignored Radha yelling at him to stop.

He opened his way, one demon after the other, heart in his throat, as the dragon destroyed old walls with his tails, his roars almost covering the thunder that rained on the Keep.

He turned and ran, ignored his lungs begging for air, muscles twitching.

A flash of green, and the Archdemon in front of him retreated, hissing in pain. Whatever the Anchor was on her hand, it was, apparently useful. Except that it made the dragon even angrier. He jumped, stabbed the reptile’s hind leg deep in the muscle. The dragon kicked, and he was too tired to duck in time. He rolled, coming to a stop against a wall, cursing how the sword was tossed in another direction.

He was about to run after his weapon, when the dragon stomped, hard, making the bridge they were standing on tremble. A loud crack, and the stones began to fall.

As the dragon flew away, Fenris was left with a choice. His weapon, on the right. Aisling, on the left, running on falling debris. She was quick on her feet, but not enough. It wasn’t really a choice.

He didn’t think and jump after her, grabbing her tight and rolling them around, not caring for much else than giving her a chance more. He heard her cursing, arm circling his chest and holding tight, instinctively.

Another flash of green, brighter than any of her lightnings. Brighter than her smile right after he kissed her back. He didn’t think it was even possible.

---

She brought them in the Fade and she got them out.

She had to leave Stroud there. Fenris offered to stay, because that’s what he could do. It wasn’t enough, not after reading on her gravestone, in the realm of the demon, that her deepest fear was Abandonment. He knew he hurt her, deeply. He had hoped he hadn’t fully break her. And then, seeing it written, a full certainty…

She refused, her quiet, mistrusting distances instantly ablaze with anger. She yelled at him not to say anything of the sort to her ever, ever again. He never saw her angry before. Once, she would have cried. Now, she didn’t. She said to Stroud to get out, she would have stayed. She couldn’t ask him to do something she wasn’t ready to do.

In the end, the last one to get out from the Fade Rift was, indeed, Aisling, stumbling on her feet and almost losing balance. Fenris didn’t know if the Warden pushed her or managed to convince her. What he did know was that in her eyes, as she rose up and crossed his eyes, looked for him, and especially him, there was anger. Hate. The same hate he felt and told her about, that night at the Arlathven. Hate masking desperation.

It wasn’t him who did this to her. But he understood.

He nodded to her, gravely.

She turned against Erimond and extended her fingers, casting lightning without her staff. Hit the Magister right on the mouth of his stomach, snaking in the tightening nets of his barrier right before he closed it. The man fell on his back, three meters away, unconscious, body twitching.

The battle was over.

And yet, it was not.

---

He found her again early in the morning, as the battlefield was cleared and soldiers moved to the infirmary. Radha thanked him for helping her sister, which was as much as a peace offering he would have gotten from her.

He found Aisling outside the infirmary, bent on herself, hands stained green, trembling like a leaf even if the sun was quickly fending the chill of the night away.

His heart broke.

“You can go, if you need to. I’ll remember you, tho. I remember everyone that leaves.”

She told him, bent on her thighs, hugging her legs with her face hidden between both knees. She was trembling like a leaf, as the night slowly left place to the dawn, vulnerable as ever and still naked under what had been his sheets, the sinewy lines of her Vallaslin he had traced with kisses and caresses few hours prior in full view, hair still tousled from their activities spraying all around.

He had no words to give her, except that it was too much for him to bear. The memories, the intimacy… No. He had been stupid, he hadn’t been as scared in his own life as he was in that moment, terror crippling him. It was too much. He couldn’t stay. He told her all the wrong words, with anger she didn’t deserve and that wasn’t even directed at her. Not really.

She hadn’t cried, she hadn’t said a word more, or even looked at him.

He had been stupid, he had been a coward, and he had gone.

She wasn’t crying, she was still clothed and her hair still neatly plaited behind her head from the battle. And yet, as stoney and sure-footed she had proved to be as the Inquisitor in the last six months, she was crumbling on herself, façade cracking, closed in a protective bubble, hugging her thighs.

Fenris shouldn’t be the one to do that. He knew she didn’t trust him anymore and she had all the reasons. But, he had come full circle now, and as many flaws as he had… He liked to think he could learn.

He knew she hated to crumble before others. She knew she spoke her affection in touches. Or at least, with others. She never touched him without his consent ever since he told her he didn’t like it, and she hadn’t even asked him why. Just accepted the thing, acted accordingly.

This time, he wasn’t a coward, and he didn’t turn his back at her. Instead, he got closer, slipped his hands under her knees and held her back as he hauled her up, holding her close. She started to wiggle immediately, trying to push him away. Hissing and pushing and making the hair crackle with static. It was like holding a wild cat, but he didn’t let go, knowing perfectly she wouldn’t have hurt him. He brought her to a small passage between two buildings, narrow and hidden and left free of rubble, miraculously. They would have been alone there.

He let her go, letting her scrumble away on the ground, heaving and panting. She looked around her, eyes spirited, full of panic, ending up on his. He nodded, knowing what she was thinking, and turned his back, sitting close but not looking at her, shielding from the outside. After a minute, she started to cry, breath ragged, sobbing out like a wounded animal.

He knew her, tho, and knew that… Maybe…

He turned to look at her, legs crossed below her, arms hugging her and swinging back and forth as she cried, breathing heavily through her mouth, still trembling.

She hadn’t moved back, tho, hadn’t sought more distance. So, he tentatively turned back to her and moved closer. Closer. She let him approach. She let him circle her shoulder with both his arms and drag her on his lap, close to his chest, holding her as she cried. She smelled of ash, and of elfroot. She always smelled of elfroot.

“G-go now if you don’t mean to stay. Please, I- I could’t take it one more time.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He told her, squeezing her tighter. “I should have got back years ago. I’m here, now.”

He didn’t move, waiting for her to stop crying. She didn’t, slowly and tentatively shifting her head to slip in the crook of his neck. She didn’t seem to care much if he still had his armour on, and clutched to the border of his breastplate with a hand, holding close.

“Why did you get back?”

“What do you mean?”

“I… You were right. You were right all along.” She sobbed. “About magic. About… About me. I left a person in the- I- I wanted to make Erimond suffer. Slowly. I still do. I… I did blood magic.”

It made her cry more, and he didn’t lie. It was a stab.

“What happened?”

“Vyrina. Two months after you left. The baby… The baby was with his feet down. She would have died, they both would... I- I moved him. It was…”

He had found it weird that she didn’t heal with magic anymore in these months, and all that praising the 1000 qualities of Elfroot. She never did it before, she was learning Spirit Healing, and the Keeper said she was good at it. With those reasons, tho, he really couldn’t say much. It was her and she still didn’t have one bad bones in her body. She wasn’t possessed, that much was clear.

“I was wrong. About magic. It wasn’t about you, it never was… I was a fool, and I was scared. I thought it better if you hated me, I deserved no less. I projected things you didn’t deserve. I didn’t mean you. I never meant you. When you fell, this night, I…”

“I am a killer.”

“Aren’t we all.” He snorted, mirthlessly.

“Then, why…” She sobbed, folding again onto herself, voice pitching. “… Why did you leave, Fenris?”

He sighed, heavily. Six months it took her to ask. He owed her an answer. Particularly because she still, somehow, cared.

“… I thought about the answer a thousand times.”. He started, tentatively. He felt her moving, but it was his turn to just… hold her a little closer, placing a hand on her head. His gauntlet caught on her hair, he untangled it as delicately as he could. But she got the message that he didn’t want her to look, and stayed where she was. “The pain, the memories it brought up… It was too much. I was a coward. And I hurt you, more deeply than you would admit.”

She sniffed, shifted a little to get more comfortable against his armour. He settled them better as she took her time to reply. She had stopped trembling, at least, as well as sobbing. He turned his head to look at her, and what was left of the messy braid she tied her hair before the battle, locks spreading all over.

“Why returning now? After all these years?”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“I was hoping you could forgive me. And to tell you…” He swallowed. “… And to tell you that if you could, and you somehow felt as before, that if I have to be a future nothing could be worse than the thought of living it without you.”

It was as close as he could trudge. She stopped, perfectly still. It was out, he was on the clear.

“Why are you telling me this, now?”

“Because I thought you would have died, and I couldn’t bear the thought of you not knowing. You still have battles to fight. You need to know that it wasn’t your fault.”

“I understand.”

She was back to cold mode. He slumped, fear rising back again, as well as regret. Gone was the giggling, gone were the embarrassment. She didn’t move from where she was, tho, hot breath fanning over his neck. He didn’t want her to go, ever, but… He felt her move, and let her slip away. He knew better.

“Thank you. For coming back. And for jumping after me. But…”

“It is too late.”

It wasn’t a question. He knew her. He didn’t need to even look at her to guess. She closed her fingers, slowly, over his, squeezing.

“I am sorry, Fen. But…” She was, tone of voice sweet, under hurt, old pain resurfacing. “… I don’t know. I think… I think it is.”

She kept her hand on his, not letting go. He moved and held her hand back, not saying anything else. He understood. He had stayed away so long convincing himself that she hated him and didn’t want to see him. He didn’t expect her to swallow everything or forget. They stayed there, silently mourning what was lost to bad timing, and trauma clashing badly together.

“I’d… I’d be glad if you stayed. If you want to. I… I am glad to have you around, even if…”

“You don’t trust me.”

She sighed, deeply, shaking her head in denial.

“I trust you with my life, Fen. I wouldn’t want to have anyone beside me in battle but you, Radha and Dorian, Bull and Sera.”

That much was true, she didn’t hesitate.

“I can’t trust you with my heart, tho.”

She moved forward, tentatively as she already did, but less nervous. She asked him to look at her, when she was close enough.

“One for the road?” She asked, smiling. She was crying.

“One for the road.” He smiled back, nodding.

She pecked a last kiss on his lips, no teeth this time. It was bittersweet, and she tasted like salt and ashes, and some lingering elfroot from the last healing potion she dranked. She dragged it on, and then interrupted it, moving back and letting go of his hand.

“Thank you.”

She said. It encompassed everything. Fond memories they had, young people learning to find common ground, growing together, him learning about peace and quiet, she peeking her nose in a bigger, wider world. A bigger, wider world that suited her and she was shaping.

“No. Thank you, weirdo.”

It could have been.

But, the timing was wrong.