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aabidhussainn1000 · 2 years

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rankertopanwar · 2 years

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loquaciousquark · 6 years

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19th Cloudreach. Merrill called the clouds “grey and scuddy” today and she wasn’t wrong

Got a letter from Hubert today that the Bone Pit’s up unusually high for the quarterly profit report. Took the letter immediately to Varric, since I could hardly understand a word, but apparently they found a vein of silverite so large they had to hire a dozen extra miners to work it properly. Realized I hadn’t been out in ages, so V & Fenris & Merrill and I all trekked out to the wilderness.

Varric gets along so much better with Hubert than I do. I mean, he understands topics like quarterly profit margin reports, so I suppose it’s a business thing, but Hubert kept asking what I thought about overhead expense accrual and per diem provisions for the hired workers and it was all I could do to nod and make “hm” noises at appropriate intervals. Thank goodness Varric is kind enough to manage all this, because otherwise I’d have squandered it just as quickly as Gamlen did. Probably a little less whoring. Too bad he hadn’t a Varric all those years ago.

(Reminder: ask Varric what his percentage is. Whatever he’s taking, it should probably be higher.)

Something funny happened near the end of the visit, though. I commented that there didn’t seem to be any signs of nesting spiders or anything--they do love the deep crevices of the Pit--and Fenris said “thank goodness” in a way that made me think he was genuinely glad not to fight today. He said he was all right, but I saw him rolling his shoulders more than once on the way out, like there was an ache between them he couldn’t shake.

He said he was all right. Hm.

12th Bloomingtide. It’s been raining for days and there’s a puddle two inches deep in front of my house. Toby thinks it’s brilliant and hasn’t been clean since

He lost his grip on his sword today and almost got himself skewered by a woman with a pair of daggers. Got the assassin, thank goodness, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes after.

I think the markings are bothering him, but who in flames do I ask?

30th Bloomingtide, either very late or stupidly early; all I know is it’s dark and I can’t sleep

I’ve been thinking about Bethany all night. She would be--let me think. Twenty-three this year? Twenty-four. How old is Carver? Twenty-four.

Twenty-too-damn-young, anyway.

I wonder if Carver got my last package. It has ginger crisps in it that Orana made especially for him, though I did the icing. For as shabby as I am at that sort of thing, I thought they turned out well.

8th Justinian. Beautiful day today, sunny and breezy and full of chipper birds that have decided to roost directly outside my window at 5th damned bell

Fenris came by today, and I haven’t the faintest idea why. He asked how much I knew of magical healing, which is a foolish question considering how many years I’ve spent now healing him, and then he started a sentence four times, gave up, and left in a huff.

Sandal said “trapped,” after he left. Don’t I know it, friend.

In other news, that little bracelet I found a few months ago belongs to a very nice shopkeeper in Lowtown. She’d had it stolen by a gang of thieves one night and hadn’t ever thought to see it again. I’m just glad she happened to mention it as I was buying cedar oil, or it’d have lived in the bottom of my lost & found hoard forever.

22th Justinian. Hot, still sunny. Saw a ship with white sails and blue trim in the docks today and almost managed not to feel sad

Something’s definitely off with Fenris’s tattoos. We were clearing out a group of rogue Coterie just outside Anders’s clinic, and when Fenris went to reach into a man’s chest, he-- I don’t know how to explain it. It was as if he went too far. His whole body went clear as glass and he passed right through the man like a ghost. Took far too long to come back after, too, and when he finally did his hands were shaking so badly he ripped the lung and heart together. It was a bad death, and Fenris could hardly stand for it.

I went to see him a few hours after, and he was still in his bloody armor & wouldn’t let me in. He said this has happened before, that it passes soon enough and I shouldn’t worry. He said it’s like a strained muscle that must be given time to recover.

Of course, he was glowing while he said it, so it might not be the most accurate analogy I’ve ever heard.

24th Justinian

He was trying to ask me to help with his markings. I’m such an idiot.

29th Justinian. Hot, a bit muggy today with salt winds carrying in off the coast, but not as bad as last year

Took me another day to build up the courage to ask, but Fenris (finally!) has admitted his lyrium is bothering him. Also took half a bottle of wine and a great deal of coaxing but He says it’s happened before, that they suddenly start itching and aching and become terribly tender, that even his clothes are almost too much to deal with if they chafe. (It turns out that’s why he wears things cut so tight. All this time and I always thought he just had an aesthetic appreciation for chiseled thighs.) He says it often happens after a large magical battle, but not always.

He let me look at his arm, just to see. The skin is irritated all along the edges of the tattoos--I could help with that at least, a little--and I could tell there was something--something off, I suppose, about the lyrium itself, but I haven’t worked enough with it raw to know what exactly needs fixing. All my potion is made with refined lyrium that’s already been treated and processed for safe handling, and Fenris looked just disappointed enough when I told him so that it lit a fire under my motivation.

I’m still not sure where to look. Neither Anders nor Merrill know much about either the lyrium’s wrongness or the blood magic that bound it. Not that I really expected Fenris to allow them to prod, even if they did. He keeps insisting it always gets better and says it’s already a little improved from last week.

Then again, I watched him sit unnaturally still for almost fifteen minutes in the most awkward position just to keep the lyrium from creasing around his knees, so I remain unconvinced.

2nd August. Steamy hot--I swear I lost three pounds just walking down the stairs from Hightown

I’m either brilliant or insane. Or both, depending on Varric’s mood. I went to the Black Emporium today on a blind hunch, and when I told Xenon what I needed he gave a half-dozen thoughtful groans and sighs and then told his urchin to go fetch some book from the back stores.

It was written in a mixture of Tevene and the trade tongue (thank Andraste) but from what I could tell, it was an old manual on the process of refining lyrium, how to prepare it to hold magic. Then Xenon got very stern and told me he was a tradesman, not a library, and if I intended to continue propping up the wall while I finished reading an unpaid-for book he could think of much more permanent ways to make that happen.

He only charged me a handful of silver, though. Every time I think he’s giving me a good deal, I leave with a terrible sense of uneasiness. Still, I’m certain this is the key to whatever’s wrong with Fenris’s lyrium.

I did trim my hair a bit in that mirror while I was waiting. It was getting a bit unruly.

7th August. Rainshowers all day. Air’s so thick it’s like breathing bricks

Sandal said “trapped.” I need to start listening to him more. No wonder the healing didn’t help.

It makes sense they’d get more agitated after a magical fight, too, if they’re absorbing as much residual energy as this book implies. I wonder if a templar’s Silence would have the same effect on the tattoos as it does on me. Not that I have many friendly templars to ask. Cullen would probably do it, but I don’t want Meredith knowing anything more about Fenris than she does already.

I bet this will work. I’m almost sure of it. And if it doesn’t, no harm done--he’ll just still exist in an unending pain, that’s all. I’ve already sent a runner with a message for him to come over this evening, and Orana’s bringing up an old set of Carver’s sleeping clothes that are loose enough for what I need. Poor Fenris. Not bad enough he’s hurting already, now I’m putting him in pants four sizes too large and telling him to stay put while I feel him up, down, and sideways.

Ah, I hear him downstairs. Andraste, give me strength and patience and actually, composure now that I think about it

Later, almost midnight

It worked. It worked! I’ve snuck away and am writing this by the barest wisp of magelight because I’ve got to note it all down now, while it’s fresh, but Maker’s blood and bone it worked.

It’s not healing, it’s a cleanse. Almost--almost a dispelling, really. It has to be general, not specific--Kirkwall’s got so much sundry magic just floating around everywhere that to try to clean it out piece by piece and spell by spell would take a thousand years, which means my father’s interminable lessons on magical foundations have at last proved themselves useful.

We started at his hands. I’ve never seen anything like it. I had my eyes closed to begin with, since I didn’t know quite what I was looking for, but once I found the lyrium’s...heart? is that the right word? I could feel the crusty--scales, almost, layered over it. Any healer can do it, I think, if you’ve got enough sense to know what’s healthy and what’s sick. It’s a similar principle to mending bruises. Just go in from the healthy side, the deep place beneath where it’s hurt, and slide a little knife’s edge of magic between that and the scale over it, and just--just peel it off. Like a scab, but made of light.

I could see the glowing through my closed eyes. I opened them in time to see a faint...oh, I can’t find the words tonight. Almost like a skeleton of blue-edged white light hovering an inch or two above his actual lyrium tattoos, in the same shape as his fingers and the backs of his hands. And then I let it all go because I was startled, and the skeleton--shattered, like two fistfuls of silver glitter.

I will say Fenris looked ready to jump right out the window (you’d think he’d know by now everything I touch becomes unnecessarily dramatic), until he clenched his hands reflexively and noticed they didn’t hurt. Well. “Hardly at all,” is what he said, but knowing him that could mean anything from a splinter to being run through with a tree trunk.

So we kept going. We did both his hands and then went all the way up his right arm to his shoulder and halfway up his left before he had to take a break. He said it didn’t hurt, the process, but it was uncomfortable and made his skin buzz.

We broke for dinner, then, and I noticed he kept looking at his hands as we ate. (He said later it was because it didn’t hurt to hold the fork. He said he couldn’t remember the last time he ate without even a twinge, and I had to blink very hard at my potatoes to keep from welling over. Thank the Maker’s grace for lumpy tubers.)

It’s not a quick process. It took over an hour all told to cleanse his arms, and another hour for his back and chest each. I will say he handled my pawing at his bare skin extremely well and didn’t even blink when I told him he had to take off his shirt. I will say I did not and my throat is still flushed because at the core of me is a little girl who refuses to grow up, even when I desperately wish she would.

There was something beautiful in it, though, seeing each little curve and dot lifting out of his skin like that into the air, shining there for a moment in the dark, and then...scattering into nothing. Lovely and achingly sad.

He stopped me once we were done with his chest. It looked like he wanted to say something, but he also looked terribly exhausted and he said the buzzing was getting to him (I paraphrase), so when I suggested he stay and sleep here, he only nodded and curled down right into my pillow instead of going downstairs like I’d thought. The only reason I’ve got as much written down as I have is that he’s sleeping like the dead and I have to keep checking that he’s still breathing.

I would very much like to comment on how nice it is to be sleeping next to him tonight, but that seems only to invite heartsickness right in with open arms. I will say, instead, that his hands smell like cheap soap, and when he is very tired he snores.

8th August. Still muggy, though not raining nearly as much as yesterday

He wanted to tell me that Danarius had been thorough when he designed the tattoos, in case I hadn’t remembered. I wasn’t a fool this time.

I wasn’t a child, either. I should so very much like to tear out that beast’s heart, only Fenris has first rights.

We got down to both his knees before lunch. I should like to imagine his pain shattering away along with the scales, but I’m not so naive to think it’s all quite so easy to reach.

How much must it have cost Fenris to let me this far behind his guard?

Late evening. I've cracked a window; breeze is moist but cool

Oddly enough, his feet have been the most intimate part of this whole affair. There was a moment this afternoon... he was sitting on the side of the bed, and I was cross-legged on the ground with his foot in my lap, and I happened to glance up, and there was a single moment...

I can’t describe his face properly. Gentle in a way I’ve never seen from him. A good sort of tired longing. And bitter, and so angry, but an old anger that’s burned away all the heat and just sits iron-cold in the pit of your stomach. All of that in one fleeting instant, and then he folded it away layer by layer like someone putting bedlinens back on a shelf. He smiled at me after as if to chase away the image, but it wasn’t a fraction as real.

Anyway, his feet have calluses a quarter-inch thick on the heel, and he made the most peculiar sounds when I was working on the markings alongside them. He said the buzzing--well, he didn’t say tickled, but he surely flinched like it. Should I ever find myself in a position to mercilessly abuse this information, I plan to do so to the fullest extent. Isabela would be proud.

He stood up when I was finished with his feet and nearly knocked me over. He didn’t mean to, he just--walked around my room, slow and then fast and then slow again, and picked things up and put them down, and rolled his shoulders back and forth and bent down and touched his toes. It was all easy, effortless, not a hitch in a single motion.

He said nothing hurt. He said it was one of the best night’s sleeps he’d had in years, and that was even before I’d done the rest of the tattoos. He couldn’t remember the last time he could sit down or cross his arms without needing to brace himself first.

He was so eager to simply move. He didn’t notice, thank goodness, but I had to wipe my eye a bit from all the inconvenient emotions.

I made him sit again for the last part, which was his throat and the lines up over his chin. I’m much better at this now--next time it’ll take half as long--and in the afternoon sun we could hardly see the little ghost-lights until they disappeared in their starbursts at the end.

this is so

He kissed me when we were through. I was bent very close and my hands were on his face, and then the last of the light vanished and he reached up and held my chin with his thumb, right where his own markings would be, and then he leaned forward and kissed me.

It wasn’t an accident, and I didn’t pull back until he did. He apologized for his impulsiveness and I waved it off, but I know... I’m certain he meant it, even after.

He looked me right in my eyes when he thanked me. There was no bitterness in his face then, only gladness and a frank relief, and when he left his steps were lighter than I’ve seen them in ages. He carried the sword like it weighed nothing at all. I hadn’t realized how stiffly he’s been moving these last few months.

I told him to let me know the instant the lyrium started hurting again and he said he would. Shit. Was I worried about inviting in heartsickness earlier? At this point it’s a better bedfellow than Toby. I ought to have recognized it sooner.

And yet...he left happy. Not hurting, for the first time in a very long time.

I’d give a year of my life if it meant he could feel this way for the rest of his.

16th August. Fair, sunny

He left me a gift. It was by my plate when I came down for breakfast: a neat little penknife in black oak and brass, and he’d tied a pair of feathers to the ring. Hawk feathers, both of them a deep red.

He left a note as well. “In gratitude, Fenris.” He wrote it himself.

For someone who repeatedly professes no knowledge of the softer things in life, this man is extraordinarily proficient at stamping my heart into little pieces. I draw comfort only from the blatantly unfair judgement of his terrible penmanship.

Damn him! Next time I’m telling him if he puts more than an ounce of thought into a thank-you gift I’m chucking him headfirst into the Waking Sea.

#fenris #hawke #fenris/hawke #dragon age #quark writes #hawke's journal tag #heck of a lot of fancy headcanons in here #feel free to ignore any and all to your preference #also #as someone with friends and family members who live in constant pain #forgive the self-indulgent wish-fulfillment fantasy #we will return to regularly scheduled hijinks next entry

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