The training dummy didn’t stand a chance. Even though he wielded a blunted wooden training blade, cored through with lead for weight, the figure was not made to withstand such a brutal, unrelenting attack. But for Fenris, he did not care for the well-being of the Inquisition’s possessions—he just needed to spar, to fight, to work his muscles until his entire body ached and he could feel something other than the total numbness that had fallen over him since hearing the news of Hawke’s death.
It hurt, in a way that he did not think he had ever felt before. It was not like when he had had slain the Fog Warriors, when the months afterwards had fogged him with a haze of confusion and uncertainty and guilt. It was not even like when he had slain Varania, his own sister, in a knee-jerk reaction that he had regretted ever since. Without Hawke, he was just… lost, directionless, set afloat at sea without oars. It was worse than when he had finally escaped from the Imperium, and for the first time in his life had found himself without orders, without routine. At least then, he had had a driving goal—to get as far away from home as he could. Now, he had nothing: he could not think of any future at all that he wanted. He simply ate, slept, worked—existed. It was no life, but he did not have it in him to care anymore.
He was aware, of course, that he was being watched even now; he had made it no secret when he had appeared at Skyhold, demanding to see the Inquisitor and hear for himself exactly it what had happened. He was aware that people whispered behind his back when he passed—though whether they were sympathetic murmurs or cruel jibes at how improperly he grieved, he did not care.
But no one had actually approached him so far and no one really bothered him, bar Varric or the friendships that he was slowly building with the Chargers, and so at first he dismissed the voice behind him as speaking to someone else, and paid it little heed. But when there was no immediate reply, he caught himself long enough in his regimented destruction of the dummy to wonder if it was he who was being spoken to. Breathing heavily, he lowered the tip of his blade to the ground, turning to face his greeter.
Zevran Arainai. He had a good head for names, and he had not forgotten this one—they had worked together only briefly, many years ago, but he had been aware of the elf’s presence here in Skyhold. Funny, how an organisation like the Inquisition could be such an attracting force for all of the faces of his past.
“It insulted my mother,” he answered him dryly. No doubt they already knew just why he was out here, but that did not mean that he was going to admit to it. No—some hurts were better kept locked away, close to his heart. Resting the blade up against the battered dummy, he reached for a towel hung on the fence nearby, wiping the sweat of the workout from his face. “Can I be of service somehow?”
Fenris continued hacking at the dummy.
Zevran's expression faltered a little. It wasn't likely that he was standing too far away to be heard; good hearing was sometimes the difference between life and death for swordbearers. More likely that Fenris was too focused on his target. Most likely that this was a polite way of telling him to bugger off. The assassin shifted his weight subtly, wondering if he was supposed to be taking a hint.
But before he could shrug and leave Fenris turned around, giving him a quick appraising glance. "It insulted my mother," he said, his tone dry and his expression composed as usual -- though the remains of the dummy spoke otherwise. "Can I be of service somehow?"
It was at this point that Zevran realized he hadn't quite thought of the specifics of his plan aside from Approach and Offer.
"-- er," he began, mentally cycling through appropriate phrases. You seem like you could do with some company? Not quite true. Care to spar? A bit abrupt for his liking. I am concerned about your wellbeing during the grief process? "I was wondering if you wanted, er, company. You know, a more challenging target." He smiled in what he hoped came across as an easy, friendly grin.
Of course it could be that Fenris would much rather take his feelings out on something that could be comfortably destroyed, but -- well, no harm in asking, right?
And as vague and uncomfortable this odd sense of empathy might be, it was still there and it demanded to be addressed if not voiced.
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