Happy DADWC! How about “just go. you can still make it. don’t worry about me.” for Fenris and m!Hawke of your choice?
Thank you for the prompt!! Here's a little post-Battle-of-Kirkwall blurb :3
@dadrunkwriting
Sweat beaded on his skin, dripped from his face, and disappeared into the blood leaking out around his hands. Rowan sat slumped, propped up against the smooth stone wall of a Hightown manor; trying with everything in him to keep himself together, to take deep, even breaths, to not writhe with the searing agony tearing along his every nerve, and- Oh, maker. He grit his teeth against a cry of pain, managing to stifle it into a strained groan.
Of course, it had been too much to hope for that every templar had heard the news that the battle was over, that Cullen had managed to wrangle all of them back into the Gallows. They had been so close. A few blocks more and they would've made it to the rendezvous point at the gate to Sundermount, to the rest of their friends, to escape. He coughed weakly, and felt something warm spill from his mouth in the same instant that fire ripped through his abdomen, doubling him over and sending a fresh gush of blood out from the spaces between his fingers. It was sticky and hot and so, so much. Through the gathering fog that crept through his mind, dulling his thoughts and senses, he wondered vaguely if he had any healing potions. He tried to fumble with his belt pouch, but his fingers seemed to be missing cues.
A metallic clang rang out, barely heard through the haze gradually consuming every bit of his awareness, as Fenris felled the last templar. It seemed both after an eternity and in an instant that Fenris was dropping to one knee in front of him, handsome face stricken with worry and spattered with blood that was not his own.
"Rowan! Fasta vas– How bad is that wound?"
Without waiting for an answer, he tore into Rowan's belt pouch himself and fished out the last potion. It was less than halfway full. Muffled dismay clamored somewhere far in the back of his mind. Fenris swore again, but uncorked the bottle and tipped what was left into Rowan's mouth. The iron on his tongue mingling with the herbal taste of the potion was unpleasant, to say the least, but he didn't have long to ponder flavors before it began to take effect. His senses flooded back to him, though that meant the throbbing pain in his stomach redoubled. It took his breath away, and he sat there trying not to gasp too hard so as to avoid aggravating his injury. The potion hadn't been enough. Rowan still felt cold and frail, could still feel the steady flow of blood pulsing from the gash with every beat of his heart, but it might have slowed it enough for him to make it to the gate. To Anders. If they didn't run across more trouble on the way...
Fenris cupped his cheek, held his gaze. His eyes were round and shining with worry. Wordlessly, gingerly, he pulled Rowan's hand away from his stomach just enough to check his wound, sucking in a quiet, hissing breath through his teeth when he saw the state of it.
"I'm sorry, amatus." Their eyes met once more, and Fenris stroked his thumb over Rowan's cheekbone. The tenderness in his touch left little sparks of warmth in its wake, a small comfort in the face of what was rapidly becoming a dire situation. Fenris sighed. "There's no helping it; we must get you on your feet if we want to make it to that mage before you lose too much blood."
He slipped an arm under Rowan's, snaking it around his back and lifting him to his feet.
"Wait, beloved, if there are still templars about, I'll be too much of a burden. I don't want you to risk yourself for my sake." Rowan paused—breathless, overcome—and when he spoke again, his voice trembled and broke. "Please don't risk yourself." A steadying breath. "Just go. You can still make it, don't worry about me."
"Never," came the fervent reply, growled through gritted teeth. "You should know by now that I would die at your side before I ever left you behind." His tone brooked no argument, and Rowan didn't know if he could summon the strength to try.
Even despite his best efforts, he found himself leaning more and more heavily on Fenris as they stumbled through the streets. His legs grew weaker with each step, breaths shallower, sight blurrier, hand redder. The world spun and tilted around him, stretching out into streaks of color and light, and he even didn't realize he was falling until he felt strong, slender arms around him, lifting him until they were fully carrying him.
He's so much stronger than he has any business being, was his final, distantly affectionate thought before the darkness that had been lurking at the edges of his vision finally swallowed him whole.












