#v: evolution

@fatetcrn​  | Short form starters | Accepting

“I’m not certain either,” Hawke admitted with a faint frown. It certainly wasn’t outside the scope of possibility, where Isabela was concerned.

Still, the idea of her and Fenris sailing off to Rivain, with Aveline consumed with her guard duties, Merrill taking her leave as well, and Anders…Suddenly, Hawke was looking around and realizing her little family was disintegrating in her hands. She needed a way out of Kirkwall as well, now that the templars were after her head, but somehow, in her foolish mind, she had imagined she would not be leaving alone.

“I suppose they are, aren’t they?” Her voice was just a murmur, uncharacteristically melancholy. She shook her head, trying to clear the dour look from her face. “I was thinking about returning to Ferelden for a while, myself…” She wanted to smile, play it off, like always, but it was hard to disguise the sorrowful look in her eyes. “I suppose there’s not much left for any of us here in Kirkwall, is there?”

Emotions flitted across Hawke’s face, and Fenris knew her well enough by now to recognize the likely source of her wistful expression. They had spent years here, at one anothers’ backs. Hawke’s flock against the world, against all comers, and none had emerged victorious in their wake.

Wounds had been suffered, of course. Losses taken by all. It had been a war of attrition, and Hawke was now as alone as she had ever been, just as Fenris was himself.

Yet he had always been so, once he had struck free from his own chains, even once he was amongst the others. Part of him had always stood alone. But Hawke... she was not used to contemplating such a solitary future.

“Maybe you would, but I’d rather you didn’t.”

   ‘You shoved your hand into his stomach. That’s one hell of a warning. How’d you do that? I’d like t’know that little trick,’ His glance was one of both admiration and caution. He’s prone to violence, himself. However, usually it involves more metal and boots– Not a glowing fist of terrifying, raw power, ‘You uhhh, don’t do that at random, right?’

The entire situation seemed surreal, and yet. Here they were, alone together. From the vantage atop his manor, they had the vast expanse of the city laid out before them, its flaws rendered somehow strangely lovely by distance. And every time he blinked, the sun still shone steadily above, warming him, though never as much as one of her smiles, catching the hidden highlights in Bethany’s dark hair, setting them aflame until they were the same striking color as her amber eyes.

...And he sounded like an idiot, even in the privacy of his mind.

Shaking his head ruefully, Fenris reached for the basket set precariously against a few stacked and broken tiles and retrieved a bottle of wine.

Isabela pushes her mug of ale to the side. Arms folded against her chest, she gives him a grin. “You don’t know me very well if you think that’s going to happen.” She probably isn’t going to say anything. Isabela enjoys teasing her companions, even Fenris. “What do I get out of it? Something shiny would be nice.”

Slanting her a narrowed glare, Fenris finally sighed, his shoulders slouching in surrender. He should have known better than to allow himself to get that drunk in Isabela’s presence. Even his guarded tongue loosened when plied with sufficient liquid persuasion.

“You have a point there,” Erestor stated, a small air of amusement passing his lips - clearly the small, suspicious gentleman was intelligent. At least intelligent enough to have got out of scrapes with assassins.

“I would not kill my brother elf. In such a case, look at my hands,” he said, pulling up his sleeves and holding them out - the smooth hands of someone who worked with books rather than weapons.

“I have an interest in your extensive literature collection.”

Eyes narrowing suspiciously, Fenris looked the stranger over, glancing down at the hands he proffered with a frown. It had been so long since he had been pursued, he had thought himself safe... or as safe as one such as him would ever be.

It was late, far too late to be roaming Darktown, and yet. Fenris found himself hidden around the corner from the clinic, scowling into the darkness, unwilling to remain but equally unwilling to leave when Anders might step out at any moment.

The Mage had been acting particularly strange lately, even towards Hawke, and Fenris knew a persecuted man when he saw one, knew the signs of someone who held a secret so closely that its talons curled around his heart and would likely soon choke him. 

If Fenris didn’t have the pleasure of doing so first.

His patience was rewarded a few moments later, however, when the Mage did indeed exit the clinic, his ridiculous robe fluffed up against the cold, glancing furtively to one side and then the other before he proceeded at a brisk pace.

Padding silently behind him, the elf followed. Miraculously, none attacked Anders as Fenris tailed him across Darktown, despite his openly distracted manner. Perhaps the scum here were growing smarter. Or they’d killed all those who were stupid enough to try.

Eventually they came to a trap door, poorly concealed, and Anders climbed in, leaving the elf to catch the door before it sealed, to slowly ease inside a handful of breaths later, and to close it as silently as possible behind him. He was in some sort of underground barrow, not unlike others they had cleared in the city, the planks beneath his feet battered and worn, the distant flickering of a torch ahead telling him that the passage was somewhat well-traveled, regardless of the fact that he had not known of it.

He’d barely stepped around the first corner, however, when he was stopped short, nearly running into Anders who stood stock still, staring silently down the hall.