(athenril-of-kirkwall) β you got two choices: let me carry you, or die out here. take your pick. β with any characters you'd like
Blood runs in crimson streaks through the street. Covers the blade Hawke so recently tugged out of Fenris, both of them hidden away in an alley.Β Maker, there is so much blood. The thick copper scent of it fills Hawkeβs nose, weeps across his hand where it presses against the jagged open wound on Fenrisβ side, gushing into the cloth Hawke tore off his shirt. Too much, Hawkeβs hands shake even as they glow with pale golden light, he is losing too much blood.Β
Fenris hisses, a harsh breath forced out between his teeth. βLeave it be Hawke, it is nothing.β Sweat beads in swathes across his skin which is bloodless and ashen. Even his eyes are beginning to unfocus as Hawke desperately tries to staunch the blood flow.
Nothing his ass. βShut up, Iβm not going to let you just bleed out in some dirty alleyway Fenris. Not now, not ever.β But Hawkeβs energy is running low, the pair of them ambushed on the way back to Hightown without warning and nearly off guard. The glow of his magic is weak and fading.Β
βLeave it be.β Fenrisβ hand comes up to cover Hawkeβs own, already cold and clammy.Β
Hawke shakes his head, βDid you not hear me?β Fast math in his head, how much mana he has left up against how deep the wound is. And Hawke comes up short. Time is not on his side either, no potions unless they can get-
Freezes. It would be close, heβs already exhausted from the fight and from squeezing as much magic out on this as he has left but. Itβs where theyβre headed anyway. His hand stills under Fenrisβ and he takes his eyes off the wound to look up at him. Normally vibrant green muted and Hawke makes his decision.Β
βOkay,Β you got two choices: let me carry you, or die out here. Take your pick.β He has lyrium potions at the house, along with his tools and poultices and bandages. Everything he is missing here in this alleyway choked with blood.Β
βHawke-β Fenris begins with a low rumble Hawke is surprised he can still manage before he dissolves into a wet cough.Β
Hands aching he continues to press them, hard, against the thin makeshift bandage. βIβm not going to ask again Fenris.βΒ
βFine.β Short and chopped and quick to match how Fenrisβ breathing is harsh and ragged.Β
Without waiting for another word Hawke pours the last of his energy into the wound, nearly slumps over with the effort but manages to slip his arm under Fenris. Blood slowed to a thick, heavy trickle and it will have to be enough. Hawke hoists him against his chest and stands on shaking legs, βWeβre going home and youβre going to stay there until this stops happening."Β
So cold, greyed out skin and labored breaths against Hawkeβs neck. "Youβre being ridiculous."Β
"Better ridiculous than dead.β Trembling step after trembling step Hawke makes his way back home. βMaker Fenris one of these days youβre-β Stopping the words before they can spill further Hawkeβs hands clench around Fenris. βJust, promise me youβll stop throwing yourself in harmβs way like this.β
Fenris shakes his head weakly, βIf youΒ would stop putting yourself there I would."Β
Crimson around Fenrisβ wrist, smooth as satin and dry as bone. Hawkeβs fingers glance against the token as he hurries through the backstreets towards his house. Itβll be close, closer than Hawke wants to ever experience again. But.
With the Maker on his side Hawke will make it on time.
