At Your Side (A Dragon Age fanfiction)

Hadriana

"I said bring Varric," Fenris hissed at Hawke. "Why did you bring the blood mage?"

Varric winced at the terminology, glancing at Merrill to make sure she hadn't heard. She continued to chatter in his direction, seeming oblivious, but Varric wasn't convinced. Merrill often pretended to be less aware than she actually was; she seemed to find it easier to deflect things than to admit they bothered her. Still, though, it wouldn't hurt the elf to watch his vicious tongue once in a while. Merrill wasn't responsible for whatever atrocities had put the greatsword up Fenris's arse.

"Last I checked, I was still in charge," Hawke responded.

The elf glanced at her, his mouth open to say something else, but whatever he saw in Hawke's face stopped him. Varric sympathized with Fenris—he suspected once they tracked Bartrand down, he wouldn't be feeling any too jovial—but he found Hawke's answer inadequate. There was no question she had a soft spot for the broody elf, and let him get away with comments she wouldn't have accepted from anyone else.

Varric hung back as they entered the caves, watching the others. Merrill and Hawke were alert and wary, ready for battle. Fenris looked tense, almost brittle, and Varric could see his arm twitch toward his sword at every sound. Whoever this Hadriana was, one thing was very clear: She frightened Fenris in a way Varric had never seen the elf frightened before.

Inside the cave was damp and cool, and bore evidence of use both old and recent. What it wasn't was brightly lit. Merrill withdrew a clear glass ball from her pack, affixed it to the end of her staff, and lit it with a brief word, quietly spoken.

Varric heard Hawke whisper, "Now do you see why I brought her?" and Fenris respond with an impatiently snapped "Yes, yes."

Merrill forged ahead, her light shining brighter than that of the occasional spluttering torches they passed. Eventually they found themselves in a large chamber, lit by a number of candles.

"These haven't burned down very far," Hawke noted. "This room has been used recently—not more than a few hours ago, if I had to guess."

"And look what it was used for." Fenris's voice was flat and harsh as he looked at the blood-splattered altar and the pile of bodies that lay next to it. "A blood ritual. See what your kind is capable of?" He turned to Merrill, his lip curling in disgust.

"My kind? I'm an elf. Just like you."

Fenris whirled on her, hissing, "You are nothing like me! You are a blood mage, a ruthless wanton murderer who has turned away from the very people you claim to be attempting to aid."

Merrill stepped away from him, a gleam of tears shining in her eyes, and Varric thrust himself protectively in front of her. He glared at Fenris. "Hawke, muzzle this thing, or I'll do it for you. You're way out of line, elf."

"'Muzzle'?" Fenris's eyes widened, and Varric felt for a moment the weight of the anger the elf carried—but only for a moment. Hawke, as always, stepped in between them, taking the brunt of the elf's anger on herself. It was safest—Fenris cooled down more quickly for Hawke than for anyone else. But it was also a measure of how seriously Hawke took her leadership, and, Varric suspected, a bit of a relief for Hawke, as well. Arguing with Fenris seemed to be a good way to get her own frustrations out, and on someone who was more than strong enough to handle them.

The two warriors stood toe to toe, arguing in tense whispers that grew in volume. "Tell them!" Hawke said urgently.

"Hawke, you cannot ask this of me. This is something ... I don't like to speak of it."