Chapter Text
It happened so quick no one could have stop it. They had been patrolling Lowtown, and found themselves in a small, back alley, that had a far too alarming dead end. When a horde of Templars flooded out of some building or another, they were swarmed. Fenris was knocked down in an instant, the hilt of a sword bashed into the back of his head. It was infuriating– that something that simple could knock him down so easily. He moved to push himself up, but a boot on his back shoved him straight back into the dirt, and he watched as the Templars all but surrounded Hawke. Just as swiftly, they knocked the human to the ground, although Fenris was unable see the blade they used to do so. Garrett, for better or worse, was curled up on the ground, looking like they'd beaten him black and blue, and Maker, was he winded. There was a small attempt on Fenris's part to crawl forwards– to reach out and help, but then the boot on his back dug in harder, threatening. They smote Hawke, the warrior realized after a moment. That would explain why he’d all but curled up into a ball in agony. A feral growl slipped past his lips, and he reached out to grab his blade tight in his fist. When shackles slipped around Hawke’s wrists, however, and a blade was pushed to his throat, Fenris froze. There was no way he could afford to lose the one man he loved more than the entire world just like that.
He released the steely grip on his own blade, and it suddenly occured to him that they’d been caught. Hawke had been caught. And he felt the whole world swallow him up. As they hauled Hawke away, Fenris screamed the man’s name, begging, pleading, desperate to get him back. More desperate than anything he’s ever known. The heel of a boot to his face shut him up.
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All Hawke can roughly remember was being dragged. Fear coursing through his brain, a silent praise to the Maker that, as Bethany had lived, she’d never had to undergo this. And then he was pulled to some empty room. On his way up there, in the shackles lined with lyrium, he heard another voice calling him. His world, however, was in a haze, the shackles causing him a mental and magical blockade that caused him to feel nothing short of fuzzy. Distinctly recalled it was his brother’s voice, after a moment. Carver’s voice shouting for them to release him– shouting to let him go, take him instead, do anything but this. It was beyond alarming, because Carver was usually distant in his relationship. He acted as if he hated his older brother, as if he never really cared despite the blood they shared. He protected Bethany and Garrett, certainly, but to see his true colours under these circumstances stung. Hawke didn’t stir, however, for Carver’s own protection. That is, until they stuck him. Suddenly, Garrett was brought to life, struggling, snarling, fighting against this until he felt that familiar dagger pressed to his throat. When a templar whispered threats about ‘that fucking knife ear of yours and your little bitch of a brother bleeding out,’ Hawke forced himself to still. Faught the rising bile in his throat, the desperate fear in his bones that threatened to make him quake, make him fall apart.
And then his shackles were chained to the ceiling, his body supported by some rusty metal and his own shaking self, tears threatening to spill over. Because this wasn’t how he imagined it would end. This wasn’t what was ever supposed to happen to him. He was supposed to do so much more than this. Was supposed to be happy so much longer with Fenris, was supposed to spend eternity and a half with him. They’d only just admitted their how they felt for one another, and had finally allowed themselves to get close. That it would end all too soon hurt like nothing ever could.
Then a brand alit, the lyrium hot and burning, held in front of his eyes by a templar with a disgusting sneer. The tears fell then, fear taking him in a vice grip, face contorting. A sob didn’t slip past his lips, however, until the the brand was burned into his skull. Then he was screaming and sobbing, in agony, body on fire, bones weary, mind weak. It cut off, however suddenly, instead replaced by a disturbing nothingness. A mind rotting numbness, a cold, hard chill that rocked his soul. Inside, he was screaming. Until, even that faded away. Until he could only hear the warped echo of a scream that used to be his.
A week later, he was finally taken down from hanging there. His wrists were more that bruised, sore in a way only a prisoner could know. He was dragged back outside, and cringed at the light, at the harshness of it all. His body was a sickly colour, less golden and more yellow. More unhealthy, more pained. Coin was exchanged, and then his shackles were slipped into the hands of someone else, He was lead away a safe amount of paces, carefully following the other man, until he was unchained, and a soft, glowing hand was placed on his face. Testing, teasing, searching for something in Hawke’s eyes that wasn't there anymore, and an enraged noise slipped past the human's lips.
Not human. Elf.
Fenris, he distinctly remembered. This is Fenris. He used to sleep with him. Love him, whatever that word meant. Loved. There was a whole where that word used to mean something, a ripple in a pond where there was no bottom. He couldn't feel the emotions that used to be so clear, and instead, Hawke merely blinked.
“Hawke, look at me. Please.” His voice was soft, pained, desperate. Hawke recognized all of this, but couldn’t reciprocate it. Remembered how they used to feel, but as if in a dream. He allowed his eyes to meet Fenris’ own in a slow drag, and Fenris choked out something between a sob and a growl, because there was a brand in the shape of the sun on Hawke’s head. It felt as if the universe was playing a sick joke on him, that his sun, the light in his world that was some roguish human mage, was replaced by something of a symbol of what was. What should have been there.
He lead them back to a place Hawke recalled was his own– was something that he wanted to call home. But that word didn’t really mean anything now. It was too warm, too emotional, too raw. It was a house under his name. That’s all.
Fenris sat him down, bathed him, and then he carefully placed his arms to drape over Hawke’s shoulders, wrapping themselves loosely around the man’s neck, gingerly, so he didn’t feel as if he were being choked. He let his nose rest in Hawke’s hair, and whispered an apology over and over again, until it became something of a mantra.
“I am sorry, Hawke,” he finally grit out, words hoarse. “I love you. And I am so sorry I’ve not said it before now, but I cannot live without you. I cannot,” his voice broke slightly, and he turned away for a quick moment, inhaling sharply between his clenched teeth.
“We can fix this, Hawke. We are going to fix this.” His words were hard, a promise, an oath, and something inside of Hawke wanted to respond. But he didn’t know how, not anymore, and if that didn’t hurt the most, Maker knows what did.