When the fight is done, what Fenris feels firstly is the old anger at mockery, what with this being how Danarius dressed him for special occasions.
But this isn’t mockery, real stitches knotting the lips, the eyes. Which means this might be empathy he feels, anger at visible symbols of control and stifling, what it would mean for another to wield this weapon the mage has become—
—Fenris knows the urge to abuse the power those symbols impart from both ends of the stick—
—he feels something like a foolish protectiveness, and a bone deep revulsion well beyond his skin. But with revulsion comes desire, desire brings self-revulsion, married together this time not by Danarius but by this mage who will never again command.
Fenris lowers his sword and stares at the dead Arvaarad at his feet and wishes for a drink while the Dangerous Thing stands alone and bloody amidst the massacre, waiting for a Qunari word of command, horribly accented or otherwise from the mouth of an elf who learned Qunlat twice over two lives, for reasons he will never explain.
And what this heresy does to Sebastian, Fenris does not want to know, the priest on his knees right now with his hands folded around the shaft of his bow but his eyes wide open and spit gathering at the corner of his mouth as he prays, prays, or what this means to Carver cursing and kicking bloody sand in a fitful rage no one has to understand to understand, the stains of someone else's death scarcely showing on the folds of templar skirts.
Eventually Hawke finishes looting, stands up, crooks his finger at Fenris first, at least he was still first.
Parshaara, Fenris thinks desperately, let it be enough, but this is Hawke and it is never enough, so what Fenris says to Anders is Hawke's will through his own and it means follow, and their Dangerous Thing follows, Hawke’s newest weapon forged to shatter, not endure, no more silent behind the closed eyes than a haunted grave.
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