[Fenris had been near Wycome when the letter had come to him. He'd been following the trail of some slavers, who has been hugging the coastline, trying to dock and prey on the refugees headed for the bigger cities in the Free Marches. It was gritty, messy work, but it took his mind off the fact that Hawke had gone where he couldn't follow. Where he'd been asked not to follow. Slaughtering the slavers at least got rid of some of the pent up frustration gathered by feeling powerless. Not knowing what Hawke was facing, not being able to ensure his safety by being at his side. He hated it.
The refugees kept him fed, offering meagre supplies as thanks for his protection. He took little, not wishing for them to go hungry on his account. He'd lived on the road before, he knew how to take care of himself, when it came to it. It was one of the refugees that brought the letter to him, claiming some soldier from the blighted Inquisition that Hawke had run to had brought it. He'd read Varric's words, the fact he could at all one of Hawke's greatest gifts to him, more so than any sword or talisman, and headed right for Weisshaupt.
He'd got there early, they told him, that Ser Hawke was on his way. Then, nervously, they had directed him to the man's chambers and left him be. Fenris never cared much for Wardens, Anders was his main focal point for them and it had left a sour taste in his mouth.
So, he'd waited. And where Hawke looked tired, Fenris looked tightly wound. His agitation had only grown, from reading the letter, to waiting in this room. Varric's letter had been purposefully vague, but it didn't hold the usual irreverent tones the dwarf liked to use. Something was deeply wrong.
He'd been pacing, when Hawke finally arrives. He pauses, glancing up, eyes tying to take in everything all at once. Trying to check for injury, for anything that needed his immediate concern. Something was definitely wrong, and it made his heart ache. But Maker, if it wasn't good to see him again. ]
Hawke.
[Just his name, but beneath the usual gruffness, there was concern, frustration, and under that the deep, aching love that always threatened to consume him if he were not careful. ]
no subject
The refugees kept him fed, offering meagre supplies as thanks for his protection. He took little, not wishing for them to go hungry on his account. He'd lived on the road before, he knew how to take care of himself, when it came to it. It was one of the refugees that brought the letter to him, claiming some soldier from the blighted Inquisition that Hawke had run to had brought it. He'd read Varric's words, the fact he could at all one of Hawke's greatest gifts to him, more so than any sword or talisman, and headed right for Weisshaupt.
He'd got there early, they told him, that Ser Hawke was on his way. Then, nervously, they had directed him to the man's chambers and left him be. Fenris never cared much for Wardens, Anders was his main focal point for them and it had left a sour taste in his mouth.
So, he'd waited. And where Hawke looked tired, Fenris looked tightly wound. His agitation had only grown, from reading the letter, to waiting in this room. Varric's letter had been purposefully vague, but it didn't hold the usual irreverent tones the dwarf liked to use. Something was deeply wrong.
He'd been pacing, when Hawke finally arrives. He pauses, glancing up, eyes tying to take in everything all at once. Trying to check for injury, for anything that needed his immediate concern. Something was definitely wrong, and it made his heart ache. But Maker, if it wasn't good to see him again. ]
Hawke.
[Just his name, but beneath the usual gruffness, there was concern, frustration, and under that the deep, aching love that always threatened to consume him if he were not careful. ]