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Fenris was drinking. And staring into the fire. And brooding.
None of this was new.
The riot of confusion in his head and heart, however, was very new--and just as unwelcome. It was an unpleasant pressure in his chest, a breathless feeling that made his shoulders tighten even as he gripped the neck of the bottle tighter.
Anders had just left. If he was the sort of pathetic creature to do such a thing, Fenris could go to where the mage had been sitting and brush his fingers across the cushioned back of the chair, feeling the lingering warmth. He could likely still smell him, scenting like the dog he was, and venhedis, he needed to stop.
Snarling, Fenris threw the quarter-full bottle at the fireplace. Flames roared higher, heat and light licking across his dark armor, and Maker but he wanted to howl. This strange, convoluted dance should have made things easier, made his tangle of feelings for Hawke easier, but the knot in his chest was even tighter than before, and he didn't--
He--
He slumped back in his chair, green eyes closing. He didn't know how to handle what was happening in his own head. His heart.
Fenris tipped his chin forward, silver hair brushing forward, and drew in a stuttery breath. It wasn't until he became aware of a creeping chill that he realized he was somewhere else. Jerking up, reaching for the sword that wasn't there, Fenris darted his gaze around the unfamiliar hall with its high ceilings and statues and stained glass.
Danarius, he thought, markings beginning to flicker to life. And no Hawke or Anders to see him safely through this greatest of all his fears.
None of this was new.
The riot of confusion in his head and heart, however, was very new--and just as unwelcome. It was an unpleasant pressure in his chest, a breathless feeling that made his shoulders tighten even as he gripped the neck of the bottle tighter.
Anders had just left. If he was the sort of pathetic creature to do such a thing, Fenris could go to where the mage had been sitting and brush his fingers across the cushioned back of the chair, feeling the lingering warmth. He could likely still smell him, scenting like the dog he was, and venhedis, he needed to stop.
Snarling, Fenris threw the quarter-full bottle at the fireplace. Flames roared higher, heat and light licking across his dark armor, and Maker but he wanted to howl. This strange, convoluted dance should have made things easier, made his tangle of feelings for Hawke easier, but the knot in his chest was even tighter than before, and he didn't--
He--
He slumped back in his chair, green eyes closing. He didn't know how to handle what was happening in his own head. His heart.
Fenris tipped his chin forward, silver hair brushing forward, and drew in a stuttery breath. It wasn't until he became aware of a creeping chill that he realized he was somewhere else. Jerking up, reaching for the sword that wasn't there, Fenris darted his gaze around the unfamiliar hall with its high ceilings and statues and stained glass.
Danarius, he thought, markings beginning to flicker to life. And no Hawke or Anders to see him safely through this greatest of all his fears.
