[In a way, he appreciates the reluctance. He'd hesitate over something earnestly promised so swiftly, no of course I shan't Fenris you're too dear to me, please. Information has power, and he can well understand why Astarion would be reluctant to promise such a thing.
But so many people have laid claim to Hawke's life. They talk of her as a hero, a champion, a menace, an inciter, a villain to blame or a hero to revere . . . but it's the little things Fenris remembers most. The crack in her voice as she'd sobbed out pleas for her mother's corpse not to leave her. The reckless glint in her eye as she'd bait templars, smugly pushing them for no other reason than she felt it was the least they deserves. The way she had once found a book for Fenris, I thought you would appreciate it, it's about Shartan— and, when he had confessed his illiteracy, her aid in teaching him.
He misses her so much it aches sometimes.]
Years ago, the Wardens, as far as I can understand it, attempted to renew the seals that kept Corypheus bound with blood magic. Specifically, the blood of Malcolm Hawke, an apostate. I believe it was involuntary, but . . . regardless, it was his blood that kept the magister away. Well and good, but . . .
[Well. Blood magic never, ever ends well. There are a thousand reasons why, and admittedly, this is one of the more mundane ways it could backfire, but still. Blood magic! It sucks! Fenris has told people that from day one!]
There was a warden. A fool. I suppose at one point her intentions were honorable: she thought she could use Corypheus to wipe out the darkspawn, perhaps. Some fool idea like that. It did not take long for her to be corrupted by his influence, subtle though I assume it was. But because it was the blood of the Hawke that had sealed him, it was only that which could free him. And since the man had long since died, she needed as close a substitute as she could get.
She tricked Hawke and a few of us into his prison, where only breaking the blood seals would set us free.
[A deep inhale— and then, a wry aside:]
That was the second time I have been trapped underground thanks to her. I did not care for that aspect of our friendship.
In any case. She had little choice but to free him. And when he awoke . . .
[Hm.]
He was malformed. Confused. Have you ever seen him? He is more demon than man, warped beyond compare. [He gestures vaguely in the air.] But he knew enough to demand we drop to our knees, rattus and dwarves and lesser beings that we were. He prayed to Dumat and spoke of storming the Golden City . . .
[And Fenris believes him, he really does. He absolutely believes that a group of magisters would get it in their heads to challenge the Maker, and as for the Maker himself . . . well. It's complicated, but . . . anyway, the point is: he believes Corypheus.]
And, when we did not answer and scrape and capitulate immediately, his rage grew. He screamed for his golden throne and decided he would slaughter us before he attempted to retake it. And we, not wishing to die, fought back.
[Silence for a precious few seconds.]
It was a hard fight. Harder than any I have ever fought in before. But he fell to blades and magic, just as any creature will. I saw his corpse fall. I watched her dismember him. And yet still, he rose again, and I do not know how.
[So. With all that being said . . .]
It was not her fault. It was never her fault. But she blamed herself, I have no doubt, and I do not need others agreeing with her memory.
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But so many people have laid claim to Hawke's life. They talk of her as a hero, a champion, a menace, an inciter, a villain to blame or a hero to revere . . . but it's the little things Fenris remembers most. The crack in her voice as she'd sobbed out pleas for her mother's corpse not to leave her. The reckless glint in her eye as she'd bait templars, smugly pushing them for no other reason than she felt it was the least they deserves. The way she had once found a book for Fenris, I thought you would appreciate it, it's about Shartan— and, when he had confessed his illiteracy, her aid in teaching him.
He misses her so much it aches sometimes.]
Years ago, the Wardens, as far as I can understand it, attempted to renew the seals that kept Corypheus bound with blood magic. Specifically, the blood of Malcolm Hawke, an apostate. I believe it was involuntary, but . . . regardless, it was his blood that kept the magister away. Well and good, but . . .
[Well. Blood magic never, ever ends well. There are a thousand reasons why, and admittedly, this is one of the more mundane ways it could backfire, but still. Blood magic! It sucks! Fenris has told people that from day one!]
There was a warden. A fool. I suppose at one point her intentions were honorable: she thought she could use Corypheus to wipe out the darkspawn, perhaps. Some fool idea like that. It did not take long for her to be corrupted by his influence, subtle though I assume it was. But because it was the blood of the Hawke that had sealed him, it was only that which could free him. And since the man had long since died, she needed as close a substitute as she could get.
She tricked Hawke and a few of us into his prison, where only breaking the blood seals would set us free.
[A deep inhale— and then, a wry aside:]
That was the second time I have been trapped underground thanks to her. I did not care for that aspect of our friendship.
In any case. She had little choice but to free him. And when he awoke . . .
[Hm.]
He was malformed. Confused. Have you ever seen him? He is more demon than man, warped beyond compare. [He gestures vaguely in the air.] But he knew enough to demand we drop to our knees, rattus and dwarves and lesser beings that we were. He prayed to Dumat and spoke of storming the Golden City . . .
[And Fenris believes him, he really does. He absolutely believes that a group of magisters would get it in their heads to challenge the Maker, and as for the Maker himself . . . well. It's complicated, but . . . anyway, the point is: he believes Corypheus.]
And, when we did not answer and scrape and capitulate immediately, his rage grew. He screamed for his golden throne and decided he would slaughter us before he attempted to retake it. And we, not wishing to die, fought back.
[Silence for a precious few seconds.]
It was a hard fight. Harder than any I have ever fought in before. But he fell to blades and magic, just as any creature will. I saw his corpse fall. I watched her dismember him. And yet still, he rose again, and I do not know how.
[So. With all that being said . . .]
It was not her fault. It was never her fault. But she blamed herself, I have no doubt, and I do not need others agreeing with her memory.