Despite his substantial bulk, Hawke is NOT THE WARRIOR. It is not his role to engage in close combat, to take the hits as guardian against ranged fighters as their distanced attacks take out stragglers and maintain crowd control. That is Fenris’ position. He is the one with layered armor, metal guarding his extremities. The one with the massive blade, capable of swinging and defending. Fenris, the highly capable warrior, knows how to take a hit.
WHY, THEN, did Hawke dart beside him, shoving him roughly aside, in order to take a hit unseen from the side?
The man is not thoughtful. He is not gentle, loving, empathetic. He is not kind – he is not even POLITE. He is distant. ( Though he has not been following the brute long, Fenris has gathered that his companions are nothing more than stragglers in his eyes; faceless figures that follow him around and mean nothing to him. ) Fenris catches himself just before he falls from Hawke’s shove and he watches the mage accept the slicing attack, tearing the simple fabric of his mage’s armor. The elf leaps to cleave at the enemy as Hawke falls, his blade sliding easily through the sensitive tissue of the bandit’s throat.
“ ANDERS – MAKE YOURSELF USEFUL! ” Fenris shouts at the healer, instinctively looking back to their leader. Is he all right? he finds himself thinking a hair shy of frantically.
he doesn’t know where his BREATH IS until it’s been knocked up & cracked open somewhere in front of him, & the pleat of his lungs have folded in on themselves. the ground is an UNFRIENDLY companion but not unfamiliar –— he has ALWAYS fought like this. he’s not a soldier like carver was, with shoulders measured to a perfect line & posture weighted for military boots; garrett learned ( as ALL mages do ) to scrap up the fight from his bones, from the adrenaline still stacking his hair in pinpricks.
survival, at its core. instinct.
he regrets it now: the warm spill of raw blood, gathering up in the edge of his sleeve, gurgling over ( also familiar; more intimately, lately ). the TATTERED remains of fabric there, acrylic red. he tucks the wound into the pocket of his palm to test its sting. his calves take the weight to lift him to his feet, & he shoves the arm out to anders, expectant.
& his eyes slide, languid, to fenris.
❛ –— are you even paying attention ? ❜
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