@victoryrite
It’s been years since Garrett last spoke to Fenris.
It’s been years of receiving letters from Fenris, yet never returning them, never thinking to.
He’s better off without me. Even now, the thought drums in his head at a steady, low beat. He’s trying to ignore it. He’s trying so hard. When he sees Fenris at the tavern he nearly runs before the elf can see him. He looks different. Stronger. More self-assured. The haircut is definitely new—he looks good.
& Andraste, does Garrett miss him. It’s Varric that sent Fenris a missive that the so called Champion of Kirkwall survived the fade—barely—but survived all the same. Even though he & Varric are no longer on good terms, the dwarf still seems to care about him in his own way.
Garrett knows he should be grateful. A part of him is. But a bigger part of him doesn’t know if he has the strength to confront Fenris. To apologize for throwing away what they had worked so hard to build up.
Garrett sees that Fenris is still wearing his favor, that he’s still wearing the Amell family crest—maybe there’s still hope. Maybe Garrett hasn’t lost everyone in his life. Only time will tell. He wants to reach out, wants to grab him and kiss him and pretend that everything is fine.
But he knows better than that.
He knows that, at some level, the trust they’d built up over the years must be in ill repair. It has to be, with how short Fenris’ letters had gotten. There’s nothing important in them any more. (Not that it matters, Garrett still keeps them with him in his satchel.)
He approaches with quiet footsteps, but he knows Fenris has been trained for battle—he’ll hear him, as he always has. “Fenris.” His voice is hoarse from ill use. He hasn’t spoken more than a few words here and there in months. “I kept all your letters. I’m sorry.”
They have to start somewhere, don’t they?
Immediately, there are eyes on them both. It’s hard for the Champion of Kirkwall to walk in anywhere without being looked at. His beard has grown in his travels. It’s ill kept. His hair has grown long—also ill kept. He’s a shadow of what he once was. Grey peppers his hair in spots, thin lines of silver that shine brightly even in the low light of the tavern.
