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Night in Kirkwall was thick and humid, rain trickling down from gutters above, a stinking river threading the alleyway. The kind of night where every shadow was armed. The Coterie came in numbers this time, emboldened by a payout fat enough to buy silence from half the Guard. Figures darted through the gloom, knives glinting in guttering torchlight.
Fenris had already bloodied his blade, ghosting through the melee with that uncanny, relentless speed. He caught a Coterie brawler mid-charge— phased, shoulder slipping through the man’s thrust, bringing his sword up in a clean, brutal arc. There was a wet crunch, a spray of crimson. Fenris barely spared a glance; his eyes were locked on Katica, shadow-slender and deadly, dancing just outside the reach of harm.
Hawke’s laugh was ragged and breathless, his coat tattered, staff swinging in a wild parry against two thugs at once. "Getting sloppy, gentlemen! Did you really think you’d outnumber us?"
Anders was somewhere behind, flinging bolts of white-blue energy, the smell of burnt ozone thick and sickly. "This isn’t just a mugging," he called out, his magic weaving through the chaos, "they’re too organized."
A dagger whistled past Fenris' ear, embedding itself in the wall behind him. Another figure lunged, a Coterie cutthroat— slim, fast, eyes wild. Fenris pivoted sharply, ducking beneath a clumsy swing, feeling the prickle of adrenaline in his veins. He spotted Katica darting through the press, black cloak soaked and clinging, movements fluid and silent as a wraith.
Suddenly, a sharp whistle cut through the din— a signal of some kind. The enemy tightened ranks, two moving to flank Katica. Another bigger brute, black bearded with a heavily scarred face, barreled straight for Fenris. Their numbers weren't dwindling fast enough; for every one that fell, two more surged forward.
Anders voice rung out, "Katica! Behind you!"
Fenris let out a frustrated snarl between his teeth as the brute blocked his advance, great-maul catching the swing of Fenris’ blade. He chanced another glimpse at Katica as she ducked and parried, her blades flashing, flanked but not outmaneuvered.
Fenris pressed the assault, throwing all of his weight behind his weapon to knock the thug off balance, aiming low for the legs— but the man anticipated it, intercepting with his maul, grinning with yellowed teeth.
The telltale snap of a crossbow shouted out through the alleyway— loud, too loud, followed by the sickening thud of a bolt hitting flesh. Varric isn’t here, so that can only mean—
Fenris ducked beneath another wide swing of the maul, his eyes seeking out Katica in the mayhem. There! she was bloodied but still fighting, one arm hanging uselessly, a crossbow bolt embedded deep in her shoulder.
Fenris tightened his grip, gauntlets creaking, fury sharpening his senses to a razor's edge. He sidestepped the brute’s next blow, the maul whistling down to crack flagstone where his foot was a moment before. The brute bellowed a curse, swinging again— slower this time, heavy with overconfidence. Fenris ghosted left, blade slashing in a bright arc that bit deep into the man’s thigh, the hamstring snapping beneath steel. The bruiser crashed down with a howl, Fenris’ sword driving through his chest in a wet, decisive finish.
Across the alley, Hawke’s staff was a blur, arcane symbols swirling in the air as he shouted a word of power. Flames belched from his palm, catching two thugs in the blast, the heat momentarily driving back the press of bodies. One charged through the smoke, desperation making him reckless; Hawke blocked with a shimmering barrier, the cudgel rebounding, then swept his staff to crack the man’s jaw with a sickening crunch.
Anders was frantic, the wind of his magic lashing cloak and hair. "Katica!" he yelled, voice raw, but she was swallowed by the chaos. Another Coterie thug lunged at Anders’ exposed side, daggers flashing in the guttering light. He jerked his staff, sending a bolt of lightning through the attacker— there was the scent of burnt flesh, the flash of too-bright light, but Anders was forced to duck as another knife whistled past, cutting a line across his cheek.
The tide began to shift. The alley was littered with bodies, the Coterie numbers thinning, those still standing fighting with the wild-eyed knowledge that they were losing. Hawke’s magic painted the night with fire and crackling blue; Anders stumbled to his feet, Fade-light emanating from his hands. Fenris hacked down another, pivoting to keep Katica in his periphery— he saw her cut down her attacker with brutal efficiency, but the bolt in her shoulder left her movements stilted, blood soaking black into her cloak.
At last, one of the Coterie— some lieutenant, judging by his air of authority— threw down his weapon, shouting, "Fuck this, 's not worth it! Clear out boys!" The few who still could fled, vanishing into the labyrinthine darkness.
Silence fell in the alley, thick and dreadful, broken only by the groans of the dying and the patter of old rain on stone. Fenris’ sword dripped red, his breath tearing at his chest as he whirled around to Katica— just in time to see her slump against the wall, her good hand clutching at her wounded shoulder, her face ashen.
Anders sprinted to her side, Hawke close behind, the fading light of magic casting blue shadows over all three. Fenris was already moving, boots splashing through rainwater and blood, every instinct howling not fast enough.
Katica stumbled forward a couple of steps, sagging against the grimy brick, one hand grasping blindly at the crossbow bolt. Already Fenris could tell her movements were too sluggish, too uncoordinated, too unlike her.
Instinctively she recoiled from Anders’ magic as he closed in, but something was wrong— her eyes unfocused, her lips bloodless, opened around a half formed word. Her gaze slid over Fenris as he threw his sword aside with a clatter, catching her collapsing form before her head could hit the stone.
Fenris barely felt the impact as she folded into him— only the sudden, terrifying lightness of her weight, the way her body gave without resistance. He dropped to his knees with her, one arm braced behind her shoulders, the other clamped over the bolt as if pressure alone might be enough to bully life back into her.
Blood slicked his gauntlets, too much of it, dark and sluggish in a way that made his stomach twist. It didn’t spray, didn’t pulse— it seeped.
"No— no, stay with me," he snarled under his breath, frantically searching her face, her throat, for any sign of breath. Her lashes fluttered once, sluggish, and then nothing. The stillness that followed was wrong in a way Fenris felt in his bones.
Anders was at her other side, hands already glowing as he pressed them to her shoulder, magic flaring bright and desperate. "Kat— Katica, listen to me—" His voice fractured as the spell poured out of him, gold light spilling over her skin, knitting torn flesh, slowing the bleed—
—and then stalling. The magic sputtered, faltered, refusing to take hold.
"What!?" Anders swore, trying again, shoving more power into the spell. "This should be working. This should—"
Hawke crouched beside Fenris, staff clattering to the ground as he reached out, fingers hovering uselessly near her neck. His face drained of colour. "Anders," he said sharply. "She’s— she’s not breathing."
Fenris threw off his gauntlet, his hand flying to her throat, two fingers pressing hard where he knows her pulse should be. Nothing. No flutter. No stubborn beat. Just silence.
The world was swallowed by a high-pitched, vicious keening in his ears.
Anders froze. His magic guttered out like a candle snuffed by wind. Slowly, horrified, he pressed his ear to her chest, fingers splayed uselessly over battered leather, amber eyes widening with dread. Seconds stretched. Too many.
"Oh no," Anders whispered. "No, no—"
Hawke’s voice was hoarse. "…Is it poison?"
Anders looked up, eyes wide and shining with panic. "Yes— Maker, yes, that would explain it. The blood— Fenris, look at the colour of it." His hands shook as he gestured helplessly. "Some poisons slow the heart, or stop it entirely. I— I can purge toxins, I can heal wounds, but I can’t—" His breath caught as he swallowed thickly. "I can’t force a body to heal itself if it’s already dead."
The word landed like a blow.
Fenris stared down at Katica, at the slack line of her mouth, the grey creeping into her pale skin. Dead. The thought was a howl in his skull, a denial so violent it bordered on rage. His grip tightened around her body, her blood smeared across his arms, his chest heaving.
"No," he hissed. "You are wrong."
"Fenris—" Hawke started, reaching for him.
Fenris didn’t hear him. Couldn't. He stared at his own hand, slick with her blood, the lyrium beneath his skin burning suddenly, fiercely, as instinct clawed its way to the surface. Memory flashed— his hand in a stranger’s chest, the wet, electric jolt of life forced into stillness.
A heart squeezed into obedience.
His breath came fast and wild. He looked at Anders, eyes blazing. "Move."
Anders flinched. "Fenris, I don’t know if that will—"
"I do not care," Fenris snarled, shoving him back with one bloodied arm. "If there is a chance— any chance— I will take it."
Before anyone could stop him, Fenris gathered Katica closer, one hand braced around her shoulders, the other lifting— trembling now, for the first time— over her chest. The lyrium flared bright, casting the alley in harsh blue light. Her head lolled backward, limp and lifeless, her arms completely slack at her sides.
"I will not allow this," he breathed, a vow for himself and for her.
And then he plunged his hand into her chest, blind and desperate, hoping frantically to find something still there to save.
The lyrium seared beneath Fenris’ skin, aching to burn, to purge, honed for destruction— but desperately he willed it under control, pushing back against the fury. He grit his teeth with the effort, jaw creaking as he closed his fingers around Katica’s motionless heart.
Her body was still warm, so small and warm but limp, so horribly limp and wrong. Fenris kept his eyes on hers, watching for any sign of life, willing with all of his might for her to wake up.
"Be ready, Anders," he managed to hiss out between breaths as he began to tentatively massage her heart, uncertain of how to squeeze it, following only instinct. Sweat already began beading at his temples, cutting tracks down the grime on his cheekbones.
Anders scrambled back into focus, knees splashing in pooled rainwater and blood, hands already glowing gold and blue. "Come on, Katica. Come on—" His voice cracked, but the magic waited, coiled and hungry for the smallest spark of life to ignite it.
Hawke hovered nearby, face ghost-white beneath his black beard, one hand clutching his staff so tightly his knuckles blanched. "Shit. Shit. Fenris—" His words choked off, swallowed by hope and dread in equal measure.
Fenris’ hand was lost in the cold fire of lyrium, the sensation surreal— a woman’s heart, motionless and suspended, cupped in fingers that could unmake men with a thought. The muscles of his palm twitched as he willed them to move, coaxing the heart in short, careful squeezes, every motion a silent plea: Don’t leave. Don't you dare die. Not like this.
The alley was deathly quiet but for the trickle of rain and Fenris’ shuddering breaths. His vision tightened until there was nothing but the shadow of her lashes, the slack line of her lips, the stubborn hope tangling nauseously in his gut.
He massaged again, firmer, desperate now. The lyrium blazed white-hot, sweat streaking fown Fenris’ brow as his magic howled for violence, for destruction— but still he resisted, clinging instead to hope, to memory, to that night they spent in each others' arms, the promises he had yet to make and fulfill. He thought of how she still didn't know the truth of why he left, that if she died here she would never know.
And then— faint, so faint he could have imagined it— the heart shuddered in his hand. Just a twitch. Then another. A tiny choked gasp, a flutter of lashes. Katica’s chest jerked.
Anders surged forward, magic leaping from his hands in a river of blue-gold, knitting muscle, chasing the poison from her blood with a force that bordered on savage. "That’s it, Kat! Stay with me, don’t you dare— Fenris! Keep it steady!"
Fenris held her through it, his hand phased and assisting until he felt the stubborn, precious staccato of her heartbeat steady against his palm. He released her heart, letting the lyrium ease beneath his skin as he pulled his hand free. His arm dropped, trembling, to cradle her head and shoulders. The blue glow began to dim, leaving only the thready pulse beneath her skin, and the wild, shivering hope in his chest.
She was alive, barely.
Then, Fenris felt the strain crash into him all at once. The lyrium’s blue light guttered violently, flooding his vision with halos. His hands— one still slick with her blood, both trembling uncontrollably— wouldn't answer him properly. His skull pulsed with a sick, electric ache; white noise roared in his ears. For a heartbeat, everything tilted sideways, the alley swaying beneath his knees.
Blood trickled from his nose, shockingly bright against Katica's ashen skin as it dripped onto her cheek. Fenris barely registered Hawke’s broad hand catching his shoulder to steady him. He tried to focus on Katica’s face— her dark lashes flickering, her lips parting for a thin, desperate breath— but his vision split and blurred. His own breath came ragged, chest tight as if some part of the lyrium had scorched his lungs from within.
Anders reached for him as well, magic flickering uncertainly at his fingertips. "Fenris, are you—?"
Fenris growled, brushing the healer off with the last scrap of pride he owned, shaking his head fiercely. "See to her," he rasped, voice torn and half-strangled, "just… see to her."
He pressed his blood-slicked hand to his brow as his head pounded, smearing crimson across his temple. Every bone ached as the lyrium backlash finally subsided, cold fire dwindling to embers, leaving nothing but shudders and a dull, metallic taste on his tongue.
But Katica was alive, her heartbeat fluttering under his hand. He sagged forward, relief and agony mingling until he could no longer tell where one ended and the other began.
Katica’s breaths came in short, ragged gasps, her whole body trembling as Anders’ magic finished purging the poison. The healer gripped the crossbow bolt with one hand, the other pressed against her shoulder around the wound.
"Fenris, hold her—" Anders grit his teeth, knuckles white around the bolt. Katica’s eyes, half-closed and disoriented, sought out Fenris’ face in confusion.
Fenris swayed, still half-drowned in vertigo and that splitting lyrium ache, but the order cut through the fog like a knife. He tightened his grip around Katica, anchoring her against his chest, one arm braced behind her back. He wiped blood from his upper lip with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of crimson across his mouth, but his focus never wavered from her. He threaded his fingers into her hair, pressing her forehead to his neck.
Anders gave Hawke a nod— "On three." He leaned in, voice low but urgent, "Katica, listen to me. Stay with us. This will hurt."
Anders braced her shoulder and ripped the bolt free in one brutal, efficient movement. Katica’s entire body arched in Fenris’ arms, a strangled sound torn from her throat. Hawke was there, strong arms bracing both Fenris and Katica, holding them steady against the wave of pain. She squirmed in Fenris' grasp, her body shuddering violently. Blood poured fresh from the wound, but Anders was already chanting, magic surging, his hands pressed hard to the ruined flesh. The wound knit together in slow, painful increments, Anders sweating, muttering curses under his breath as he forced the last lingering traces of poison out.
Hawke stayed close, breath caught, ready with a shield spell in case of another ambush— but his eyes kept flickering back to Katica’s pale face, and to Fenris, still holding her as if by sheer will he could tether her to the world.
The seconds dragged. Katica’s breath stuttering, her eyes rolling in her head. Fenris bent close, sweat and rain and blood streaking his face, voice a low, broken rasp: "Stay with me, Katica. Look at me— here."
Anders’ magic finally ebbed, the glow fading, the worst of the bleeding stemmed. He slumped back, exhausted, amber eyes ringed with shadows. "She’s stable," he croaked. "But she needs rest. Fenris— don’t let go, keep her steady if you can."
Fenris clung to her, his own head bowed, shuddering with the aftershock— nose still bleeding sluggishly, every muscle burning. "I will not," he whispered, lips pressed to her brow, fierce and desperate. "You’re not leaving me. Not tonight."
Katica shuddered in Fenris’ arms as the aftershocks of pain slowly dulled to an ache, her fingers desperately grasping at his armoured back. Her face pressed to his neck, gulping down air as she seemingly tried to process what had happened.
Fenris’ heart hammered so hard in his chest it felt as though it might bruise against his ribs. He tightened his hold around Katica, burying his face in her tangled hair for a moment, just breathing her in, anchoring himself on the reality that she was alive— truly alive, her breath warm on his throat, her fingers clawing at his battered leathers.
Rain slid cold down the back of his neck. He lifted his head wearily, jaw clenched, and addressed Anders and Hawke with a hard-edged urgency. "We’re done here. I’m taking her home."
Hawke started to object— his hand came up, hesitant, worry written across his face— but Fenris silenced him with a glare that brooked no argument. "She needs quiet. And safety." His voice was hoarse and firm as steel. "My estate."
Anders glanced Katica over, hands still aglow with spent magic, and nodded— too weary to argue. "Get her warm. Watch for fever. I’ll come check on her in the morning."
Fenris shifted, gathering Katica into his arms— one arm beneath her knees, the other anchoring her against his chest, heedless of the blood and the pounding in his skull. He rose, staggering only slightly before his will locked his body upright. The lyrium still seethed under his skin, but he ignored the ache, his entire focus narrowed to the weight of her, the pulse fluttering against his chest.
She tried to protest, voice slurred from pain and the fog of near-death, but Fenris only hushed her firmly, pressing his lips to her temple. "Enough. Let me."
He carried her from the ruin of the alley, boots splashing through water and blood, not looking back. Hawke watched them go, worry etching every line of his face, Anders beside him, holding Fenris' discarded gauntlet. As they disappeared into the rain-slick streets of Kirkwall, Fenris bent close, voice barely more than a growl in her ear, fierce and trembling. "You are not slipping away. I will not allow it."
The city was a wound, rain sluicing down alleys slick with filth and debris. Fenris carried Katica through the back lanes of Lowtown, up the winding, steep streets toward Hightown, his every step dogged by ghosts— of the fight, and of that desperate, liminal moment where her heart was nothing but silence in his hand. He kept his head down, shoulders bunched up against the cold, Katica’s small weight pressed fiercely to his chest.
She stirred once, murmuring half-formed syllables against his collarbone, breath ghosting hot against his throat, but he hushed her with a gentle squeeze, jaw clenched against the ache in his bones. The lamplight of Hightown flickered gold through the rain, painting their passage in fractured light.
Guards passed, slowing as their eyes flicked to the blood, the haunted urgency in Fenris’ face— but none dared stop him. Shadows lingered in every threshold. Somewhere far behind, the city carried on: the clatter of distant carts, a drunkard’s shout swallowed by thunder. But for Fenris, there was only Katica— her faint pulse under his fingers, the tremble in her frame, the raw, gnawing terror that he was almost too late.
By the time they reached his estate, Fenris’ hands were numb, his arms slick with chilling rain and blood, and every step felt like penance. He shouldered open the heavy door, the mansion’s cold silence greeting them, echoing back their labored breaths. He carried Katica straight to his bedroom, easing her down onto the creaking bed, lingering only long enough to pull a thick blanket over her trembling form. The fire was out; he knelt, fumbling with flint and steel, his hands still shaking as he coaxed the first embers to life.
He turned, breathless, watching her in the flickering glow— her eyes half-lidded, skin pallid, chest rising in unsteady rhythm. For a long moment, he simply watched, drinking her in as if to convince himself she was truly there and alive, against all odds.
Slowly, piece by piece, Fenris shed his armour, peeling away blood-soaked leather and plate with clumsy fingers. He tossed it all aside, discarding his slick tunic, feeling the cold night air bite at his bare skin.
Rain pattered on the windows, the hush inside broken only by the rasp of Fenris’ breath and the crackle of new flame. He studied the blue latticework of lyrium still glowing faintly under his skin, the blood drying at his wrists, the silent promise blooming between them: I will not let you go.
Katica stirred, her hands moving across the sheets as if seeking something— or someone. Her green eyes fluttered open, tired and confused as she moved to sit up unsteadily.
"Fen…?" She murmured hoarsely, stretching one gloved hand out toward him, "I don’t… what happened out there? I remember getting hit in the shoulder, but then— nothing. Not until you were all looking down at me."
Fenris was at her side in an instant, kneeling by the bed so her hand brushed along his jaw. The lines in his face felt deeper than usual, shadowed by exhaustion, his eyes raw and unguarded. He caught her hand in both of his, cradling it as if it were something infinitely precious— and infinitely breakable.
"You were poisoned." His voice was low and cracked, hoarse from strain, but there was a gentleness in it that softened the edge. "A bolt— laced with something the Coterie cooked up. Your heart… stopped." His jaw tightened, his gaze dropping for a moment. "Anders tried. We all did." His thumb traced the tremble in her fingers, steadying himself as much as her.
He exhaled shakily, searching her face for any sign of fear, of resentment or anger, bracing for what might follow. "I did something… dangerous. I forced your heart to beat again." There was something wild and mournful in his voice, a man still haunted by the memory of her limp body in his arms, the silence where her heartbeat should have been.
His gaze flicked up, meeting hers, naked and pleading in the firelight. "You came back to me. That’s all that matters. But—" He hesitated, fighting down the roiling dread that had only just begun to ebb. "But I need you to know how close it was. I need—"
He stopped, jaw clenched, searching her eyes for understanding, for trust. "There’s something I want to show you. If you’ll let me."
He gently removed her glove as he brought her hand to his bare chest, where the lyrium tattoos still pulsed, faint and blue, beneath sweat and rain and blood. His heart beat wild beneath her palm, a rhythm born of terror and hope.
"I want you to see. To understand how much I trust you. More than anyone. More than myself." The words were thick and unwieldly on his tongue, unpracticed, but true as anything he’d ever spoken.
He covered her hand with his, and slowly, Fenris closed his eyes, focusing— reaching for the lyrium, for the part of himself that had always been weapon, always been shield. This time, he willed it to be open, to be vulnerable. He let his chest grow insubstantial beneath her hand, blue light spilling between their fingers as the boundary between flesh and magic grew thin. He kept his grip on her wrist, steadying, guiding her deeper.
"If you want to know how much you mean to me," he murmured, voice trembling, "then take it. I trust you with all that I am."
He shuddered as her hand sank slowly further through skin and bone, the sensation burning cold and bright. She was inside his chest, inside of him— her palm finding the frantic hammer of his heart, a heartbeat given back by her own stubborn will to live.
Fenris breathed out shakily, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, every muscle wound tight. "No one has ever been this close. Not since… not ever. Only you, Katica."
Katica inhaled sharply, eyes widening in shock as she moved to jerk away— but Fenris kept hold of her wrist, forcing her hand to stay deep within his chest, urging her to feel the living warmth of him.
"F-Fenris—"
"Don’t," he whispered, voice hoarse from the strain of controlling the lyrium, "don’t pull away. Please."
It felt as though his skull began to vibrate with the effort of holding the lyrium steady, his teeth rattling against one another. That keening sound rang through his ears again, a steady trickle of hot blood dripping from one nostril.
"Fenris!" Katica hissed, wrenching her hand free of his chest to grasp his face, her fingers cradling his jaw, "stop, estúpido, you’re hurting yourself."
He let her pull him in, vision warping at the edges, the room tilting as if he was caught between worlds. The lyrium’s radiance dimmed in an instant, his chest solidifying around empty air, the magic snapping back with a vicious sting. For a moment, Fenris couldn't breathe— his whole body shuddering under the backlash, lungs burning, jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
He blinked hard, bleary eyes searching hers, still gripping her wrist as if afraid she might vanish if he let go. Her hands were on his face, her touch fierce and trembling, steadying him as the last tremors of the lyrium rage settle beneath his skin.
"I’m fine," he lied, the taste of blood thick in his mouth, a single sanguine drop slipping down to his lip. He leaned into her touch anyway, desperate for the proof of her— alive, warm and demanding. He closed his eyes, exhaling raggedly.
"Forgive me," he murmured, his forehead pressing to hers. "I needed you to know. Needed you to feel it. To feel me." His voice was threadbare, stripped of everything except for the raw ache of devotion, and the terror that nearly losing her had carved into him.
"I can’t lose you," he breathed shakily, voice cracking on the admission. "Not now. Not when I only just learned what it means to have something worth holding on to."
His hands fell away to her shoulders, trembling, the blue fire of the lyrium fading to ghostlight beneath his skin. The only thing keeping him steady was the anchor of her hands, the weight of her gaze, and the promise burning between them.
Katica drew him closer, her brow still pressed to his, both of them shivering and spent.
"You haven't, Fen," she murmured, her breath warm as it fanned across his lips. "You— dios mío you reckless man, you did something crazy and it worked."
Fenris pulled her in like a man bracing against a fall, his grip too tight at first, fingers biting at her collar and the back of her neck as if sheer force might keep her from being torn away again. He squeezed his eyes shut, breath stuttering, a broken sound caught low in his chest before he kissed her— hard and uneven, his mouth searching and clinging rather than asking. There was desperation in it, in the way he exhaled her name into her lips, in the way the kiss faltered and resumed as though he couldn't decide whether to breathe or hold on. His fingers threaded through her hair as he angled his head to deepen the kiss, tasting the copper tang of his own blood smearing across her lips.
When he finally stilled, it was only enough to rest his brow against hers again, eyes closed, drawing in shaky breaths— anchoring himself to the undeniable fact that she was warm, breathing, alive, and still here despite everything that tried to take her from him.
For a while, neither said a word. The silence was broken only by quiet breaths, the gentle crackle of the hearth, the rain’s hush against the windows. Fenris’ hands stayed tangled in her hair, her fingers curled against the sharp edge of his jaw, both clinging to the proof that they were together, whole and alive.
His voice was only a whisper, barely more than the scrape of breath: "Stay here and rest, Katica. Please."
She hesitated only briefly before nodding against him, her eyes closing, her hand tracing the line of his jaw as if to learn it anew. Fenris eased himself onto the mattress beside her, his arm wound tightly around her shoulders, holding her close but gentle. There were no grand promises, no declarations— only the warmth of their bodies pressed together in the dark, and the knowledge that he had almost lost the opportunity to hold her like this ever again.
Fenris let out a slow sigh, feeling her relax, her weight softening against him. He cared not that they were both still half dressed, her armour still damp with rain and blood— all that mattered was that she was alive. He closed his eyes, focusing on the steady, living rhythm of her heart, and for once lets himself believe that it’s enough.
The fire crackled low, the storm rolling in outside. In the hush of the estate, they simply held on to each other, grateful for the fragile, stubborn miracle of survival.