Vengeance, Wrath and Fury

Fenris knows what honor is, what it should mean. It’s not as if he’s a stranger to the concept, but to it’s practical application in his life.

He considers whether he has acted with honor in his heart, his mind, his hands as he did his masters bidding in his past life. He wonders what the word means now that he’s finally free of the taint of his homeland.

He sits alone, facing the waters along the Wounded Coast, his thoughts wild and disordered as he contemplates the day, the Tal-Vashoth defeated, the way his blade sings as it cut flesh and bone as easily as fine paper from a Magister’s study.

He contemplated his life, his options…his abilities as a living weapon, ender of lives, a terror created to haunt nightmares of his masters enemies. Did he ever know what the word meant?

Did he know what it meant when he cut down the Fog Warriors on a mere word from Danarius? Did he know what it meant when he slit throats, split skulls and wrenched still beating hearts from the chests of those who would oppose Hawke? 

Did he understand what it meant when he spent quiet nights with the mage, someone he should loathe, fear and hate; but didn’t? 

Would he ever understand what that word meant? Would he ever feel as if he had a hint of honor in him? Or would he remain broken, unable to mend his mind and his heart? Would he ever be able to look himself in the eye in the looking glass instead of leaving his gaze to the basin?

Only time would tell, and for once Fenris felt like he had the time to spare.