#PAINED SMILE AS I HAVE TO THINK ABOUT VARRIC AND AVELINE AND MERRILL LIVING IN KIRKWALL WITH THIS BIG EMPTY SPOT

[inuhodo]

They keep a stool empty for you at the Hanged Man.

clouds practice that turned into pain.. every day i think about how kirkwall is filled with ghosts and my hawke is just one in a long line of many haunting the place. perhaps she's the loudest.

[goth-surana]

Different Violence

Main Pairing: Anders/Male Hawke

Main Tags: hurt/comfort, whump, aftermath of torture

Chapter 1/2

Summary: Anders opened his eyes just a fraction, but enough to let Hawke know he was alive. Hawke breathed out a sigh of relief that was short lived because Anders was still beaten bloody. There was a gash across his forehead and his lip was split, there was a dark bruise forming on his cheek.

Read on AO3 or below the cut!

The apprentice slated for tranquility had gotten away, that was what mattered. That’s what Anders told himself as his face was pressed into the tunnel floor. 

His mana was gone, he had been smited so many times that even Justice was only simmering under his skin. 

The Templar on his back twisted his arm up, making him hiss in pain. Anders tried to avoid panicking, tried to think of a way out of this. What if they took him to the Gallows? What if they made him tranquil? 

Anders struggled harder, causing his captor to chuckle and twist his arm again. This time Anders avoided making any sound, but the sharp pain still stabbed through him. 

The Templar then felt a hand up the back of his head, twisting his gauntleted hand in his hair. The man yanked his head back and the smashed it into the ground, breaking a scream out of Anders this time.

Blood gushed from his forehead as he distantly heard another Templar chastise him.

“That’s the Champion’s man, idiot,” the other Templar said. “We can’t kill him, Knight Commander’s orders.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t have our fun,” came another voice. This man was amused, and his tone sent a chill down Anders’ spine. 

“Hold him up,” the man ordered the others. He spoke with authority, making Anders guess he had a higher rank. 

Anders was turned around so that two Templars were holding him sitting up, and the commanding man knelt down to leer at him. His eyes were an almost unnatural blue, and Anders tried to meet his gaze without fear.

“My my,” the man said, smiling. “You’re quite the defiant one. Your kind are always my favorites…”

The man reached forward and stroked a hand down Anders’ cheek. Anders tried to pull away unsuccessfully, amusing the man. 

“You would break beautifully, if I had the time with you…” the man mused, almost wistful. “Shame we don’t have that time. We do need to be returning you, after all. That doesn’t mean the two of us can’t have any fun, however.”

Before Anders could begin to worry even more, the man slapped a metal coated hand across his face. Anders recoiled but the other Templars held him steady. There was no escape. 

The man then grabbed onto Anders’  jaw and dug his fingers in painfully. He produced a vial of pink liquid that Anders immediately recognized as magebane. 

“Either drink it, or I cut it into you,” the man told him calmly. Anders chose the latter, refusing to just give in. He chose to struggle while the Templars held him down and pulled away enough of his coat to find a patch of skin and cut. Anders didn’t scream, refused to give them the fucking satisfaction until they actually began to pour the bane over the cut. Then when he did let out an involuntary yell, the of them took that opportunity to pour the rest down his throat anyway. It tasted vile and Anders spluttered as he choked.

The Templars just laughed. Anders could feel the meager amount of mana he had left being drained away, began to feel lightheaded. He had never been poisoned with this much magebane before, didn’t know if it would make him pass out or throw up or even if it would kill him. 

No, it wouldn’t kill him because they had just said they needed him alive. But they also said that they would have their “fun” first, so Anders supposed it would probably be better if he did pass out. If he could just close his eyes and wake up in Hawke’s estate, safe. 

Unfortunately for Anders, he did not fall unconscious. He tried to will himself away from the things they did to him, from the kicks and punches and the cuts, but no amount of thinking could make them stop hurting. He took solace in the fact that they did say they had to return him...he would see Hawke again, this pain would end. It was only pain, he had lived through pain before and he could live through it again. 

They did make him scream and cry, they made him yell in agony, but he knew it would be over soon. He just had to wait. It would be over soon...it would be over soon.

——————————-

Hawke was at his estate in the company of friends, but missing the company of his lover. Anders had some important mission to run for the underground, but he said as soon as it was over he would head back home. 

Hawke knew his friends often clashed with Anders, but there was a shared camaraderie there and at least Varric and Isabela were disappointed he wasn’t showing. Hawke also felt like if Anders would stop giving Merrill a hard time they could get along. It was a little hopeless for Fenris, but Hawke could keep hoping anyway.

Everyone was drinking, but Hawke had stayed sober. If he was hosting, he wanted to stay presentable for at least a little while. So he only took small sips and just enjoyed the atmosphere. 

Right now he was losing at Wicked Grace to Merrill of all people, who had also stayed sober and had evidently began taking lessons from Isabela. The woman was looking at Merrill with open pride, taking as much joy in Merrill’s victory as she was.

“I hope Blondie doesn’t miss all the fun,” said Varric, who was at least a little drunk. “Your guy needs to lighten up a bit, Hawke.”

“A lot’s been going on,” Hawke responded. “And he’s not all doom and gloom. He can have fun.”

“Oh I’m sure he can when he’s with you,” chimed in Isabela. “In fact, you’d better be making sure you’re pulling your weight there. The man deserves it!” Isabela was also a little drunk.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re insinuating,” laughed Hawke, giving her a sly look.

“She’s saying she hopes you’re good at having sex with him,” said Merrill very seriously. The whole room erupted in laughter. Even Fenris giggled a bit, which was just delightful. 

“What did I say that was funny?” Merrill asked with a raised eyebrow. “Is Hawke bad at sex?”

More laughter, which was then cut off abruptly by a loud knock at the door. 

Hawke got up, confused. Who in the Maker’s name would be bothering him at this hour? It couldn’t be Anders because he would have just used the cellar entrance. 

“Let Bodahn get it,” said Varric, waving a hand. “If they want your attention they should have come at a reasonable hour.”

Hawke considered this. He could hear the pouring rain outside and didn’t like the idea of leaving whoever it was out in that, but he also didn’t really want to talk to some noble begging him for help. 

A knock rang out again, this one louder. Hawke heard Bodahn’s footsteps, and figured he would let the dwarf answer it if he was already on the way. 

Distantly, he heard the creak of the door opening. Then Bodahn’s frightened voice rang through the halls. 

“Master Hawke!” 

Hawke was up at once, grabbing his sword on the way in case danger had arrived. Good thing he’d stayed sober, nothing good could have come knocking at this hour. 

Hawke’s friends all followed him with equal urgency, sensing the danger too.

At first Hawke was confused, seeing only Bodahn standing in an empty doorway. But then he saw the figure slumped on the steps in the pouring rain. 

Hawke approached with an almost cold efficiency, going into his warrior mindset he had to don in battle. That all slipped away in an instant when he saw who the figure was.

Hawke now crashed to his knees in a panic on the steps outside, not caring about the pouring rain as he pulled Anders into his lap.

The man’s head fell backwards revealing his bruised face to Hawke. 

“Love?” Hawke asked, the fear he felt pulsing through his veins evident in his voice, as he ran a thumb along Anders’ cheek. What the fuck had happened? Who had done this?

Anders opened his eyes just a fraction, but enough to let Hawke know he was alive. Hawke breathed out a sigh of relief that was short lived because Anders was still beaten bloody. There was a gash across his forehead and his lip was split, there was a dark bruise forming on his cheek.

Hawke also realized his coat wasn’t on properly, instead wrapped loosely around his shoulders. Hawke did not let himself think too hard about all the worst reasons there could be for his clothes to be in disarray. 

Under his coat his light tunic had bloody spots seeping through it, but no rips in the material. Again, the worst did not need to have happened, but the fact was that Anders had either redressed himself or been redressed by his attackers. Given the state he was in, probably the latter.

“Someone help me lift him,” Hawke said, talking through the cloud of panic in his head. He had to keep calm long enough to make sure Anders was stable, at least to get him out of the rain.

Aveline reached him first, helping lift Anders into Hawke’s arms. It must have jostled some injury because Anders let out a small whimper that pulled on Hawke’s heartstrings.

“I’m sorry,” Hawke whispered even though he suspected Anders wasn’t aware enough to hear him. “I’m sorry, love.” 

Hawke strode into the mansion, both of them soaking wet and tracking water all cross the entrance hall. Hawke didn’t want to go up the stairs before he knew what kind of injuries he could aggravate, so he headed straight to the living room and set Anders down on the sofa. Hawke gingerly brushed a wet strand of hair out of his face, trying to calm his beating heart. He had to stay calm, figure out what was wrong.

“Anders?” Hawke asked again, placing a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t want to do anything first if Anders could tell him what was injured. How to help him. 

Brown eyes blinked up at him as a drop of water ran down his bruised cheek.

“Love, what do I need to do?” Hawke asked. He would not panic. 

Anders only looked at him blearily, then smiled. Why was he smiling? There wasn’t anything to fucking smile about here.

“They did return me,” he breathed out. “Thought they might have been lying about that one…”

They? Hawke thought, who are “they.” He would have to ask that of Anders later, so he could find out who deserved retribution. Find out who did this to his lover.

“Anders,” Hawke asked again, patting his face. He needed to focus. “What do I do? How do I help you?” 

It took a moment for Anders to reply. Hawke waited with bated breath, listening to only the sound of everyone’s silence. 

“Dress the wounds,” Anders said, closing his eyes again. “I can’t heal them right now…”

Hawke didn’t have anything for wounds at his mansion. Why the fuck did he not, with the way he lived?

“Someone go to his clinic and get supplies!” Hawke said to the room behind him. He heard footsteps but didn’t stay looking long enough to know who had gone. That wasn’t important.

Anders shivered, then winced when it aggravated some unseen wound. 

“Wet clothes… won't be good if I freeze.”

Anders tried to sit up, but quickly recoiled in on himself and fell back. 

“Shit,” he muttered through ragged breaths. “Hawke, help me sit.”

“Right,” Hawke said, placing a hand under Anders’ back and another on his shoulder. He pushed him up and kept pushing even when Anders started shaking again. 

His eyes blinked slowly, like he was slipping away again. 

“No!” Hawke cried, “no, stay with me!”

Anders looked at him as he closed his eyes, slipping back into unconsciousness.

“Shit,” Hawke muttered as he propped Anders’ limp body against some pillows. 

“I’ll have to cut his clothes away. Someone go grab one of my house robes.”

Hawke worked quickly, grabbing a knife that Isabela handed him. First he unwrapped the coat from Anders, and his heart sank. Blood had seeped through the clothing in multiple more places, an entire night sky of violence inflicted. 

Hawke cut away the clothes quickly and what he found was somehow even worse. Across Anders’ chest were multiple intersecting cuts, done evenly and methodically. This wasn’t a battle, this has been slow torture. 

The same cuts were present on his arms, but not his legs. Although by the time he had Anders down to his smallclothes, he had found a deep cut on his thigh. This had been a gouge rather than a slice. 

Hawke was even more grateful that he hadn’t left the door unattended, because Anders was bleeding out fast and looked even paler than usual. 

In order to preserve his dignity Hawke draped a blanket over his hips as he removed his smallclothes. Dignity wasn’t the most important thing right now, Hawke knew that… but he still wanted that for Anders. His companions were still rushing about gathering supplies and setting them out, all of them pulling their knowledge of healing together to figure out what they would need. 

Anders blinked his eyes open, then shuddered.

Hawke brushed a strand of hair from his face, carefully avoiding the bruise. 

“H-have you cleaned the wounds?” Anders asked in what was practically a whisper. 

“Not yet,” Hawke said. 

“Okay… you’ll…want to do that now. The tunnels aren’t the most s-sanitary.”

Anders’ whole body was trembling as he spoke, either from the cold or the pain. 

“G-get this o-one first,” Anders managed to say, twitching his thigh weakly. 

“Right,” Hawke told him, feeling sick. How messed up was it that Anders had to direct him in the manner of healing himself? Shouldn’t Hawke know this, shouldn’t Anders be able to relax his mind as his body went through trauma? 

Hawke vowed to pay more attention to the knowledge Anders shared. This was never going to happen again, not under Hawke’s watch… but if it did, he would be prepared.

Someone handed Hawke a bowl of water and a clean rag, and Hawke set to work cleaning the blood from around the wound. Anders hissed in pain as his body tried to seize up, but held himself still and only twitched weakly.

Hawke ran a hand over his thigh as he cleaned, needing to know he was offering some kind of comfort. It was as much for him as it was for Anders. 

“Get alcohol next,” Anders croaked out, his hands tense fists at his side. His face was so pale he looked like a ghost, sweat beading on his forehead. 

Hawke dipped the rag in and brought it to the wound, causing Anders to muffle a cry and twitch again. Hawke never wanted to hear that sound again, the sound of Anders trying to hold back pain. 

“You can yell if you want,” Hawke whispered as he tried to work quickly. “No one will judge you for it.”

Anders shook his head, jaw tense. “N-not going to give them the f-fucking satisfaction…”

Again, this them was mentioned. Whoever they were, they would be dead by this time tomorrow if Hawke had his way.

Hawke finally finished disinfecting the wound and began to apply bandages. Anders was shaking, hands grasping the couch cushions in a white-knuckled grip.

Hawke placed a hand on Anders’ shoulder, rubbing small circles as he spoke. “Chest next, is that okay?”

Anders nodded, eyes now screwed shut. He took a long breath in, then out. 

The second Hawke touched the wet cloth to a wound Anders’ whole body shuddered violently. Hawke wasn’t sure if these wounds hurt worse or if the cumulative pain was just catching up to him.

“Shh, shh,” Hawke muttered, running a hand through his lover’s hair. “I’ll be quick, I promise.”

Hawke tried to steady Anders with a hand to his shoulder as he worked but the shaking and shuddering kept getting worse. 

“I’m sorry,” Hawke muttered every time Anders cried out, “I’m sorry.”

The alcohol was worse. Anders reflexively flinched away, once actually screaming. 

Hawke flinched away himself when this happened, his frayed nerves slowly unwinding. His own hands shook now, unable to handle the fact that as he was healing him he had to hurt Anders all over again. 

Varric brought over a cloth for Anders to bite down on, which he took quickly. Hawke’s hands kept shaking, he could tell this was now going slower than it needed to. 

Anders’ shaking body and his unsteady hands were making this bloody impossible. 

“S-someone hold me down,” Anders said after taking the cloth away.

Isabela stepped in, leaning over the couch arm to hold his shoulders. Hawke kept going, but the image this was producing to him was too much. Had Anders looked like this then, being held down and hurt? Had… had… 

Hawke felt his stomach turn violently, and just managed to avoid throwing up from sheer stress. 

“Shit,” he muttered, still turning away. “I can’t… I can’t do this.” Fuck, his head didn’t feel right either. 

“We’ll switch,” said Isabela in an authoritative voice she must have used while captain. Hawke nodded numbly, sliding onto the couch behind Anders and propping him against his chest. He could feel how cold Anders was, how fast his heart was beating. 

“Steady, Hawke,” said Isabela. Hawke did as he was told and held on tight, grasping Anders’ shoulders as he whispered stupid assurances in his ear. It would be over soon. 

It wasn’t over soon. It felt like forever as Isabela disinfected the wounds and Anders couldn’t even contain his cries of agony. 

“What did they do to you, sweet thing?” Isabela muttered as she worked. Anders was too out of it to respond, and Hawke just kept holding on tight and trying to keep it together. Hawke had never been good at staying calm when someone was hurt, much less someone for whom he cared so deeply.

Tears slid down Anders’ face as he sobbed into the rag, and all Hawke could do was keep holding him and keep talking. 

Finally Isabela was applying bandages, more efficiently than Hawke would have expected of her. Anders continued to cry, but softer now. Hawke held on tight, feeling his own eyes well up. 

Who had done this? Who did Hawke have to kill?

When the last bandage was tied off, Anders shuddered in Hawke’s arms and reached up to remove the cloth from his mouth.

“Th-thank you,” he said quietly. “I-I should be a-alright now…” 

He didn’t look bloody alright. 

“Shh, don’t talk, just rest,” Hawke said. 

Anders normally would have came back with some smart remark about nothing ever being able to shut him up, but now he just fell silent. This wasn’t a good sign.

He was still shivering, still cold to the touch and pale. 

“I’m going to take you upstairs, okay?” Hawke asked. Anders nodded.

Hawke bundled Anders in the blanket to preserve his modesty and gently lifted him. Even this much caused some amount of pain. 

Hawke’s companions were all silent as he ascended the stairs and made his way to the bedroom. It was warmer in here, and safe from prying eyes. Hawke set Anders on the bed, and sat down next to him. 

Anders was breathing unevenly as Hawke pulled the covers over him. 

“Thank you, love,” Anders said softly. He still looked so pale. 

Hawke’s own hands were shaking again, his chest felt almost too tight to breath. His head was flooded with stress like he had just finished a hard fought battle. 

Hawke looked over to Anders, about to ask if there was anything he could do for the pain, and saw that the man had fallen asleep. 

Hawke tried to let out a breath, but a sob came instead. Shit. 

Anders twitched at the noise, and Hawke left quickly with a hand over his face. He shut the door, walked a few paces down the hallway, and sank to his knees and cried. 

He released all the pent up stress, all the anger and horror and hurt. He wasn’t even the one who had been brutalized, but it felt like his heart was held in a vice grip by whoever had done this to Anders. 

Hawke didn’t notice Fenris approach, but looking up for a moment he saw the man standing silently. How long had he been there, watching Hawke cry? 

Hawke took a deep breath, tried to compose himself. He nodded in Fenris’s direction, prompting him to speak. Hawke didn’t trust his own voice right now. 

“I am sorry for intruding,” Fenris began. “I know Isabela noticed something strange about the mage’s wounds. They hurt more than they should.”

Hawke couldn’t recall Isabela saying anything like that, but this whole ordeal was a horrible blur. 

“It occurred to me that this may be a practice from Tevinter, wherein one pours magebane in the wounds of their enemies. If you are a mage, I am told it increases the pain.”

Another fucking thing done to Anders. As if cutting him wasn’t enough. 

“Wh-“ Hawke started, his voice breaking. He took a moment to get it together. “What can I do? Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Apply elfroot to the wounds, after they are somewhat healed. Hopefully the poison will wear off soon and the mage can heal himself the rest of the way.”

Fenris looked like he had something else to say. There was an odd vulnerability about his expression, he looked almost shaken. 

“I…” he said. “I know I do not get on with the mage… with Anders. But do let him know I hope he recovers well. I take no pleasure in my allies suffering torture, especially not with Tevinter techniques.”

Right. That must have been hard for Fenris to watch too. He had his own experience with torture and abuse. 

“Are the others still here?” Hawke asked, feeling more drained than he had all year. 

“Yes. They are waiting to see if you need anything else.”

“Tell them thank you, but… but we should be okay now. I have all the supplies I need, and the worst is behind us.”

A darker thought crossed Hawke’s mind. 

“But soon I will need help. When Anders has recovered enough to tell me who did this.”

Fenris seemed to catch his meaning, and nodded grimly. “You will always have my support, Hawke.”

[emerald-amidst-gold]

Ohh maybe 1, 2, 3, and 28? 👀

*takes a sip from my can of soda* Ahhh~! Caffeine for the soul~ >:3

But you know what's better for the soul? Questions! Curiosity! RAMBLING ABOUT CHILDREN! >:D Let's GOOOO!

1. What would your Warden generally think of your Hawke and your inquisitor?

Rylen: 

Now, I kind of see Elise eventually meeting or at least, reaching out to Rylen after the events in Kirkwall. After all, she’s an Amell, and so is Hawke. They’re literally the only family each other has (that’s not ‘found’ family, that is.). So, I think Elise would reach out through a letter or somehow manage a visit to her cousin and...connect. She would see him as inspiring; Rylen always manages a smile and a quip. However, if they were to spend more and more time interacting with each other, Elise would see that Hawke isn’t very well put together, especially after the Chantry explosion. She would question why Rylen chose the templars, why he executed Anders who was a like a brother to her, but eventually she would come to understand the whys. Elise would see it as no different as when she decided to spare Loghain at the Landsmeet; they did what they believed to be right and what would be best in that very moment. Both Rylen and Elise sacrificed their own happiness for the benefit of others, and were still blamed for future complications and there’s something comforting in a finding another who can relate. :3

Fane:

So, I actually have some later fic ideas for a confrontation between Elise and Fane (after Trespasser, kind of Pre-DA4 shenanas~), and suffice it to say, these two have similar ways of thinking, but their methods are entirely different. Fane is rash, prone to barreling head first into conflict without thinking about those around him. Elise is analytical, always assessing and placing the pieces in her head to make sure everyone comes out alive. This isn’t to say Fane doesn’t care about his comrades; he does. There’s countless, countless times he takes a blow for someone else without batting an eye or thinking that he could die. He just doesn’t plan; he acts. Fane can get lost in the moment of battle, in the heady scent of chaos and blood. Elise, at first meeting him, would see him as any typical warrior; eager for battle and a garden of death. But if they were to sit down and talk...I think she might find him endearing and fascinating. More or less she would think, ‘He’s so mature for someone so young. I mean, he’s twenty-four, but...he speaks as if he’s older. His speech is manicured, measured as if decided upon carefully. And his eyes...there’s pain, a deep, deep pain. Like some of the older Wardens, those just hearing the Calling. But also...hope? Conviction? Who are you, Inquisitor? What has the world done to you?’

2. What would your Hawke generally think of your warden and your Inquisitor?

Elise:

Rylen would probably have the same opinion of Elise as she does with him. They’re family, split apart due the misconceptions and fear, and my Hawke cherishes family. He lost everyone else he could rightly consider family. Fenris, Varric, Sebastian, Isabela, and Merrill are the only people he can call family now. (Anders and Aveline are complicated. I won’t go into that can of worms. For now~ >:3) He would definitely feel a level of guilt for what he had to do in Kirkwall with Anders, with the mages, with...everything, but Rylen just tries to make it through another day. If he and Elise started to interact I think it would be extremely beneficial to Rylen. Elise is patient, sometimes stern, and not afraid to lay all the facts out. Rylen would admire that since he’s had to go through life wearing a mask, a smile, a facade just to placate someone else. He would see Elise as another sister and his opinion of her would probably be along the lines of, ‘I won’t let another member of my family be torn from me. Father, Bethany, Carver...Mother.. I failed them. I won’t fail her. I won’t fail her. She’s bright and she keeps her head held high. Heh, now I see how she killed an Archdemon and lived to tell the tale. ...Bet the lightning has something to do with that, too.’

Fane: 

Rylen and Fane, in my head, actually hit it off from the get go. They’ve both had to take mantles of power, even though they never, never wanted to. Though, for different reasons, of course. But Rylen would find Fane inspiring and wholly capable of doing what must be done. He’d be kind of put off that most of his well thought out jokes and pokes would fall flat on Fane, but eventually, Rylen would see why that is. (Draconic nature withstanding.) Also, once my Hawke found out Fane is dragon?  OHHHH, BUDDY. There would be yelling and screeching and cries of, ‘WHY DO I KEEP MEETING DRAGONS, FENRIS?! FIRST THE WITCH, NOW THE INQUISITOR?! ..I’m done. I’m putting my daggers down and stealing away into the mountains. Varric, you wanna come with? I know you’re fed up with this shit, too! Don’t lie! DON’T. LIE.’

3. What would your Inquisitor generally think of your warden and your Hawke?

Elise:

Fane would probably think of Elise as...interesting. Not in a bad way. Just...interesting. Fane isn’t comfortable with Wardens after Adamant. He learns that he can hear the corruption inside of them and that terrifies him. And confuses him. And makes him go, ‘What the fuck am I? I don’t even know anymore. Why do I try?’ But, if he were to get over that and, like I said with Elise, talk? He would have another perspective of the men and women that had let fear take them by the throat. It wouldn’t change his feelings regarding the Wardens entirely, but one level mind, one open mind, is enough to make Fane tap into his nature and consider other sides of a very, very large cube.

‘She’s more...quiet than the others. Maybe because it’s just her? No...Loghain was still loud as fuck when it was just him, so why? Ugh, I’m so sick of these puzzles. At least she’s more stable, but I can see the pain in her eyes; green like mine, but missing the gold. Maybe the Taint is stronger than she thinks? Perhaps, but still she fights, still she claws her way towards something that may be impossible. ...Hmph. How typical. A similarity. This world continues to confound.’

Rylen:

Fane respects Rylen after spending some time to feel him out, know his cues, and piece together which is his actual face. Once that happens, Fane can move into respect with my Hawke. These two have a fairly similar moral compass; pragmatism regarding most decisions. Again, they both have been thrust into a position without asking for it, so that would be a stepping stone upon the bonding path. All in all, Fane’s general opinion of Rylen would be, ‘He’s worn that mask of smiles and bright, grey eyes for too long. It’s cracking at the edges, wearing down to mere mortar. Then again, I have my own mask. I’m in no position to judge and condemn, but...it’s worrying. Even the strongest wings can be torn and all that greets is the earth below. I hope your wings don’t falter, Champion. It would be disappointing for the world to lose someone who cares when those who should are content to point the finger towards anyone but themselves.’

28. What is their favourite location within their own game and what would be their favourite in each others?

Fane: The Emprise du Lion! Snowwwww! Coooold! Ice dragooooon! >:3 ...minus the red lyrium. *snorts* 

Origins: Hmm, I think Fane would like the Brecilian Forest. He enjoys forests as much as he enjoys the cold, the ice, and the snow. He likes the animals, even though he tries not to interfere with them, and he likes the quiet. No chattering, no demands. Only trees, leaves, and the occasional whistle of wind. Also, Fane likes to investigate ancient ruins. He’s not interested in the history, really. He just wants to see if he can find any remnants about his kin that the elves may have left behind. :3

DA2: Probably Sundermount since again, wilderness. Fane doesn’t do too well in crowded areas and Kirkwall would make his heart rate sky rocket. Not just because of the people, but because of the size. Those cramped streets of Lowtown would just make him...eugh. *shivers*

Elise: She adores Orzammar! Especially the Shaperate! The dwarves fascinate Elise since not many tomes in the Circle went into depth about them! :D And if we want to with Awakening areas, I would saaaay...Amaranthine. She’s always like towns and cities due to not being able to experience them until the Blight! :3

Inquisition: Elise would adore the Frostback Basin. Like, really enjoy it! All that flora and Avaar culture and wilderness? MMMM!

DA2: Definitely the Wounded Coast. Hands down. My daughter enjoys the sea so much. The salt in the air, the feel of sand, and the pretty, pretty shells and rolling waves? Every Circle mages’ wet dream. *waggles eyebrows*

Rylen: So, if we’re not talking like open world areas in the game, I would definitely say Rylen’s favorite place is the Hanged Man. The man needs a drink to deal with Kirkwall. Just saying. It’s also where he can just...be himself with the people who know him. 

Inquisition: Hinterlands. He’s a FERELDAN. He wants his MABARI to RUN in native land! He wants to...go home. ;3;

Origins: I like to think the Hawke family went all over Ferelden before settling in Lothering. I mean, they kind of do, but maybe for more than a few months at a time? So, Rylen would enjoy Denerim. He likes to go where people are, where life is. He likes crowds because he can blend into them and not be tracked down until he wants to be tracked down. ...My Hawke just wants to live in peace with his glowy elf husband and run a mabari ranch. Is that too much to ask, Bioware?! Let Hawke REST!

Woo! That was FUN! It really got me thinking, too! X3 Thank you so much, friend! <3

[the-halo-of-my-memory]

Tell Me You Love Me Anyway (rough draft - tease)

A/n: This probably has a billion errors but I feel like posting it anyway. This is only a tiny bit of what I have in mind. I could use as much feedback as possible for this. 

---- [Act 1] ----

Maker, did Anders miss being drunk. 

Justice hasn’t let him sway under the influence since their union. He sees it as a waste of time and senses. 

But to lose one's senses was such a beautiful and intoxicated mess to be a part of. 

Can you stop speaking nonsense?

It’s not nonsense, it’s passion.

It is a waste of time. 

Anders chuckles, nearly spilling his useless drink in the process. 

“What’s so funny, mage?” 

It’s Fenris. He held a drink also, now flirting with drunkenness that will soon take him fully. 

The two have only met not too long ago through a mutual friend, one Garrett Hawke. Anders liked Hawke enough. He was a fellow mage and Fereldan refugee who suffered loss before reaching Kirkwall. He came to his clinic a month ago asking for maps to the Deep Roads. 

It sounded so ridiculous. People who went to the Deep Roads voluntarily must have a death wish. To want to walk in a place full of darkspawn and deepstalkers. A place with rocky terrain and putrid wet air. It was dark and in some places you could hardly see your own hand in front of your place. He could light a torch but it wasn’t worth accidentally burning someone. 

He never wants to go there again. Especially not without Pounce. 

Things changed though. For a favor, he asked for a favor himself. 

Karl……..

He did love him…….and to see him like that……...made tranquil…….

It broke more than just his heart, it shattered his entire being. 

Oh Karl…..

Back in the Circle, the two had agreed between kisses in a quiet nook away from prying eyes, that if either of them became tranquil, they would not want to live like that. There was no known cure. It was either be made a thoughtless pet of the Templars and the Chantry or death. 

It wasn’t actually a plan that would happen. He didn’t think this would be an actual choice that he would make. 

Oh maker, Karl…….

It has been a month since he had to kill him. He still feels the blood on his hands, the sound of his last breath, and how empty he felt when he fell upon the floor. 

He still yearns to get a letter from him…..anything from him. 

Despite everything, he had Hawke to thank. At least Karl has peace now. He can have the maps and himself for the expedition if needed. 

Though he resented it at the time, he was glad he went to have drinks with Hawke the night after. Hearing his and Aveline’s story of loss before reaching Kirkwall brought him back from the pain. 

Hawke had asked him to join him on another night like that.

“But you know, in much better spirits,” he said with a hand on the back of his neck. He swore he saw him turn a shade red underneath that smile and beard.

And here he is now. 

He sat at a table with Fenris, Isabela, Varric, and Merrill. The women were giggling and whispering, Merrill turning pink and covering her mouth while Isabella said something too low for him to decipher. The men were talking about one of Varric’s tales. 

“No, dwarf. I have never read any of your stories.” 

“Have you ever thought about it?” 

“No.” 

“And why is that?” 

“Varric, I can’t read.” 

Well, that’s news…….

Wait, where’s Hawke? He was here just a second ago. 

Anders spots him at the bar. Talking with someone, a human woman. 

He’s never seen her before. She was short, maybe the same height as Merrill. She had deep warm mahogany skin, short dark curly hair, and wore a shirt opened at the neck and chest tucked into the tightest pair of trousers he’s ever seen. 

Sweet Andraste, what an arse!

They speak for a short moment before they each grab a drink and walk over to wear the rest of them sat. 

“Maker, Hawke!” Isabella yells, “How did you find this fine lady? Tell me, are you seeing anyone. Do you have a sister?” 

Hawke’s friend laughs loud and boisterous, covering her mouth half way before she sits herself down. 

“I’m not interested, I'm afraid. If I have a sister, I wouldn’t know. But I know some ladies who would love to give some company to a humorous and attractive lady such as yourself.” 

“You’ll have to tell me all about them, kitten.” 

She sat next to Anders and Hawke sat on the other side of her. 

Now closer to him, he gets a good look at her. 

Fine lady indeed. She had deep dark wide eyes like the night’s sky. Lips pursed as she took sips on her drink. Lots of skin covered down her naked neck and chest, teasing the swell of her breasts where her shirt is undone by the laces. She had small hands with gentle fingers tapping on the drink and the table. She wore no makeup and no jewelry.

Not that she needed them. 

“Friends!” Hawke stood up, hitting and shaking the table on the way. “I want you to meet my friend, Valentine. Val, these are my friends. This is Varric, and that’s Merrill and that’s-” He introduces everyone by name and they all exchange words and greetings. When Anders’ was introduced, he said “hello there.” She replies with only one word. 

“Pleasure.” 

*******

I have no idea where I am. 

It’s green all over. The grass is green and long and being blown by the wind. And the sky is blue and cloudless.

It’s not cold. But it was cold? There were clouds and snow and cold. And now…..not anymore. 

I don’t understand. I was in the car with Jackson. Where is he? 

I remember something. When we were driving…...I saw lights. Like headlights and then…….

Am I dead? Is this a dream? Am I in a coma? I don’t understand at all. 

My suitcase is here. It has my stuff still in it. Didn’t expect that old vintage thing to hold up. My clothes are there, but it’s too warm for them. I’m wearing the only pair of shoes I brought. My notebook was also there, and I’m writing in it right now. 

I don’t know what to do. 

*******

The next time he meets Hawke’s friend is when they get ready for the Deep Roads expedition. 

They were all together meeting with Bertrand in Hightown. He had to give credit to Hawke for making a colorful group of friends. He sees her near him, dressed in leather armor and carrying a long thin sword in a scabbard by her side. 

Her eyes catch his and she waves a hello to him. He waves back. 

Hawke and the dwarven brothers are discussing something when someone cries out. 

It was from a woman with tied back greying hair, running towards the group with a worrisome look in her exhausted eyes. 

“Excuse me, but I need to talk to my children”

Oh, that must be Hawke’s mother. He’s only heard nice things about her whenever Hawke opens up about his family. 

He sees him and Carver walk over to the lady and he’s too far to overhear. 

Some sort of disagreement starts and Carver is yelling and Hawke and their mother try to subdue him. There’s a lot of head shaking and hand waving. At last, Carver appears to accept whatever was that was said. Hawke walks away and his brother and mother stay where they stood. 

Hawke walks over to his groups of friends looking lost in thought. A moment passes and then with both hands he waves over the group to come over. 

“What happened?” Merrill asks. 

“Nothing,” Hawke sighs. “Mother just wanted Carver to stay. He…..eventually agreed.” 

“Now what?” Fenris crosses his arms, a knot between brows form. 

“We have to decide who I am bringing on this expedition.” Hawke sighs once more. He takes in a good look at his companions and bobs his head side to side as if he’s rolling die to choose who he’ll bring. 

“Alright! Besides Varric, I shall bring Anders and Valentine. Do you two agree?” 

Fuck no. 

“Of course, Hawke,” Anders instead says. It was inevitable. 

“Sure,” Valentine nods with a small smile upon her lips. 

“The rest of you can go about your business. We’ll be gone for a while in the meantime.” 

Some murmurs of “alright,” “be careful,” and “see you soon,” were heard before the others left their separate ways. 

Anders watches Hawke go back to the dwarven brothers, no doubt to wrap up a few things before they head out. 

“So you were a grey warden, correct?” It was Valentine. 

“Yes, I was.” She really was quite short. She was a whole head short of him, couldn’t look like she could put her head on his shoulder if she wanted. 

“That’s a lifelong joining, isn’t it? I imagine they’re not happy having you…..displaced.” 

That got a chuckle out of him. 

“Yes, you could say that.” 

“That’s too bad,” she kicks a pebble with the tip of her boot, her eyes looking into the sky and nowhere in particular. “I’m sure they’re doing fine without you. You have more important things like spelunking with us losers in demon infested caves.” 

That got him to laugh out loud. 

“Well when you put it like that, I’m even more grateful I left the wardens.” 

When she laughs, she laughs with her being. She bends forward with her arms wrapped around her abdomen as if she was a tree swaying in the wind. 

She’s kinda cute, isn’t she? 

I do not see what this has to do with the task at hand. 

Relax. It’s just an observation. 

*******

I am in a country called Ferelden. I have never heard of this place before. Is that old English or whatever the fuck? I don’t know, my head hurts and I’m tired from all the travel. 

It took me days by foot, but I eventually reached a small village called Draycott. I asked around for a place to stay and work. And luckily I did. Their innkeeper/pub owner was looking for someone to help clean and keep order in their establishment. He seemed like enough of a nice guy to trust for now. Everything is ancient. There is no electricity or indoor plumbing. Everyone uses candles, gets water from the well, and shits in a pot. I’m afraid to ask why that is. 

I am currently writing in my journal in a room of my own by candle light in the late evening. I’m even using a quill and ink. It’s much harder than I thought. Hope I can read this later. 

This place is so much more strange than I first thought. 

This country and land is certainly beautiful. I believe it's either mid to late spring to early fall. Grass is long, the hills roll, mountains are tall, and the trees high. 

But then I noticed the plant and wildlife. I have never seen these herbs or flowers or whatever the hell they are. They look like something out of a story book. And the animals. I’ve seen wolves and bears from a distance. Luckily, I haven't bothered them enough to attack me. 

But then I noticed a crow. It had such a large beak with ruffled feathers and splashes of red? 

And spiders. The most gigantic ones I have ever seen. They look like the size of horses! What the fuck??

I must’ve been hallucinating. I should get some rest. The people here like to wake at daybreak. 

Farmers are insane. 

*******

They have been in the deep roads for a few days. 

It’s as claustrophobic and dark and all things awful as Anders last remembers. 

He wished the warden commander was here. She must be so warm and cozy now being the queen of Ferelden. 

And Pounce. His little mews and purrs was what really kept him going. 

Well, that and screwing around with Nathaniel was also fun. He had the best expressions. 

The company he has now however wasn't too bad. They certainly made an entertaining crowd. 

“Garrett, if you had to choose, would you rather eat your shirt or your trousers?” 

The echoes of Hawke’s belly laugh lasts almost a minute as they trek along. He had to hold on to his staff to keep himself upright. It was quite contagious and made himself, Varric, and Valentine laugh along with him. 

“Maker Val, I knew I wouldn’t regret bringing you. I think I would eat my shirt. My shirt in particular today looks rather tasty.” 

“I swear no one wants to eat their pants, it’s always the shirt.” 

“Who the hell wants to eat their pants?” Varric raises a brow. 

“I don't know, but I’m waiting for someone to tell me.” 

Without daylight, it’s impossible to tell when it's dawn or near dusk. After crossing corridors and making quick work of darkspawn that lurked, they all agreed to make camp and rest. 

Spare food and drink are brought out, bringing out better spirits for the exhausted party. Bottles of wine and flasks of water. Wrapped packs of dried fruit, meat, and nuts. 

Words start spilling and conversations follow. 

It never ceases to amaze Anders how well Hawke carries himself in social situations. He held a poise like a noble yet spoke like a child raised by pirates. Held confidence in his chest and said things like “Anders, can you help me get my hand out of this jar?” 

 He was like an affectionate pet. 

“Val,” Hawke said. He sat next to Varric while Anders and Valentine sat opposite them. “Did you know that our friend Anders runs a clinic in Darktown?”

Valentine laughs.

“That’s very all of a sudden, Garrett. That would make you a healer, yes?” She looks at Anders now. 

“That’s right,” he smiles back for politeness. “I just try to help the sick as much as I can.” 

“That’s incredibly thoughtful of you. You must make decent coin as well.” 

“Oh, I don’t charge.” Valentine nearly spits out as she drinks from a water flask. 

“You don't?” Her eyes wide and brows raised. “That’s insane. How do you get by?” 

“I get by by getting by. Also being dragged around by Hawke helps.” 

“And you are incredibly welcomed!” Hawke laughs, so does Varric, Valentine, and Anders. 

The group would soon pack their things and move on. 

*******

NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE GIANT SPIDERS ARE REAL I HATE WHERE EVER THE FUCK I AM AT 

ANYWAYS....

Life in the village is peaceful. I can’t complain.

Yeah sure, the food could be better and I have to shit in a pot but overall, I like it. 

Not shaving is a big plus for me.

I’ve made the mistake of asking too many questions. Some of the things I don't know are common knowledge, causing people to look at me weird. Someone even asked if I had brain damage. 

And then I realized having amnesia is a great excuse. Everyone now believes I have suffered such an injury. That’s my life now. 

The innkeeper offered me a position to keep his rooms cleaned and naturally, I accepted. He also asked me to watch and possibly teach his young daughter to read and write along with watching her.

She is the dearest thing I’ve seen in a long time.

Her name is Wenona. She is nearly four years of age, has light brown hair that is always braided, has a freckled face, and wears homemade dresses. 

She is mute. I have never heard her talk or make any noise. Her father says she’s only shy, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she was on the spectrum. She is nice nonetheless and gestures when she wants something like food. I speak to her with simple words but not any different than to the others i have spoken here in the village. She understands me just fine. 

We have so far spent days outdoors, picking herbs and flowers and laying in the grass and staring at the clouds. Indoors I help her learn how to write, have tea parties, and cook and bake . I read to her every night before bed and sometimes I sing to her. 

I’ve also realized that this girl has no friends. I’ve seen a few other children here, but they never go up to here to talk or play. I asked her myself and she nodded. I told her that she was my friend and the look in her eyes…..

Learning about the world through her is an amazing experience too. 

They have a religion here called Andrastanism. It sounds similar to Christianity, but instead of God, they have a maker and instead of a son, the maker has a bride named Andraste. I’ve read their biblical stories to Wenona. 

I still have so much to learn. 

****

[jenniferhawke]

Anything for you

Summary: Fenris has never celebrated Satinalia. Hawke shows him the true meaning of the holiday.

Words: 2683

This is a short stand alone I wrote last year for the holidays. Thought I would share this piece here. Just a short, fluffy, FenHawke drabble that occurs early on in act 2.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It starts with a bottle of wine, as most of their admissions do. Hawke's cheeks warm with drink, pinking further as the elf across from her smiles, green eyes lifting at the corners. The only time she sees him like this - genuinely happy - is during her visits. Part of her is flattered that he reserves this side for her. But the more sensible side of Hawke wishes he could find such joy outside of these walls, without her presence and a bottle of wine to ignite them. 

Their conversation turns to the upcoming celebration of Satinalia, when Fenris admits he has nothing planned for the day. 

“Nothing at all?” Hawke’s eyebrows raise in surprise.

“Did we not partake in the celebration at The Hanged Man?”

A few days prior, Varric had thrown a feast in his suite. Hawke and all her companions had joined then, drinking and eating until the wee hours of the morning. It was a wonderful night, that was certain. But they had celebrated the holiday then because they all had previous engagements for Satinalia day itself. 

“Well, Varric hosted that night because everyone was already committed to something on the actual date. Sebastian has his sermons. Isabela made it abundantly clear that she’d be spreading cheer by gracing the Blooming Rose with their favorite customer. Merrill somehow roped Varric into telling stories to the young elves in the alienage, because, according to her, she can never get the voices right. Although, I suppose Varric won’t mind terribly, he loves a receptive audience, and he’ll have those children hanging off of his every word,” Hawke laughs. “And Anders and Lirene from the clinic are going to be handing out food rations to the poor.” Hawke had been more than glad to donate coin to help her friend pay for the food needed. “Aveline is going to be stuck on guard duty, but I made her promise to stop by for a drink afterwards. Mother almost considers her another daughter now, with everything we went through together to get here,” she says with a smile. Her eyes meet Fenris’. “And that just leaves you.”

“It is just a day like any other,” he says, taking a long sip from his bottle.

“Are there little things you do to celebrate? Any traditions?”

“I’ve … never really partaken in the holiday. Not truly. Traditionally, slaves are permitted to feast during Satinalia, to eat just as well as their Master's. But Danarius did not wish to spoil his slaves. He thought it a waste of good food. One year, however, he gifted me a blanket. It might not sound like much, but it is very rare for a slave to own personal effects. Even bedding. He did seem to be in kinder spirits than usual, so it was a small thing to look forward to.” 

Hawke scolds herself then, angry that her ignorance blinded her from seeing how insensitive the question was. But before she can apologize, Fenris changes the direction of the conversation.

“I’m not sure if it is a Free Marcher custom, but in the last few weeks, many of the bakery’s have been selling these sweets. I admit, I’ve found myself at the stalls time and again. It seems I cannot get enough of them,” he smiles.

“Do you know what they’re called?”

“They are a cookie of sorts. Simple, perhaps made with only flour and sugar. I forget the name.”

“Oh, you aren’t talking about shortbread cookies, are you?”

“Ah, yes. That’s what they’re called.”

Hawke scrunches up her face, and Fenris grins. “Not a fan I take it?”

“Heavens, no!” she laughs. “Mother used to make them every year, and insisted that since she spent time making them, we all had to eat them. Father loved them. So did Carver. But Bethany and I detested the things.”

“You truly do not know what you are missing.”

“Oh, I certainly do. You are free to all the shortbread you want. I can promise you that I will never be tempted to ask you to share.”

Fenris laughs then, and it is a joy to her ears. His eyes soften, and she returns his smile. “And what of you - what traditions do you partake in?”

“My family and I always celebrated together. Waking up at dawn, exchanging gifts, sitting in front of the fire with a glass of wine. We were allowed just one glass, even as children,” she says, fond memories dancing before her eyes. It occurs to her then, that every memory Fenris has that should be precious is tainted with misery. That, even a memory of receiving a gift is twisted from its origin. She looks upon him then, their eyes meeting and holding each other's gaze.

“I’m sorry … it was unkind of me to share such things,” she says. 

“Why?”

“Because you … you’ve never …”

“I do not want your pity,” he says coldly, and Hawke sighs. 

“I do not pity you Fenris. It just hurts me to think of all you’ve endured. You’re a good man.”

“How can you be so sure?” he averts his eyes then, staring blankly at the contents of wine in the bottle. “There is much you do not know of my past. Of all that I’ve done.”

“Those things were beyond your control. You’ve told me before -  a slave has no choice, that he only thinks of his Master’s wishes. That wasn’t you, Fenris. That was someone else in another life.”

Slowly, he lifts his gaze, and Hawke nearly drowns in the depth of emotion swimming behind his eyes. “I wish I could believe you. You make me want to.”

“Perhaps one day you will.”

 It’s in that moment that Hawke promises herself that she will give Fenris a reason to cherish this holiday, to give him new memories to alleviate the sting of ones that are a source of pain. She doesn’t know what exactly she is to Fenris, but she would do just about anything to erase his self doubts, and to show him how much he means to her.

It is far too early when Fenris is awakened by a loud pounding on his front door. He grumbles, rolling over, hoping the pest will leave if he wills it. But the banging at the door continues, dragging him away from his sleep.

“Fasta Vass,” he grunts, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. He quickly throws on a pair of trousers and a grey cotton shirt, and pads down the stairs. Whoever it was had better have a good excuse for disrupting his slumber. Pulling open the door, he is shocked to see Hawke, a huge grin plastered on her face.

“Merry Satinalia!” she exclaims, throwing her arms around his neck. Fenris stands stiffly, startled by the sign of affection.

“Hawke?” he asks, confused. “What are you doing here?”

“No one should spend this day alone,” she says, her eyes twinkling as she pulls away. Immediately, Fenris misses her warmth. “Grab your coat, it’s chilly out.”

“Where are we going?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

Fenris sighs. He hates surprises - one could never properly prepare themselves without knowing what they were getting themselves into. He throws on a light wool jacket, but as he reaches his sword, Hawke chuckles.

“You won’t need that where we’re going. And I doubt any criminals are lingering the streets. Even thieves take this day off.”

“If you are certain,” he says, and steps past the threshold, closing the door behind him.

“Come on!” she exclaims, taking his hand in hers, lacing her slender fingers around his own. His eyebrows raise, his heart suddenly coming to a halt within his chest. It startles him, truly, to feel her supple flesh in his palm, her skin somehow warm amidst the chill around them. He realises he’s frozen in place when she begins to tug him along. He follows her without another word, cherishing this tender moment between  two … friends? Almost lovers? Fenris does not know what they are - a slave never dreams of such a cherished relationship. But he’s not a slave. Not anymore. Perhaps he could dare to dream of something more.

Thick, fluffy snowflakes fall from the sky, still dark with dusk. But despite the unholy early hour, a choir sings in the distance, voices so harmonic they sound unworldly. Fenris shivers, a chill running through his body at the frigid temperature.

“I’ll never understand why you don’t invest in a warmer jacket. This isn’t Tevinter, you know,” she teases, running her thumb in circles against his hand, perhaps in a feeble attempt to keep him warm.

“You do have a point.”

“It’s not far, you’ll be warm in no time, I promise.”

As they walk through the streets, she speaks of things he does not know - plum pudding and honeyed cakes. But all Fenris can fixate on is the decadently smooth skin grazing the palm of his hand. A few minutes later, they round the corner, and Fenris realises that they are heading towards her estate. When they reach her door, she reluctantly let's go of his hand, and he nearly takes her hand back in his own. Nearly. She beams at him then, her wondrous eyes gleaming, even under the dusky sky. 

“Here,” she says, and runs her fingers through his hair for a few moments. “Your hair is all mussed up.” As her fingers brush against his scalp, a delightful chill prickles at the back of his neck. He’d not known such a small touch could feel so … enoyable. 

“Perhaps I would look more presentable had I known I would be joining you.”

“You look fine,” she says with a grin, removing her fingers from his hair, and it surprises him that he wishes for her touch to linger a few moments longer.

As they step into the warmth of her home, the aroma of spiced bread reaches his nose. He follows Hawke to the living room, where Leandra greets him with a smile.

“Fenris dear, how nice of you to join us. Come in,” the elder Hawke woman says, and Fenris nods.

“I appreciate the invite.”

He follows them into a side room he’s never been in before. The estate is decked out in brightly coloured ribbons. A pine centerpiece sits in the middle of a large dining table.

“Take a seat,” Hawke gestures, and they sit together. Leandra returns, a tray full of cookies.

“My daughter tells me you enjoy shortbread,” she says, holding out the tray to him. Reluctantly, he accepts a cookie.

“I do. You have my thanks,” he says, and he can’t help but wonder what else Hawke has told her mother of him. Did she know he was an escaped slave? Despite being of nobility, Leandra never looked upon him with disgust when Fenris came to collect Hawke. She was always kind and soft spoken, something Fenris never really appreciated until now.

“Such manners,” Leandra says, taking a seat at the table.

Fenris takes a bite into the cookie, and hums his approval. It’s even better than the cookies he purchases from the Hightown stall.

“See, darling, someone approves of your mother’s baking,” Leandra beams and Hawke sighs.

“Your baking is just fine, Mother.”

Just then, there’s a knock at the door. Moments later, Gamlen walks in, with Carver tagging behind him.

“Carver!” Leandra exclaims, pushing past Gamlen to embrace her son. 

“Am I nothing to you now?” Gamlen sounds annoyed, but strolls over the the table, pouring himself a glass of wine. Hawke joins her mother, giving her brother a brief hug.

“The Templars gave you a day off? I’m shocked,” she says, her voice teasing.

“I only have an hour or so to spare, but I am here until then.”

“Only an hour?” Leandra gasps. “But it’s Satinalia.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Mother. But I have duties.”

“Well, you best open your presents now then.”

Fenris is content to sit and watch the Hawke family exchange their gifts. He drinks spiced wine, and munches on various treats displayed on the table. Hawke’s staff busies themselves in the kitchen, and despite his belly full of sugary sweets, his stomach anticipates the savory smells that waft through the air.

They share a hearty breakfast, filled with tender meats, sweet bread, and fresh fruit. By the time they are finished, Fenris is fit to burst. He comfortably sips his drink when Carver bids his family farewell.

As Leandra and Gamlen converse in the kitchen, Hawke adds another log to the fire. It crackles loudly, tiny embers of fire floating above the wood. She reaches up on her mantle, grabbing two remaining gifts. 

“I have something for you,” she says.

Fenris is reluctant to accept them; he’d brought nothing in return. But he knows Hawke, and knows it would wound her should he refuse. He slowly unwraps the first one, and when it is revealed, his heart jumps in his throat.

“It’s a book,” he says slowly, his tongue suddenly heavy in his mouth.

“It’s a subject you’re familiar with. The book is by Shartan, the elf who helped Andraste free the slaves. You know about him, right?”

“A little,” he admits. He’s hidden this from her for so long, and Fenris suddenly feels insecure. “It’s just … slaves are not permitted to read. I’ve never learned.”

“It’s not too late to learn, Fenris.”

“Isn’t it? Sometimes I wonder. I don’t mean to seem ungrateful, I do appreciate the thought. I’ve always wanted to learn more of Shartan. Perhaps this is my chance.”

“I’d be more than willing to help you learn.”

“Are you certain?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it,” she says warmly, placing a hand over his.

“Thank you, Hawke.” She can’t possibly know what this means to him. He’s always wanted to learn, for as far back as he can remember. It’d be one last thing erased from his life of a slave - his illiteracy. 

“Open your other gift,” she grins.

“You spoil me,” he chuckles. As his fingers unwrap the gift, a deep plum scarf is revealed.

“Here, allow me,” she says. Hawke stands before him, leaning forward as she delicately wraps the scarf around his neck. “You seldom dress appropriately for the winter. Maybe this will help keep you warm.” Her hands graze the back of his neck as she winds the scarf around him, and once again, a delicious shiver ghosts over his skin at her touch. Fenris looks up at her, and notices just how close their faces are, so close he can smell the sweet wine from her lips. She gazes deeply into his eyes. Fenris longs to close the distance, to press his lips against hers, to finally know how her mouth tastes against his own. But he stalls for too long, and Hawke lowers her gaze, a nervous chuckle ghosting past her lips as a light blush dances across her cheeks. 

“Thank you, Hawke,” he finally says. He’s surprised by the tenderness of his own voice -  a voice he scarcely recognises as his own.

“Anything for you, Fenris.”

The admission sends his heart dancing beneath his chest. For so long, he’s wondered if her feelings run as deep as his own - if all her flirting was just a habit, or if her words came from the heart. But being here with her, being invited into her home with her family during Satinalia - it’s shown him that she does care. He’s wanted her for years, desperately so. Perhaps, one day soon, he will gather the courage to tell her how he feels. But for now, he’s content to enjoy her company.  -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

End notes: I took some liberty with Satinalia. Based on what I’ve read about “Saturnalia”, the Romans would allow their slaves to dine with them at a grand feast, and sometimes would play role reversal. I certainly couldn’t see Danarius doing that, so that’s where the idea for that conversation came from. Anywho, whatever you celebrate, I hope you enjoy the holidays!

[jellydishes]

so i saw this post recently about what sort of gods characters from critical role would be, and i couldn’t resist turning that around for dragon age two

Hawke’s worshippers have schismed again and again and again, to the point that no one can even agree on their diety’s gender, let alone temperament. when you strip away the disagreements and the endless discord, however, you get to the heart of this polarizing deity: hawke is a deity for the lost, in all their forms. those who have lost homes and lovers and parents and siblings, as much as for those who have lost their way. those who are afraid and uncertain and don’t want to -can’t be- strong all the time. hawke is rarely depicted as a person, far more often with symbols - an interwoven, stark heraldry. a length of cloth, tattered and red as blood. a messy smear of blood, replicated by their worshippers across the nose. hawke is strength and protection when you have no one else. hawke is a hand, offered when you can’t stand up on your own. how many times can one person do this? “at least once more,” says a whisper in your ear

Bethany is a goddess that is hard for many to understand. those people only hear her hymns devoted to hope and kindness and think she is but one more goddess of the hearth and home, easily dismissed. they would be wrong. bethany is worshipped by warriors just as often as she is the abused and forgotten. because beneath the smiles and open hands she is often depicted with, is a core built of heat and determination and a relentless desire to protect what is yours. one does not cancel out the other. bethany’s worshippers know that she is not asking them to forgive and forget, she is asking them to keep going when all you want to do is to give up. put one foot in front of the other and nurture that last bit of hope you have for one more day

Carver is, like his twin, a difficult god for many to parse, easily dismissed as a war god, a god worshipped by those who refuse to follow society’s rules. and they would be missing the truth of him. carver is a god those who want -need- to pave their own path. he is worshipped by transgender people, by those who have no family by choice or by fate and who create their own future. by those who refuse to be defined by someone else. the angry, but also the joyful. offerings to carver are a coin from your first wages at a job no one trusted you to get, let alone keep. a moment from your gender euphoria. a messy drawing by the child you never expected to have. carver is trust in yourself, when no one else has it for you

Aveline is primarily a goddess worshipped by guards and soldiers, but a not insignificant amount of prayers are offered to her by orphans and widows. it is Known that aveline lost and lost and lost in the days before her ascension. she can be a distant god, hard to understand or even love, but she is a constant. when the world was forged, aveline was there, and so shall she remain. aveline is strength and self-reliance and memories held close to your chest because it is no one’s to take before you are ready. images of aveline are often left clasped between the hands of the dead, so that they would always have someone’s hand in theirs

Varric’s stories often depict him as smiling and confident, a twinkle in his eyes and a crossbow bolt between his fingers. he is a god of artists and storytellers, but more than that, varric is a god of memory. it is Known that in life, varric committed his loves into words so that they would last, would live even when he knew they wouldn’t. he is also turned to when loved ones struggle with pain and addiction and alcoholism or any one of a number of coping mechanisms that once helped but now only hurt and hurt and hurt them and others - he does not judge them or you, and instead is a steady, comforting presence when you feel most alone in a cold world which seems to have left you behind. varric is a god for those who turn their pain on its head, who transform it into light and color and laughter. varric is smiles, and the spaces between them

Fenris was initially worshipped as a god of war, but over time that shifted so that now he is known as a god of death and rebirth. the death he represents is often not a physical one, so much as a moment of growth. of deliberately choosing to release the grip your past has upon your present. even if it is hard, and you cannot let it go without leaving claw marks where you wish to hold and remember and understand. because by lingering in a place where discomfort has become comfortable, you cannot grow. your past will remain a part of you, as scars do, but you can turn your eyes to look ahead to the rebirth awaiting you. a spiritual rebirth, of a private meaning. his followers are as much the abused and the enslaved and the survivors as they are the grieving, and all are welcome

Anders is infamously known as a polarizing god, one most well known for the wars his followers seem to end up embroiled in, in one way or another. but that is a very simplistic view of him and those who follow him, and a narrow-minded one. anders was initially worshipped as a nurturing god devoted to healing and sacrifice, but over time the sacrificial part of his domain expanded to be that most focused on. this sacrifice is often interpreted by those who misunderstand him by pointing to deaths and discord caused in his name and cite him as a reason to bear down on his worshippers - those who worship him, however, almost to a person, cite that sacrifice as a personal one. of giving up personal comfort and safety and happiness for the greater good. of painting yourself as the monster so that those you wish to protect from harm will be spared. those who remain from his earliest days of worship still remember his symbols of a scarf and a cat and small, patched pillow, symbols of warmth given and warmth treasured in dark times

Merrill is, first and foremost, a goddess for those who refuse to give in to the darkness of time and assimilation. worshipped primarily by those from cultures who have been attacked from all sides in all the ways a culture can while still surviving. merrill is a proud goddess, an angry goddess, but neither of those are negatives. she is also a joyful one, rejoicing with her worshippers when they rediscover a piece of their culture, or simply celebrating in it. when you wear jewelry or clothing from your culture or take pride in your lineage or make your foodstuffs, you are singing with her. merrill is a refusal to turn away from the hard task of keeping what is yours when beset on all sides, she is keeping your head high and eyes bright, your soul shining because doing otherwise is no alternative at all

Isabela began her life as a goddess as one devoted purely to the sea, but as many of her fellows did, her domain shifted to that of a protector of women. transgender woman and neurodivergent women and disabled women and women of color and abused women all raise their hands to her, and she gives hers back. isabela is cold fury at those who dare bring harm to or degrade her sisters just as she is a warm pair of arms to hold you up when you are alone in a cold world. she understands what it is to have your choices taken from you, and what it is to hide the vulnerability in your heart when that is the only means available to you to protect yourself. isabela is the soft, warm voice beside you whispering to allow yourself to trust when it can be the most terrifying thing in the world. isabela is the hand guiding your fist to the sky when you see your sisters trodden upon. “not today,” comes isabela's rising call. “not anymore.”

Sebastian is a god with two faces. in one of his forms, he is a god of love and pleasure, of taking joy in the present because the future is not certain and certainly not a promise, a god for those who are afraid and find comfort in the warmth of others. this side of sebastian does not judge those who take pleasure in the flesh or in modifying their bodies or in turning away from the roles expected of you, because he knows what it is to refuse a call. sebastian in this face is independence and planting your feet upon the ground. “this is me,” sebastian tells the world before you. “the words i choose define me, not yours.”

Sebastian's other face is a god of change. he often has feasts devoted to him at the turning of the seasons (especially autumn), but he is just as easily found in choosing to live by a self-ordained set of rules when your old way of life no longer satisfies. a god who, when faced with loss, redefined what loss means as well as what remains. when faced with restrictions and pain imposed by others, his worshippers find meaning in what remains. asexuals and the chase also turn to him, knowing the choices he himself made in his mortal life, and he welcomes them. sebastian is a god of dichotomies, but those stark differences do not mean that either side of him does not have meaning - on the contrary, both sides are made that much more meaningful by the contrast and how they inform the other. this side of sebastian is also about defining yourself. “you make take my home and my family and everything i thought was true about myself,” sebastian tells all those arrayed before you, “but you cannot take away the heart of me. that determination that drives me forward. i was here before you, and i will be here after you are gone.”

Tallis is a goddess of extremes, just as known for laughter with a smile that is all teeth as she is wandering hands that reach for your belt or your throat instead of your hip. she is all anger and stubbornness and a refusal to give into the dark. a goddess for those who look upon the sand presented to them by the world and score, not a line, but a canyon deep within it. cross this line at your peril, tallis tells your enemies. you may have come for people that are not mine, who may not ever know my name or even be grateful, but that doesn't matter. “not one step more,” she roars into the wind, her hand beside yours, just waiting for you to clasp it. she is the hard choice made because it must be, because no one else will

[elusetta]

"why don’t you care?" for guinevere/isabella? :3

shorter than i would’ve liked. also this was written at 1 am so please... forgive me. thanks for the ask! love u mariah

The end.

Silk sheets. Warm candles. Fine robes.

Crushing her. Crushing her.

Guinevere could not breathe.

Old memories. Kind memories. Mother, Mother, Mother reaching out, Mother’s face on a body pieced together like she was just a thing, something to be used, Mother’s voice…

Bethany gone. Carver good as dead. Gamlen meaningless.

Her skin itched, rejecting the thought of being alone. There had to be something she could do, didn’t there? Something she could do, to make this right?

There was always something. A person to rescue, a last wish to fulfill.

Mother hadn’t expected anything.

She hadn’t had the chance.

Isabela’s presence in the doorway. Guin looked away. She wasn’t meant for this, for these emotions.

Guin hadn’t tried to trouble anyone, but here Isabela was anyway. It sparked a note of anger- with herself, the world, or Isabela, she couldn’t tell- that was just as soon stomped out.

“I… feel I should say something,” her voice, that beautiful voice, said, unsure of itself.

Guin shuddered, drawing her knees up to her chest, curling as far into herself as she possibly could. “It’s okay.” Her voice was choked with tears that she hadn’t even been shedding, and she didn’t have to look at Isabela to know that it made her uncomfortable.

Nonetheless, Isabela drew closer. “At least your mother loved you. Not everyone can say that.”

I loved her too, Guin’s thoughts growled back. I loved her too, and it wasn’t enough to save her. Outwardly, though, she made no response other than a soft sob.

Again, Isabela came closer, sitting next to her on the bed. “Family’s not just the people you’re related to by blood. There are other people who care about you.”

Guin’s head twitched toward her companion, waiting for something. What, she wasn’t sure, but something. Anything.

“Like… Aveline,” Isabela finished lamely.

Guin’s heart dropped into her stomach. She shouldn’t have expected anything else. It was selfish of her to expect anything else. Isabela simply was not the type of person to indulge in emotions, and Guin was practically made of them.

(She knew exactly how badly her heart had chosen, but logic wasn’t part of this equation.)

Still, the declaration hurt. And on top of everything else, it was enough to make Guin stop thinking. She uncurled herself, letting her legs drift to the ground, balling her fist in the soft sheets that felt like hard sand. “And you, Isabela?”

Eyes matched eyes. Anger was relaxing. It made all the pain go into something manageable, like an explosive waiting to be thrown. “Why don’t you care, Isabela?”

“I-” She almost laughed in defense, but the fire in Guin’s eyes must have caught her off-guard, because her voice grew strange, nearly worried. “I didn’t say that.”

“Why do I even bother?” Guin sighed, letting another shaky breath out. “What do I get out of protecting this Maker-forsaken city?”

She fell silent for a moment too long, and when her voice came again, it was only a step away from silent. “I just want to go home.”

A moment. Meaningless. Everything gray.

Isabela tried again. “Your home is… here. With Varric. And Aveline, and Merrill, and… and me.”

Guin smiled, and knew her eyes were as blank as her mother’s when she’d been in that body that wasn’t hers. “Maybe you should go.”

Isabela tried to say something. Or maybe she did, and Guin just didn’t hear it.

But either way, she was gone in an instant.

Mother’s ghost in the corner.

Blood magic. Mother’s head, sewn onto her neck in a grotesque facsimile of a human being.

Magic.

Guin stared at her hands. Hands that played with fire and saved lives.

Hands that bore magic.

She’d once thought that it was beautiful, the way it glowed and glittered, the way it helped her do things any normal person could only dream of.

She called the green light of a healing spell to her fingers; watched it dance; remembered that it hadn’t done enough.

Mother’s ghost on her shoulder, whispering everything she already knew.

The remembrance of Isabela on the bed.

And then nothing.

[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: Val Royeaux

Chapter 4 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) is up! Excerpt is below. Read the rest on AO3. 

In which Fenris and the crew head to Val Royeaux for the first time, and Fenris has some (hopefully?) interesting chats with Solas and Cassandra. 

****************************

Hawke sighed and shifted her pack on her back. “We do a lot of walking, don’t we?” she lamented.

Cassandra frowned. “We are nearly there. We will be at the golden gates in another hour.”

Fenris wrinkled his nose. “Golden gates? Is that a literal description?”

“Yes,” Cassandra confirmed. “Access to Val Royeaux has been severely restricted since the mage rebellion began. It is a credit to Josephine that they are opening the gates to us at all.”

Fenris grunted. He’d thought the trappings of wealth and power in Kirkwall were bad, but if Val Royeaux had gates made of genuine gold, it seemed that they were in for a display of prosperity more gaudy than anything that Hightown could offer.

“Flaunting their fortune so blatantly,” he muttered. “It is practically an invitation to invade and conquer.”

“I do not disagree with you,” Cassandra said. “But this city is the heart of Orlais. Such displays of wealth are considered… necessary.” She wrinkled her nose slightly, as though at a bad smell. “But Val Royeaux has always relied on the protection of its Templars more than its gates. Until recently, at least.”

“Ah, Templars,” Hawke sighed. “I’m sure they’ll be pleased to see me, if there are any left here. And Solas, for that matter. How do we look? An attractive pair of apostates, I hope?” She ruffled her dark tufty hair with mock vanity. Fenris had recently helped her to trim it back to her signature pixie cut, since they were no longer in hiding.

Solas smiled faintly. “I believe we will be left alone as long as we remain inconspicuous.”

Varric chuckled. “Haven’t you been paying any attention these last few weeks, Chuckles? There isn’t an inconspicuous bone in Hawke’s body.”

Hawke gasped and pressed a hand to her chest. “Varric, how dare you? I can hardly be blamed if my infinite wit and beauty make me the center of attention.”

Varric snorted, and Solas’s smile widened slightly. Meanwhile, Cassandra pursed her lips in disapproval, and Fenris simply smirked as he observed them all. Cassandra’s reactions to Hawke’s antics reminded him of Aveline when he had first arrived in Kirkwall so many years ago. Indeed, there was something about the Seeker’s single-minded commitment to her duty that made him think she would like Aveline very much, if ever the two had the chance to meet.

He sighed at the thought of Aveline and of simpler times in Kirkwall. He had never imagined that his tumultuous years in Kirkwall could be thought of as simple, but compared to the heaping number of problems that kept on coming up since the Breach, Kirkwall had been a veritable picnic. First it was fighting through the madness of power-hungry Templars and apostates in the Hinterlands to find that Mother Giselle. Then it was fighting their way across the Hinterlands to speak to Dennet, then closing a handful of rifts and exorcising a pack of wolves and erecting a handful of watchtowers, all so the horsemaster would finally agree to work for them…

The task of recruiting Dennet had ultimately taken weeks of effort. And still he had to get his horses to Haven, which was going to take weeks longer still, hence this journey to Val Royeaux being done on foot.

Not that a horseback journey would necessarily have been faster. Fenris was unfamiliar with the riding of horses, never having learned during his youth in Tevinter, so he was certain his lack of equestrian ability would only have served to slow the journey even further.

Hawke sidled up beside him and briefly squeezed his fingers. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said automatically. He adjusted his pack and brushed some travel dust from his sleeve.

She raised one eyebrow. “No qualms whatsoever about speaking to these Chantry mothers?”

He twisted his lips. “If by ‘qualms’, you mean ‘strong doubts that they will listen to a Tevinter elf cursed with magic and accompanied by two apostates, a random dwarf, and a Chantry traitor’, then… no, none at all.”

“Watch who you’re calling random,” Varric quipped over his shoulder.

Fenris cast him a flat look, but Hawke ignored him to focus on Fenris. “You’re not just some Tevinter elf,” she said quietly. “You and Varric are the most intelligent men I know. If anyone can logic some sense into these people, it’s you.”

Solas subtly cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, logic may not be the most reliable strategy in a situation such as this. A sky rife with unknown magic, the fear and uncertainty in the air…” He shrugged. “A passionate plea may prevail, even though cooler heads would be best suited for finding a solution.”

Hawke wrinkled her nose. “I can’t decide if that was helpful advice or not.”

Fenris huffed softly. That was his general impression of Solas so far. The elven mage seemed to know a great deal about a great many things, but there were times when his advice or observations seemed oddly nihilistic or world-weary, particularly for someone who couldn’t be more than five or ten years older than Fenris himself.

Solas bowed his head deferentially. “It is simply a suggestion. Fenris may wish to have more than one strategy lined up before we encounter the Chantry mothers.”

Hawke clicked her tongue ruefully. “You’re probably right. Hey, Varric!” She peeled away from Fenris’s side to join the dwarf instead. “Can you come up with some clever bullshit for Fenris to feed to the Chantry people?”

Cassandra scowled and moved forward to join them. “That is not necessary,” she said sternly. “Varric’s particular brand of help is not what we need right now.”

“Oh come on, Seeker, don’t you know the meaning of ‘forgive and forget’?” Varric complained. “It’s been weeks now…”

They continued to bicker, with Hawke’s bright interjections to break things up, and Fenris sighed and idly rubbed his left palm.

“Does it pain you?” Solas asked softly.

Fenris glanced at him, then let his left hand fall to his side. “No. But I would still rather it not be there.”

Solas nodded once. “I will continue to search for ways of removing it.”

Fenris shot him a quizzical look as they continued along the road to Val Royeaux. “When are you finding the time to do this research?” he asked. “We have been on the move constantly. I can’t fathom when you would be finding the time to read.”

“Ah,” Solas said. “My methods of searching are somewhat more esoteric than simple reading.”

Fenris frowned. “Explain.”

“My searching takes place at night, when we are asleep,” Solas said. “In dreams, I travel to the deepest corners of the Fade. I've watched as hosts of spirits clash to re-enact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten. In ancient buildings and battlefields, I can find memories no other living being has ever seen.”  

Fenris narrowed his eyes at Solas’s enthusiastic tone. “You are a somniari,” he said slowly. “You do this without supplementing your mana with lyrium or blood magic?”

“Yes, that is correct,” Solas said. He raised his eyebrows appraisingly. “You are well-versed in the ways of magic, for one who does not carry it.”

Fenris grunted. “Knowing your enemy’s weapon is the first step to successfully deflecting it.”

Solas tilted his head. “You view magic as a weapon?”

“It is a weapon,” Fenris retorted.

Solas lifted his chin slightly. When he spoke again, his voice was cool. “What of healing spells, such as those that Hawke uses so freely? Or the barriers that protect you during battle?”

“A dagger can be used to slice fruit or to cut a bandage,” Fenris replied. “That does not make it any less dangerous.”

To Fenris’s surprise, Solas smiled slightly. “Interesting,” he murmured. “So you admit that magic can be beneficial, when utilized by the right mage.”

Fenris scowled. “That is precisely the problem. Of all the mages I have ever known, I can count the number of such ‘right’ mages on one hand. On one single finger, in fact, and she is walking ahead of you as we speak.”

Solas glanced at Hawke as Fenris continued to speak. “Magic is a weapon,” he said firmly. “Very few are strong enough to wield it safely, or to wield it without being corrupted by the lure of power that it affords.”

Solas didn’t reply, and they walked together in silence for some time while Varric, Cassandra, and Hawke continued to converse ahead of them. Eventually Solas broke the silence.

“Thank you for your perspective,” he said. “It is… truly eye-opening.”

Fenris glanced at him quizzically. He seemed sad, or perhaps resigned, and Fenris wasn’t quite sure how to respond to his melancholy reaction. He’d never had this argument with a mage who didn’t either get angry (Merrill and Anders) or crack jokes until the argument was rendered moot (Hawke).

Fenris felt awkward. He shrugged wordlessly and was considering slipping away to join Hawke instead when Solas spoke again. “May I ask about your lyrium tattoos?”

Fenris frowned and instinctively adjusted his scarf to cover more of his neck. “To what end?” he asked suspiciously.

“Truthfully, I am uncertain how the mark might be interacting with them,” Solas explained. He blinked at Fenris in that benign manner of his. “The more I know about your tattoos and how they work, the more I might be able to predict about the behaviour of the mark.”

Fenris pursed his lips. “I can tell you little of how they work. My former master never deigned to explain the details of his most vile and closely guarded spells to me.”

He didn’t bother to hide his bitterness as he said this. Solas bowed his head respectfully in response.

After a moment of awkward silence, Fenris sighed bad-temperedly. “Ask your questions,” he grunted.

Solas nodded an acknowledgement. “The burst of lyrium-fuelled energy that you use to stun your enemies. How do you channel that energy?”

Fenris hesitated and considered his response. “The tattoos vibrate when they are active,” he said carefully. “I can… focus the vibration. Push it to the very edges of my skin. And with a final push, the vibration flares beyond the bounds of my body to lash my enemies.”

Solas’s eyebrows rose steadily during the explanation. “Fascinating,” he murmured. “And when you make yourself scarce on the battlefield. When you phase short distances, or pass your hand through an enemy’s body. How is this done?”

Fenris shook his head slightly, then rubbed his forehead. He’d been using the lyrium scars for so long now that he no longer actively thought about their use. Being forced to do so now was like being asked to explain how to walk: the more he tried to consider it, the more awkward and unnatural it seemed.

But the lyrium scars weren’t natural, and Solas’s questions only served to remind him of this.

He sighed in annoyance. “It is like a meditative state, but… an active one. When I… when the marks camouflage me during battle, it is like I’ve been hidden somehow, but… not by being covered. By being… shifted.” He trailed off and rubbed his forehead again in frustration. “When I tear out a heart, it is as though my hand slides through a different version of the enemy’s ribs. It is still his chest, but… parallel somehow. I cannot explain it better than this.” He glanced at Solas again.

The mage was watching him with a very intense sort of attention. Fenris scowled. “Well? Can any of this help you to remove the mark?” he demanded.

Rather than replying, Solas asked another question. “You were never trained in doing this? Your mastery of these powers... you acquired this on your own, with trial-and-error experimentation?”

“Yes,” Fenris bit off. “I had no choice but to experiment. I was lucky to gain any control at all over these marks.” He narrowed his eyes. “What is your point? What are you driving at?”

Solas opened his mouth to reply. Then Hawke appeared between them and slung her arms around Fenris’s and Solas’s necks. “Good news!” she chirped. “Only thirty minutes until we arrive at the Fancy Gates of Ponciness, or so Cassandra tells me.” She smiled at each of them. “How are my two favourite elves in the party?”

Solas smiled in response. “We are the only elves in this party,” he said.

“Exactly,” Hawke said cheerfully. “Aren’t you glad I like you, then?” She looked at Fenris. “Are you hungry at all? Would you like some trail mix?”

Despite her casual smile, he could see the sharpness in her amber eyes. He shook his head to reassure her. “No, thank you. I’m fine,” he said.

She gazed at him for a moment longer, then nodded. She released Fenris’s neck and briefly squeezed his arm, then pulled Solas along the path with her hand hooked through his elbow. “So, Solas, tell me - what’s your favourite way of tricking Templars into thinking you’re not a mage? My personal favourite is to flirt with them to throw them off the scent, but I don’t know how partial you are to that strategy. I should tell you about the first time I met Cullen…”

Fenris watched with no small amount of relief as Hawke dragged Solas away. He sighed, then moved forward to join Varric and Cassandra, who were still quietly arguing.

“I still don’t know why you brought me to Haven in the first place,” Varric was saying. “You were her Right Hand. I don’t know what I could have told the Divine that you couldn’t say yourself.”

“I thought she needed to see the chest hair for herself,” Cassandra muttered.

Fenris literally stopped in his tracks, and he and Varric stared at each other for a surprised moment.  “What was that you said?” Fenris asked. Surely he was hearing things.

Cassandra scowled. “I thought she needed to hear it from the horse’s mouth, as it were.”

“Ohh, that’s not what you said,” Varric drawled. “Now come on, Seeker, tell me the truth. Have you been admiring my manly chest all this time? Is that the real reason I’m here?”

She made a disgusted noise. “Of all the things that are unbelievable about you, Varric, the chest hair is what stretches the imagination the most.”

Varric’s grin widened further, and he looked up at Fenris. “Two mentions of my chest hair in the space of a minute. What do you think that means?”

Fenris shrugged and smirked. “I believe it means you need to learn to sew buttons on your shirt. Or perhaps the Seeker is flirting with you.”

Cassandra growled at them both, and Varric chuckled. “All right, all right, I’ll cut my losses while I’m ahead. I’ll go check in with Chuckles there. Make sure he’s not going to steal your lady from under your nose.” He winked at Fenris.

Fenris scoffed and eyed Solas’s bald head. “I am hardly concerned.”

“I don’t know, elf. It’s the quiet ones who you need to keep an eye out for,” Varric said. He smirked as Fenris rolled his eyes, then picked up his pace to catch up with Solas and Hawke.

Read the rest on AO3.

[locketofyourhair]

Fenris x Hawke: 105. I love you. I'm in love with you.

Prompt came from here.

Full disclosure: I haven’t played this game in forever but I watched the entire romance over again on YouTube. I miss them.

PlayStation, put the Dragon Age series in PSNow and I’ll pay for it!

They scatter, when it’s over. Varric won’t leave Kirkwall, and Aveline can’t. Sebastian is gone, and if she sees him again, she doesn’t know what she will do. Her fingers curl around one of her daggers and reminds herself that is a last option. She doesn’t want anymore blood on her hands if she can avoid it.

Bethany is gone, because she was an Enchanter and she could not just let her charges run into Free Marches without guidance. They needed her more than Hawks did, and that was the right thing to do.

But, Maker, did it hurt to think of it that way.

“We’ll be into Ostwick soon,” Fenris murmured, from his spot beside her. He’d stowed his gauntlets into their bags, robed and veiled as she was. They could not risk her face or his markings, not with the stories still coming from Kirkwall. He looked less himself with only part of his armor, even if his pauldrons strained against the fabric or his robes.

Not when she let Anders live, when she pleaded with Isabela and Merrill to take him onto Isabela’s stolen swoop when while the docks burned. There was no way he’d survive the night if they left him; she should have let him die, but then he’d have what he wanted. He’d be a martyr and not see the chaos and pain he caused.

She drew herself up, because soon the wagon would stop. Soon they’d have to make a decision about where to go. She was a wanted woman; it wasn’t fair to make him run again, not with a Starkhaven bounty on her head at the very least.

“We should part in Ostwick,” she says, as if it’s just that easy. “We can plan to meet in Cumberland in six months—“

“No,” Fenris murmured, and his hand was cool when he laid it over hers. “We will face this together or not at all,” he murmured, and his deep green eyes were steady. “And I will not leave your side.”

She sighed, because this was an argument they’d been avoiding since Kirkwall. They should part ways. They were too remarkable together, too noticeable. She’d cut her dark hair, but her bright eyes were too startling, too large. For all her tendency to lurk in shadows, she shone beside him; he made her too happy, even as their world had fallen apart.

“We won’t live to Nevarra,” she said, frowning deeply, and Fenris’ mouth twitched as he leaned close to kiss the line between her eyes.

“Then we die together like heroes in a romance, in a blaze of glory with our enemies falling before us.” He smiled, and it was so open, so happy, that she couldn’t help but smile back, even as she wanted to argue.

Instead she surged forward, to kiss him with the fierceness that blazed beneath her breast-bone. “No one will kill you,” she vowed. “I’ll cut down another slew of Templars to keep you safe.”

He smiled, and his returned kiss was softer, lingering. “Hawke, I love you. I’m in love with you,” he said, openly and without hesitation. “I would take down the Chantry itself if I thought they might harm you.”

She smiled and pulled one of her daggers, so it laid in her lap.

[lypreila]

I will not say; Do not weep

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Fenris x F!Hawke

She burns Sage, and the nightmares don’t go away. She wards her room, and still they slip in. She downs sleeping draughts, prepared by a sympathetic Anders, and all it accomplishes is to leave her stranded, unable to wake as her mother's corpse jerks upright, shambles forwards.  She gives herself over to fighting, patrolling the streets with Aveline, and Varric, from whom she can not hide that something is wrong. But there are no tears.

Days spent gardening with Merrill, hands dug into the stubborn alienage dirt, coaxing flowers and vegetables forth so there will be food for the hungry, beauty for the weary. The elves of Kirkwall come to know and accept her, ‘Not just a friend to the Shems’ they whisper, and gift her flowers to cheer the estate. Never, of course, white lilies. Occasional nights spent in Isabela’s bed, rarely for sex, mostly for the comfort of another person there, arms ready to hold and soothe.  Isabela, Hawke comes to learn, knows nightmares well. They are old friends, she says.

“It’s ok.   Cry if you need to. Scream if you want. I understand. I’m right here, Hawke.”

The tears and screams stay locked inside. She convinces herself she doesn’t need them.

She doesn’t avoid Fenris, not exactly. He’d come to comfort her, and it was appreciated, but it was difficult enough to deal with the conflicting storm of emotions that losing Leandra had brought about. She didn't have the energy to wonder about him, about her, about them.  Her heart aches for what could have been, but she tries to give him the space he needs. ‘Maybe… one day.’ she thinks to herself.

Grief, as immediate and painful as it is, has a way of fading, and though the nightmares don’t leave, they take on a monotonous familiarity that she can almost live with.  Eventually some of the joy begins to return to her. She laughs at one of Varric’s jokes. She braids the flowers sown by her own hands into the hair of a young elven boy, humming a tune that sounds sad, but with a happy smile as her deft fingers work through coppery locks.  She watches others die, Seamus in his father's arms, broken and bloody, and inwardly she weeps for his loss. Outwardly she lets slip a curse that makes Sebastian blush, stutter, and protest her rude mouth in front of the Grand Cleric. She lets him know, in no uncertain terms, that she doesn’t care one whit about Elthina’s sensitive disposition.  She begins to feel normal again, and hates herself for it.

Some of her calm bravado is back by the time she stands in front of the Arishok.  Fenris is talking to the Qunari, stance firm, his sonorous voice unheard to her. Seeing Carver had been a balm to her soul, even for those brief, blood soaked minutes. He has stuck with Stroud, a hurried word tells her that Kalazar is far away, in Tevinter, and She can tell that Carver is as glad of it as herself.  

Fenris is looking dismayed, and Isabela horrified, but in the moment Hawke doesn’t care.  Her ears are filled with the sounds of the whimpers and screams, the explosions and clash of swords that are only dimly muffled by the walls of the keep, and she is eager to lose herself in the dance of battle.  She eyes the Qunari soldiers. A few spells, and they could end this. Her grip tightens on her staff.

“A duel.”

Fenris grabs her by a shoulder, grip tight, eyes burning.

“You must fight him alone,” he whispers, and then recoils when her smile only widens.  A gentle hand pushes him away. She strides forward, cold gathering in the tips of her fingers, staff slowly twirling.  She can do this. She must do this, to save those she can, to apologize to those she couldn’t. Hawke screams a desperate battle cry, and throws a spray of freezing ice at the Arishok’s feet.  

When the sword pierces her, she finds it odd that, rather than a burning pain, she feels a cold, spreading numbness.  There isn’t time for much more than that, and she lays one hand on his face as he lifts her, still impaled, overhead. A shard of ice pierces his brain, and they fall in an inelegant tangle of staff, limbs, sword, and horns. In the dead silence that follows her head lolls to one side, and there she is.  Leandra standing in the crowd, nodding, eyes tight with worry but chin lifted in pride.

The tears and screams finally come, but are lost in a crescendo of noise that rises up from around her.  She is still screaming as Fenris gathers her into his arms, ignoring Anders protests, and flees towards Avelines quarters.  She tries to reach out to her mother, but the world goes dark.

She awakens at home, in her own bed, and they are all there. Her friends, her family, Orana with a mild broth to help her regain strength.  Merrill is busy stocking every free inch of space with the flowers that pour in from everywhere. Her favorite bouquet comes from the alienage, stocked not just with beautiful flowers, but ones that will be useful even after they wilt, with leaves that can be dried and crushed into healing poultices. Anders, who looks as though he hasn’t slept in weeks, is overjoyed. There are herbs as well, and beads, and a small Mabari carved with enough detail so that she could see a specific pattern of Kaddis.  Sandal with a rune he presses excitedly into her hand. “Enchantment.” She squeezes the boys hand in gratitude. Aveline is in and out, and Isabela is there, though tense, and Hawke can’t seem to stay awake long enough to talk to her. Varric reads to her. Sebastian prays, and is understanding when she tells him that she can’t. Not right now. Maybe not ever again. Both Meredith and Orsinio attempt to visit, but Bodahn sends them away, polite but firm.

Only Fenris is missing.  Each time she wakes, she searches for him, disused voice croaking out his name. Orana dabs beeswax onto her chapped lips, tells her that he was downstairs, or helping Aveline with clean up. One time she tells Hawke that he’d stayed the night, but left early that morning.  Hawke barks a hoarse laugh, the stitches in her wound straining and aching.

“What else is new" she mutters before drifting off again.

Then, finally, she wakes once in the middle of the night and there he is. He sprawls in the chair next to her bed, a simple book in his lap.  When she moves one hand towards him he wakes, sitting up, the book tumbling to the floor. They stare at each other, wordless moments stretching out.  She only realizes that she is crying when Fenris reaches out a hesitant hand, one thumb gently brushing beneath her eye, coming away wet. Wordlessly he moves to sit next to her, hands gripping in the flickering light of the lone candle.   She can hold it in so longer, the tears flowing freely but silent, choking on her voiceless sobs, pain blooming from her wound, spreading to clench her in iron bands.

He is silent through it all, till the end, when at last she has exhausted herself.  Stepping to a table, he returns with a draught, encouraging her to sip at it, knowing it will help ease the pain. He bends down as she drifts off, brushing a lock of icy blonde hair, stuck to her face with tears and sweat, behind an ear.  Darkness enveloping her, she still manages to hear the whispered words.

“Leandra would be very proud of you, Kyana Hawke.”

She drifts away with a smile on her lips, the demons of regret and grief at last calm and silent within.  

[ramblinganthropologist]

Inkjournal Day 13 - Happy Place

Summary: Sometimes, Hawke likes to sit and think. The Herald’s Rest brings back another bar she used to love - a dirty little place in Kirkwall where so much of her life happened. Though she can’t go back there, she can think back on happier days that are now long gone. Sometimes, a happy place is made by the people there.  Word count: 3449 (GOD THIS GOT AWAY FROM ME)

---

It didn't take Hawke long to find the Herald's Rest. After all, it was the noisiest place in all of Skyhold.

Nobody noticed the cloaked figure as she slipped in behind a throng of guards just getting off duty. She wasn't in the mood for a drink anyway, just content to take a place by the fire and people watch. It was certainly lively, no doubt about that.

Somewhere off to the side, friends were yelling about a card game and if cheating had gone on. There was always cheating going on in those, but that was what made it fun. A small smile crossed her face as she watched. It never changed, no matter the deck or who was playing. A game was a game.

Just... sometimes it was fun to look back on a different game, one that was long over. She forgot who had really won or lost, but that hadn't really mattered. Back then, it never really did.

---

“Isabela, I saw you pull that card out of your boot!”

“Prove it or fork over the pot.”

Wicked Grace night was heating up once again in the Hanged Man. A table in the corner was gathering all of the attention as a rather noisy group argued over the last round. The small pot was being argued over, like it always was.

Isabela had won once again, probably through dirty means. She was positively cackling as she watched a red faced Aveline trying to argue with her playing. Both of them had probably had a little too much to drink, but that was what made it fun.

Avery had bowed out long ago. When it came to it ,she was almost as bad as Anders when it came to Wicked Grace. Still, it was fun to sit back with a mug full of... something... and watch as her friends bickered.

“They're going to fight all night at this rate.” Varric was chuckling as he stood. “Going for the next round. Who's in?”

Moses wasn't from the looks of things – he and Anders, in fact, looked to be heading out, hand in hand from the looks of things. Her eyebrow traveled towards her hair, but she said nothing as they watched them go.

Since when had they been so serious?

“Count me in.” Fenris next to her had finished off his drink. Merrill was just finished as she snoozed peacefully in the corner. Later, Isabela would probably take her home and make sure she was ok. Those two were getting serious too, for that matter.

It was a disease, it had to be.

“You go on, I'm still working on mine.” She chuckled, watching her two friends still argue. “Oi, Isabela, you might wanna hide that card coming out of your sleeve or even Aveline's going to see it this time.”

That started another round of arguing, and Avery laughed as she sat back to watch it. With Varric gone and Merrill cat-napping, it was almost peaceful if you discounted it was the Hanged Man on a fairly busy night.

“They're going to go at it all night at this rate.” Fenris was closer to her than he had been a minute ago, voice low. “I swear you enjoy it, Hawke.”

His soft voice made her shiver, but she kept the grin on her face. “There's a lot I enjoy, Fenris. Aveline getting all red in the face is one of them.”

He chuckled too, but she doubted it was over the guard matching her hair. His eyes glowed, and not in the elf way or the murder way, as he looked over at her. When nobody was looking, his hand slipped under the table towards hers.

Maybe it was the lyrium that made her palm tingle, but she didn't fight off his hand when it found her. Their fingers intertwined, warm and maybe a little sweaty under the beat up wooden table. It wasn't ideal but it was... nice.

“Oh, I know indeed.” Fenris flashed her a rare smile, just barely there, for the hint of a second. Varric ruined it all by returning with their drinks, so he had to pull his hand away. However, it had definitely been there. “Good to see you made it back alive.”

“And leave those two alone? Wouldn't miss it.” Varric flashed them both a knowing smile that screamed he was going to put that in the book later. What that was, however, even Avery didn't know as she gathered up the more legitimate of their cards to start a new round. Maybe Isabela and Aveline would join them once they finished their fun.

After all, that seemed to be the theme of their night: finding fun in the last places you expected it.

---

“Next time remember to duck or there won't be enough to sew you back together, Chief.”

“Don't worry, Krem puff. I'll always be around to make sure you don't have all the fun.”

It was the Iron Bull's loud, deep laughter that pulled Hawke out of her fireplace induced reverie. The Chargers had their nook by the stairs and were making good use of it. Half of the noise was coming from them at the moment, though with their size it was understandable.

The big guy had an even bigger hole in his shoulder, held together with enough bandages to put the Arishok's head back on. Still, he was laughing with the rest of them, no doubt using the booze to numb the pain.

Or maybe he was just a masochist. With all his scars, that was a direct possibility.

Not that she could talk. A wry grin split Hawke's face as she reached up to finger where the scarring on her shoulder began. After all, she was one of the biggest masochists around if people were keeping score.

Something about reavers and their utter inability to block; it was a trend. She could still hear Anders yelling at her to, like he was right next to her. Only he wouldn't be... that would be dumb.

---

“Honestly, Avery, you keep this up and I won't have enough to put you back together.”

“I was told chicks dig scars.”

It was another late night in the Hanged Man, so dark even the candles didn't help. Yet, the bar was open, and they were there among the late night patrons who had been kicked out of other places and had nowhere else to go. It might have been dingy and gross, but it was better than spending the night outside.

The four of them – Anders, Merrill, Varric, and herself – had taken up a table near the back. Most of their wounds had been tended to in the alleyway or heading towards the Hanged Man, so the worst of it was finished. All that remained was patching up Avery's shoulder and disinfecting it. Luckily, they were in the right spot for that.

“You keep this up and you're going to lose an arm one day.” Anders' tone was sharp, but his touch was soft as he carefully worked on knitting flesh and muscle together. “And then where will you be?”

Avery couldn't resist the pun. “Disarmed.”

He groaned, and so did Varric. At least she got a laugh from Merrill. That made her mood all the better as the healer continued to put her shoulder back together for what had to be the fourth time. How he found skin to work with among the scars was beyond her.

But he did, so she didn't really have to worry.

Varric stood as he watched. “I'll get something to numb it. You three stay here and try not to cause trouble again.”

He winked as he left. The night had begun because of their knack of causing trouble. It had started so quietly, too. But, round the corner and smack first into a gang causing trouble in the alienage. They had started it on Merrill's home turf, so of course the group had to finish it.

Really, it wasn't much.

“You sent that one flying earlier, Mer. Wish you could teach me how to do that.” Avery used her good arm to hold out her fist to the elf. She had done it enough times that her friend knew how to respond, and their dirty fists met above the table. “Excellent. Should be quiet around the alienage now for a bit.”

Until the next gang moved in. And then there would be more fun.

With the time she had to wait until the healing was over, Avery glanced around. “Isabela still in bed with that flu? She would've had some fun tonight.”

“She's resting. I may have put something in her tea to help her sleep.” Anders and Merrill shared a knowing look, mage to mage, that went right over her head. “You should be more worried about yourself, though. This was nasty.”

He sounded like her brother. Maybe he was picking up lines during pillow talk. Moses that night was away on a separate thing with Fenris, and what those two were up to only the Maker knew. No doubt they'd swap altered stories in the morning, perhaps a little sanitized. After all, neither wanted to be too loud about their kinks.

They tended to wind up in print if certain ears were around.

Speaking of, Varric returned with drinks. “Nearly got killed for these, so you better appreciate it.”

“Nearly got killed saving your ass, I think we're even.” Avery laughed as she reached for hers, Anders finally letting up on her shoulder. She rested it against him as the last effects of his healing aura made her body feel all warm and tingly. Well, magically anyway. He was pretty good at making her feel that way on his own.

It was nice, sitting there in the dark little tavern in the middle of the night. Nobody was too loud or causing a scene, so they could just sit there and enjoy the watered down booze and lovely atmosphere of the dregs of Lowtown. Really, she had no idea why they didn't do this more often.

“Next time please just dodge.” Anders' chin was close to the top of her head as he yawned. He had wrapped his free arm around her, maybe to balance himself so he didn't go nose-first into the table. It was warm, so she didn't mind.

Getting him home was going to be a nightmare if he was this tired, though. Maybe she would just wait until the morning.

Varric, of course, was framing it for his next story. Merrill, well, she was half asleep herself. Blood magic took a lot out of her, plus dark circles hinted to where her free time had been. Most likely, this had been the first time she had left Isabela's side.

So, Avery smiled as she nudged her. “Go find your pirate, Mer. You're dead on your feet.”

“I suppose you're right.” another yawn as she stood. “Good night Varric, Hawke. See you in the morning.”

And then she was gone, and it was down to three. Well, four if you counted Justice, and three if you subtracted Anders being pretty much asleep as it was. Still, it was nice to hear him just breathe as she sat there with her drink.

Her shoulder was going to be sore as hell in the morning, but it be worth it.

“None of this goes in your book, Varric. You got that?”

“Loud and clear, Hawke.” And yet, there was a strange smile on his face as he leaned back. “Though seriously; stop worrying Blondie so much and learn to block with that shield of yours.”

She snorted, careful not to wake up the mage. “You know that's only there for aesthetic.”

They shared a laugh, like they often did as night would slowly turn to day. In the morning, they'd all be exhausted and wanting to head back to bed. But for right then, all was right in the shitty little town of Kirkwall. And that was alright by her.

---

A nudge to her side brought Hawke out of her dream. It was quieter now as the night wore on and people headed off to bed. There were still something of a crowd left, so it wasn't quite closing time, but it was much smaller than it had been before.

“Still hanging out in taverns, are we?”

Varric sat down next to her, looking dead on his feet. “Moses was looking for you earlier. I figured you'd be here.”

He was getting a little gray at the temples, and she was starting to feel it in the limbs she had left. Neither said anything though, as they sat there watching the small crowd slowly work their way through their last drinks. In the morning, they'd be back on duty. Some of them would return, and some wouldn't. A few wouldn't make it back at all. That was the risk they took, doing what they did.

It made Hawke's shoulder ache as she rubbed what little arm she had left on her right side.

“Chasing ghosts, Avery?” Varric looked as though he had been running after a few of his own. Maybe they looked like her, a younger version who still had both arms and hadn't found out what vitaar did to a human's blood. It had been ages since they had sat there together in a tavern, though not one as clean as this.

She allowed a crooked smile, but it pulled at her face. “Just... remembering the last time we were all together, I guess. It was like this.”

Honestly, she wasn't sure why she remembered it. The events that followed weeks after were so catastrophic it should have wiped any mundane event from her mind. Yet, there it was, burned in her memory. She'd never forget it, even as the years rolled on.

---

“Oi, either get a drink or get out.”

That was the standard call that late at night at the Hanged Man. Those who had planned to stay the night rummaged through their pockets for one last round to keep them from the streets, while others tottered unsteadily towards their rooms. With most of the lights out, it was easy to see that dawn was starting to tint the ink black sky a pale gray. Night was ending, and with it the quiet that came over Lowtown.

All of them were together for once. Wicked Grace had run over late until most of them were too tired to even see straight. So, they sat there with their half finished drinks, talking quietly or dozing in their seats while they waited for the dawn.

Merrill's head was in Isabela's lap as she dreamed on. They had been like that, closer and more open, since the pirate had returned months earlier. It had been a while since she had seen either so happy, even as Kirkwall came down around their ears. They deserved each other in her mind.

Even Aveline was there, though Donnic would surely be missing her in their bed. She had no doubt come to give Anders some warning, but the cards had drawn her in. Now, she dozed at the table, a wreck for morning duties in a few hours.

“Quite a sight we make, huh?” Avery let out a low chuckle as she turned to her left. Moses was there, Anders fast asleep on his shoulder. He hadn't moved for the last hour, much like she was careful not to disturb Fenris to her right. They were making some fine pillows, the two of them. Maybe if it had been earlier, she could've made a joke about feathers and what was stuffed with them, but it was just too late for that.

Her brother nodded, just enough so the mage didn't wake up. “Nobody wanted to go home.”

It was getting harder to assemble the entire group, after all. Everyone seemed to be heading off in their own directions, some of them far from the little shit hole they called home. It was only natural; they had spent almost a decade there.

“Can't blame them. Who would want to leave the Hanged Man?” Varric was alone at the head of the table, using the light of a candle to scribble away at some paper. His editor was on him to get a new chapter out, so he hadn't been the most attentive during the game. “Shit, I don't think any of this makes sense.”

Both Hawkes had long since learned not to ask to read it before it was ready. So, they both nodded and consigned themselves to the pain of an artist chiseling away at his craft. The scratching of the quill was a nice rhythm anyway, so neither of them minded.

Somehow, it was peaceful as dawn slowly crept across the sky, burning through the fog that lay on Kirkwall like a thick blanket. Soon, merchants would be out for the morning rush, and day laborers would head off to work or to grab a drink before their shift. The city would come alive again, and with it all its problems.

“Orana's going to worry we died or something.” Avery could picture it as easily as she saw Fenris at her side. “Maybe we should pick her up a sweet bun for breakfast on our way back.”

It was a bribe, and she fully admitted it.

“Aye.” Moses let out a yawn, eyes blinking. “Good night.”

They were few and far between lately. Nobody died, nobody became an abomination, and everyone kept most of their blood in them. For most people, that should have been the norm. Of course, most people weren't Kirkwall's largest walking disasters.

It was a title they wore with pride.

“Yeah, gotta say it was.” Carefully, Avery reached her scarred fist across the table. Moses responded without her even needing to say it – their fists met in the middle, his nearly dwarfing hers in size. They always did fit together well.

Eventually, they would have to get up and go. Their backs would ache, and joints would creak, and someone would be worried about them. There were things to do, and the entire group would need to split up and start their day. Until that spell broke, however, they were in a time all to themselves, watching as the sun rose in Lowtown through a broken window in the Hanged Man.

In a weird way, it was beautiful.

---

“Found you.”

A lone figure cast a massive shadow across the floor of the Herald's Rest. Hawke – the big one, as people had been calling him for obvious reasons – looked a little on the tired side as he gestured for his sister to follow him.

Hawke – the little one because people weren't creative – nodded and stood. Together, the two of them left Varric and the tavern behind, heading back out into the darkness of Skyhold's night. If the Inquisitor told it right, they'd be needing their rest.

“How'd you know I was there, Moses?” She put her remaining arm behind her head as she walked, like she had done so many times before. “I didn't tell you where I was going.”

Up above, her brother remained stone faced. “You like dark places with people.”

Without saying another word, he picked her up and deposited her on his massive shoulders. She had been walking too slow for him. Hawke didn't mind as she leaned against his head, sharp eyes picking out the darkness.

At least this way she didn't risk being left behind and found by a guard in the morning.

“Were you thinking of Kirkwall?”

“In there?” She snorted, shaking her head. “Nah, too clean. I just enjoyed watching new techniques in cheating at cards.”

It was a lie, and both of them knew it. However, they had known each other far too long to call it. They let it go, like they had done so many other things, as they traveled farther into the keep to find where they would sleep for the night.

For a brief moment, Hawke could have sworn she was home. But, like she said, it had been far too clean. The Hanged Man was long gone, but it still brought a smile to her face when she thought about it.

For a shitty dive bar in the worst part of Lowtown, it had been alright.

[moxanna]

Templar’s Nightmare

*claws my way out of the abyss that is mental and physical illness* I actually wrote something! On mobile, but I’ll put on a read more soon.

Find it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10379958

Game night at the Hanged man, and Anders was losing as usual. But that wasn’t what was bothering him just then. He was more concerned with the off duty Templars at the bar.

Hawke was late again, and Anders felt tense, like a rabbit ready to spring. He was fidgeting with his robes and trying to keep his staff under the table.

He always felt safe with Hawke at his back.

“Relax, Blondie. You know how he likes to make an entrance. He’ll be here.”

And sure enough, an hour later, Hawke boomed through the door with his usual exuberance.

To the casual observer, Hawke might appear every bit his usual self. He strode into the tavern with an easy smile and ready laugh, playfully trading jabs with the serving girls as he scanned the room. But Anders could see that his roguish grin didn’t match the steel in his eyes. His laid-back stance didn’t quite hide the hard set of his shoulders. Anders knew that look. Someone was about to be very badly injured, very soon.

Anders cast a discreet look around the table. He wasn’t the only one who had noticed. Fenris shifted into a ready stance. Isabela downed the last of her drink and sauntered to the bar, watching Hawke out of the corner of her eye. Varric surreptitiously dragged Bianca to his side from where she was leaning against the wall. Merrill was shooting Hawke furtive glances from behind her hand of cards, which she had started nervously rearranging. And Aveline… Aveline just sighed.

Anders could see the moment Hawke found his prey. He wasn’t even going to pretend he wasn’t elated that it was the group of templars at the bar. Hawke walked up to one with matted ginger hair and flashed a winning smile.

“Excuse me, serah, but are you Ser Mettin?”

The templar looked Hawke up and down and crossed his arms. “I might be. Who wants to know?”

Hawke’s smile widened dangerously.

“I just wanted to thank the man who’s keeping us all safe from those mages. Everyone says that you’re the best at it.”

Hawke offered his right hand, apparently for a friendly shake. The templar reluctantly took it.

The templar’s next words were lost to a most undignified scream. Hawke had grabbed Mettin’s right arm at the wrist and sharply turned it outward while bracing the forearm with his other hand, effectively snapping Mettin’s forearm in half in one swift gesture. The sickly crack of bone was barely heard over the templar’s shrieks. Anders heard Merrill’s sharp intake of breath beside him, but the rest of his companions kept a firm mask of indifference as they continued their game.

“My sister tells me you’re a friend of hers,” Hawke said casually, raising his voice only slightly so as to be heard over the howls of pain. Hawke continued to smile blithely, as though the two were merely discussing the weather, as the templar writhed in his grasp. The sight made Hawke look more than a little unhinged. Though, to be fair, that wasn’t exactly an uncommon look for him. Mettin’s fellow templars cautiously drew their weapons but kept a careful eye on the massive axe bound to Hawke’s broad shoulders.

“Si-sister?” Ser Mettin gasped.

“That’s right. My dear sister Bethany. Bethany Hawke.”

Comprehension briefly dawned on the templar’s face. Followed immediately by abject terror.

“Ah, then you have heard of me.” Hawke looked over to their table. “What, are you taking weekend trips to the Gallows to talk me up Varric?”

“Never underestimate how quickly the tales of your heroism can spread, Hawke,” Varric said with a chuckle, leaning back in his chair.

During this exchange, Mettin frantically searched the tavern for anyone to come to his rescue. The only patrons of the tavern that paid any mind to the brewing brawl looked eager at the arrival of entertainment so early in the night. A few appeared to be placing bets. Most, however, were putting as much space as possible between themselves and the infamous warrior. Even the templar’s fellows took a step back from the very large, possibly deranged man at the sound of his name. Mettin’s eyes grew more frantic as he searched the room. Relief briefly passed upon his features when he saw the fiery pauldrons of the guard-captain, only to fade once more when he saw her pointedly looking down at her cards. Mettin slowly looked back to the face of his aggressor. Hawke’s easy grin was starting to look more like a leer, and he kept a firm hand on Mettin’s now limp wrist.

“You know what I love about this city, Ser Mettin? Besides, of course, the cheerful denizens and sweet smell of rotting garbage in the morning?” Hawke asked conversationally. Mettin whimpered. “The sheer abundance of dark back alleys there are. It seems you can’t turn a corner without ending up in some abandoned corner of the city where no one cares if they hear you scream.”

Anders distinctly heard a fellow from the next table whisper to his friend, “Ten silvers says Hawke rips off his arm and beats him to death with it.” Varric looked smug.

Mettin’s face was starting to turn yellow. Hawke was slowly but surely twisting the broken arm outwards, forcing the templar to his knees.

“You don’t really notice it, do you, until you’re walking around late at night?” Hawke continued. “Skulking in the shadows, perhaps shaking down a mage’s family on your way to the tavern? And suddenly, it hits you,” Hawke suddenly wrenched harder on Mettin’s wrist. The templar yowled. “How easy it would be for someone to sneak up behind you and rearrange the contents of your skull.”

Anders felt a happy jolt in his stomach. He barely stopped himself from laughing out loud. It was Justice. Justice was actually enjoying himself. The spirit had begrudgingly accepted Anders’s occasional outings with Hawke due to his consistent anti-circle actions, but in the time since Anders had accepted Justice into his soul, he had never felt the spirit happy. And yet, the sight of a templar on his knees, keening from pain for the injustice he had wrought on a mage had given Justice more satisfaction than anything it had ever encountered.

“Are you actually implying-?”

“Implying? Dear Maker, no. I don’t want you to give the impression that I’m implying anything.” Hawke leaned in and dropped his voice to a harsh growl. “I generally only like to warn people once, so I want to make myself perfectly clear. If you so much as look at my sister the wrong way again, trust that I will know. And I swear on Andraste’s flaming pyre that when I’m done with you, they’ll need every healer in the Gallows to put you back together. Do you understand?”

“The Knight-Commander-”

Hawke wrenched the arm even harder. His arm was almost the whole way back around.

“Will never hear about this,” Hawke rumbled, still grinning like a loon. “You see, ser knight, you may have the power to make mages’ lives hell in there. But I have the power to make your life hell out here. So unless you plan to make yourself a another prisoner of the Gallows, I suggest you listen to me. So I’ll give you one more chance to save your arm. Do you understand?”

“Yes! Maker yes!” Mettin gasped.

Hawke swiftly released his arm and brought him back to his feet by the collar of his armor.

“Good man!” Hawke boomed with a laugh. He clapped Ser Mettin hard on the back.

“Well, now that that’s settled, I think a drink is in order. Put it on his tab,” Hawke directed Norah with a wink.

The interested onlookers went back to their revelry with disappointed grumbles. Mettin tenderly cradled his arm and looked at Hawke in horror.

“You’re mad,” he said. “Completely barking.”

“So everyone keeps telling me, but who’s the first person they come crying to when their puppy gets lost in the Deep Roads.” Hawke sighed dramatically. “Ah, the fickle friend that is fame.”

Hawke collected his tankard and hit it against the templar’s. “Cheers. Don’t forget to tell all your friends about me.”

He made his way to the table and plopped heavily onto the bench next to Anders. Hawke carefully avoided Aveline’s disapproving glare, and the lecture that was sure to follow, with a cheerful look at Varric. “Deal me in?”

Hawke leaned in with his hand on Anders’s knee and whispered, “Enjoy the show?” Anders smiled, sure that the butterflies in his stomach had nothing to do with Justice.

“Are you kidding? Justice hasn’t had this much fun in… well, ever I think.”

Hawke smiled again, this time it brightened his whole face. “You know me. I aim to please.”

When Anders would remember this night years later, he would remember it as the night he realized he was in love with Garrett Hawke.

[timesorceror]

Fenhanders Week 2017 #2

Tuesday, April 4th - Three’s a Crowd, now Four…

This is a poly ship to begin with, but who else can you see being in the mix? Justice? Nathaniel? Karl? Isabela? Feel free to AU! Question of the Day: What do the rest of the Kirkwall Crew think about their relationship?

Aveline is baffled, mostly. She wonders often how such very different people can live together and still claim to truly love each other in the way she loves Donnic. And yet… they seem to be happy, so until she sees otherwise, she is happy too.

Isabela sometimes wishes she could be in their bed too, until she remembers that she has her kitten to keep warm at night, but of course it never hurts to fantasize. (She also envies their closeness, just a bit, but Kitten helps there too.)

Sebastian remembers his wild days whenever he looks at any of them, and his still un-renewed vows chafe at him a little when he lets himself wonder what it would be like to be that man again. Perhaps not the callous, uncaring sort that he’d been before the Chantry had changed him, but… just him. With them. With them, he might feel wanted again, but for now he just watches… and wonders.

Merrill thinks they look good together. There was a lot of pain in the beginning, but even she knows that some things need to break a little and then grow back over time to be strong enough to really last. She likes watching them steal kisses and small touches when no one is looking. She especially likes it when they think they are being subtle, arousing one another during cards. It’s very cute.

Varric doesn’t understand how romantic relationships with other living beings work. It’s probably why the few he’s ever had ended up in disaster and after those fiascos he decided that his one and only was to be his crossbow instead. But somehow Hayden is able to love and receive love from so many at once, but especially Blondie and Broody –together– Varric thinks the kid is some sort of magician. Then he laughs, remembering that they are a mage, so perhaps that is how they managed it. Or maybe they just know something he doesn’t.

Either way, everyone’s happy that Hayden is, and that’s always a good thing.

Today’s drabble is brought to you by: angst and hugs. Featuring a young Jeremy Irons as Karl Thekla, Tom Mison (Ichabod Crane) as Anders, a young Orlando Bloom as Hayden Hawke, and cosplayer twinfools as Fenris. Enjoy. ;)

Hayden had never imagined finding love in an unforgiving place such as Kirkwall, but perhaps that was because they hadn’t also taken into account that love might find them instead.

Anders had been… a vision to see when the other mage had rounded on him, staff at the ready and power in his hands, prepared to defend his self proclaimed sanctum of healing and salvation. There had been some definite flirting too, which Hayden was all too eager to reciprocate (much to the discomfort of Carver), and the healer was amicable enough once he realized that Hayden was a mage too.

“You’ve never been inside a Circle?” The other mage had asked, half excited, half amazed. “No,” Hayden had answered. “Not once.” Neither had Bethany, but they didn’t want to mention her just yet. Even over a year out, her memory still caused an ache in their soul when they thought about her.

He wouldn’t give them the Deep Road maps without a favor though, and Hayden said they were fine with it, “…as long as it doesn’t involve children or animals.” Anders’ lips had twitched briefly into a half smile before becoming serious again, and all he asked for in return was for their help in rescuing a friend of his from the Gallows.

Of course, such things were never so simple as that.

The mission had almost ended up in disaster before it began, with Hayden arriving at the Chantry with Anders and two others in the dead of night, a sinking feeling in their gut that something was about to go terribly, horribly wrong. They arrived at the place where Anders’ letter said to meet, only to be greeted with the sight of two templars holding a mage down on a table with another holding the lyrium brand and several other standing to watch.

The brand had been mere inches from the mage’s forehead when a furious roar erupted from Anders, interrupting the ritual, and the blond mage’s skin split with Fade blue lightning, his voice shifting into a deep, rumbling sound that Hayden swore contained the words of two of him speaking at once.

“You shall not have him!”

All of the Templars fell at their hands, though most of them had been felled by Anders alone. Anders, who danced around the room with all the grace that only months of training could bring and who fought with the bladed end of his staff just as ruthlessly as he fought with his magic. It was he who was likely the only reason that they lived at all, especially when Hayden had been hit with a cloud of energy from one of the Templars, their connection to the Fade briefly cut off.

But they lived, and Anders’ friend Karl had as well.

Anders had fussed over the man for a bit, giving him a deep, consuming kiss that tore at Hayden’s heart when they realized this other man was perhaps a little more than a friend, but Carver hadn’t any such reservations when he yelled at Anders to come heal Hayden.

They hissed, trying to summon their magic through the haze that was their connection to the Fade, but to no avail. 

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Anders had soothed, his healing touch soothing the bite of the wound in Hayden’s side. “You got hit with a Smite, didn’t you? Don’t try to pull at your magic, your connection to the Fade is going to feel funny for a while and it’s going to hurt if you don’t let it come back on it’s own.”

Hayden frowned through the fog of the… Smite, Anders had called it?

“I feel… strange. Lightheaded.”

“Yeah, that happens sometimes. It’ll go away soon.”

Anders flashed Hayden a reassuring smile that turned twisted his insides and made Hayden’s heart beat just a hair faster. “We should leave soon too,” Karl cut in gently. “Someone will likely have heard the sounds of fighting. It would not be wise to linger.”

And so they left, and Karl moved in with Anders in his clinic.

Hayden still liked Anders. Liked him very much. But they didn’t want to ruin whatever he and Karl had by getting in between them, even though they spent a lot of time with the two mages after Anders had discovered Hayden’s aptitude for healing. Being around them so often warmed Karl to Hayden a bit, almost to the point where they could see a little of what their (apparently possessed) healer saw in the other mage.

After Karl had shaved and started combing his hair on a regular basis, Hayden had to admit the man was downright gorgeous with that sharp chin, full cheekbones, and bright eyes, combined with his salt and pepper hair that Karl claimed was him going grey far earlier than most. 

Karl was a vastly different man than Anders. He was the calm to Anders’ fury, the careful reasoning that tempered Anders’ zeal for justice. Yet Karl was by no means a wealth of serenity all the time, he had his own moments of passion as well. He just kept them better than Anders did until that anger could be used as fuel for something else. 

Like killing slavers, for example, as was the case on the night they met Fenris.

Fenris… Hayden wasn’t certain if they had the words to describe how beautiful and terrifying the elf was, stalking down the stairs with blood still dripping off of his gauntlet which he’d used to crush the heart of a man whist it still beat in his chest. It made Hayden tremble with fear to watch, but when the elf asked for their help in tracking down his master to see if he could catch him fast enough to kill him… Hayden leapt at the chance.

And then Fenris revealed to them his hatred of mages, and Hayden’s heart fell to pieces once more. It seemed to Hayden that every person they wanted to flirt with was either taken or was under no uncertain terms ever going to be interested, but something that Hayden said (an offhand comment about the elf being handsome) caused Fenris to flush and stammer, and Hayden’s spirits lifted. Perhaps there was hope after all.

That had been Hayden’s entire basis for flirting so shamelessly with the elf every time an opportunity presented itself from then on.

And they still liked Anders. And Karl. Fenris didn’t.

Putting him in the same room with Anders was an unstable fireball waiting to explode, a thing that often could and would occur when Hayden took them out on trips to earn coin to buy their expedition partnership from Varric’s brother.

Fenris didn’t seem to know what to make of Karl. 

Once, Hayden tried bringing Karl on a trip to the coast with Fenris and Varric, and Fenris had tried to start baiting him with the same questions that often so riled Karl’s wilder other half.

This did not happen with Karl.

“Your partner is an abomination,” Fenris stated one afternoon while Hayden and Varric were scouting ahead. Karl nodded. “Yes, that is the correct technical term. However, I find that true abominations have not the capacity to care for anyone other than themselves, and Anders often insists that there isn’t enough being done for the poor and destitute of this city.”

Karl sighed, folding his arms and shaking his head disapprovingly.

“He will likely forget to have lunch today, or instead he will give it to someone else and go without. Being host to a Fade spirit has some advantages, one of them being a larger mana well and a wealth of excess energy, but a mortal body still requires food and water and sleep. And, that is another thing that I find true abominations incapable of: reasoning.”

Fenris scoffed. “I do not find that I am able to reason with him at all.”

Karl chuckled. “He can be reasoned with. It is merely that your questions bring about the worst in him. As for the spirit he is host to, Justice is a demanding spirit. It is not like Compassion or Faith, which are patient and content with only giving and serving their purposes. Justice is not such a patient virtue, as it requires that when it is confronted with an injustice, it must correct it.”

“Some injustices cannot be corrected,” Fenris huffed bitterly, and Karl fixed him with an assessing stare. “Like your treatment at the hands of your former master? Yes, you are correct in that. And indeed, even those injustices that can be corrected do not always have an easy path to follow, and some of those paths can even create more problems than they solve.”

“Like your partner’s ridiculous crusade for mage freedom. He wishes to bring about another Tevinter.”

“Not as such. He merely wishes to be able to choose to either stand in the rain or head inside for shelter, to feel the wind on his face or watch it blow through the leaves of a tree from the comfort of a place of his choosing and not the barred windows of a tower, if indeed that tower has windows at all. He wishes for mage mothers to not have their children torn from their breast the moment the cord is cut, or indeed non-mage mothers to have to give their children up and never see them again. Is it so wrong to want those things?”

Fenris shifted uncomfortably and looked away. 

“I… well, why does he not say these things when I ask him why? All he does is go on about how mages are like the slaves of Tevinter!”

“And you disagree?” Karl asked calmly, to which Fenris growled, “Of course I do! He knows nothing of what it means to be a slave.” Karl was silent for a while, waiting until Fenris had calmed before speaking again. “Then perhaps you should tell him what it means. I would not mind learning what that means as well. To help my reasoning with his spirit of Justice at least, if nothing else. It is hard to reason with such a driven mind, but if I have a clearer picture of what true slavery looks like, then we might be able to pick apart the issue with a finer comb and perhaps that will allow us to address those fears of yours.”

“Which ones?” Fenris grumbled, tired of trying to get a rise out of the mage.

“About southern mage freedom possibly bringing about another Tevinter. I’m merely saying that if you are willing to share your experiences, we can learn from them. I am certain of it.”

Fenris sighed deeply, shifting restlessly again once he’d caught sight of Hayden and Varric coming back over the ridge. 

“I cannot decide if you are either stupid or foolish…”

“It is entirely possible that I am both. I have never claimed to be the opposite or either of those things. In fact, it is more than likely that I possess a wealth of stupidity and foolishness in spades. My partner is possessed, after all.”

Absolutely. Baffling.

But over time Karl seemed to earn Fenris’ grudging respect, and after a fashion, he and Anders managed to call a truce on some things. Fenris still didn’t tell anyone much about his time as a slave with the exception of Hayden, who had worked very hard to earn and keep his friendship over the course of the three years that followed their expedition into the Deep Roads. 

And speaking of that, the tentative peace that Anders and Fenris had brokered under Karl’s careful handling had emboldened the headstrong mage to begin to ask things of Fenris like, “Would you like a salve for those markings?” or, “Your posture is awful. If you don’t mind letting me touch you, I could work out some of the knots in your spine.” or, “You flinch whenever I cast my offensive spells, even though I’ve never hit you with them on accident like Merrill does. Is it because of your background or does the actual casting cause you pain?” 

Concern. Never-ending concern. It was ceaseless, and interspersed with sprinklings of nonsense and filler words that existed as if only to fill the silence, but it was always present when the healer spoke to him now.

Or… had he always spoken to him that way and Fenris had simply never noticed? It would not surprise him if he hadn’t.

Then one evening he came by the mansion and the two of them were standing there, Anders on the doorstep, Fenris blocking the way inside like a high dragon guarding their den. “What do you want, mage?” Fenris had asked, rather brusquely, and Anders bristled at the tone. Something about that tone just irked the blond mage, Fenris noticed. There was a fire in his eyes when anyone talked to the mage with such derision, and Fenris wondered if something in the mage’s past mage him react so, until he balked at that train of thought upon realizing that he was worrying over a mage’s feelings.

Worse, a possessed mage.

This time, Anders struggled to formulate a response, and Fenris frowned when Anders looked away and wrung his hands.

“…Anders?”

Anders looked up sharply, eyes wide with surprise. Fenris never used his name, like, ever. “What?” he gasped, breath leaving him in a rush. 

“I asked you what you wanted,” Fenris said in a low voice. Something was… off with the healer. He seemed distracted, distressed. “You rarely come to me unless you want something.” He waited for the mage’s response, but he could also hear a patrol of guards coming up the stairs, and Anders was still standing outside, very clearly wearing a staff.

Fenris grasped his arm as gently as he could and dragged him inside.

“H-Hey!” Anders squawked, but Fenris paid him no mind until the door was closed behind them. 

“There was a patrol coming,” Fenris offered by way of an explanation, and then he added, “Now. what did you want? Or did you come here hoping you might know by the time you arrived?” This too, almost got a rise out of the healer, but mostly it appeared to help cement his resolve.

“No,” Anders replied very quietly. “I knew what I came here for, I…” He grumbled, sighed, and shook his head. “You have no reason to grant this request, but I am asking if you would at least consider it…” Fenris chuffed. “I have to hear the request first before I can even do that, Anders.” This, strangely, cause the mage to look at him as though he’d grown a second head.

“Did you just…? No, never mind. I, ugh.” Anders fidgeted, running a hand through his hair, which Fenris had just now noticed wasn’t up in its usual tie. It fell around his face in soft waves, making him appear younger and less stern.

“I’m going with Hayden into the Deep Roads,” Anders said at last, finally managing to speak when he picked a spot on the floor to stare at. Fenris frowned again, feeling very uncomfortable about the fact that the mage seemed incapable of meeting his eyes, like a… no. No.

Unaware of his thoughts, Anders continued with, “Because, I mean, they really do need a Warden down there with them. Much as I detest the place, going with them will help decrease the chances in which they’ll encounter pockets of Darkspawn and perhaps they won’t die horribly. But, I digress.” At last, the mage straightened and looked up, though Fenris could tell that he wasn’t really looking Fenris in the eye, even still.

“Karl won’t be coming with me. He’s not a Warden, and it’s going to be tough enough having to worry about Hayden, Carver, and the rest of the expedition. But… I still worry about him. What if I come back and the Templars have caught him again and this time there’s no one to stop them from making him Tranquil?”

The skin of Anders’ hands began to split with blue lightning, and Fenris tensed while Anders took a moment to calm down before speaking again.

“I came to ask if you would… allow him to stay here. Just until we come back, that’s all.”

“Why is he not here to ask this himself?” Fenris asked in return.

Anders frowned, sighing with exasperation. “Because he thinks he is clever enough to avoid detection. And, perhaps he is, but… I do not like leaving him here knowing that there is even the slightest possibility that he might be as good as dead when I come back…”

Anders looked down again and sniffled wetly, his shoulders shaking.

“Why… why ask me to do this?” Fenris asked after awhile, not quite sure what to do about the crying mage in his foyer. Again, Anders had to take a few breaths before he continued, but eventually he managed to formulate a reply.

“Because Aveline is a member of the guard and would have to turn him in were she caught, Isabela lives in the tavern which is frequented by Templars, and Merrill… well. There are about a thousand reasons why that’s not a good idea, and a good portion of those don’t even factor in the blood magic…”

Anders sighed again and shook his head, shrugging sheepishly as, at last, he was able to meet Fenris’ eyes. “A lot of the mansions in Hightown also have entrances to Darktown from their cellars, apparently, and if yours is one of them, he could still go back and forth between the clinic and here and remain relatively safe until we came back.”

“You… do not wish me to guard the clinic? Or Karl?”

“Maker, no!” Anders swore softly. “He’d hate that. Being shadowed, I mean. Of course, if you want to do that I doubt he’d tell you off for it, but I won’t ask that of you. I might be more thoughtless than thoughtful than people are willing to tolerate, but even I wouldn’t go that far.”

Fenris folded his arms across his chest as he considered Anders’ request.

He had hated Anders and Karl from the moment he learned what they were. He wouldn’t deny that. He’d even had a brief hatred for Hayden, despite the fact that they had come to his aid without a second thought, even though they hadn’t known who he was or perhaps even possessed fear for their own safety. But as his friendship with Hayden had overcome that initial dislike, so had Karl’s charm and wit overcome his hatred for both of them and allowed him to see through Anders’ tics and bravado. Fenris still didn’t fully understand why Anders did or said half of the things that he did, but he knew that there was reasoning behind every action, whether or not Anders himself knew that.

“You… are not as thoughtless as you think,” Fenris muttered.

Anders just stared at him, mouth slightly agape. 

“I shall be by later tomorrow to offer him a place here, should he wish it. I will not force him to stay, however.”

Slowly, Anders nodded. 

“I… yes. That is more than what I had hoped for. Thank you.”

Fenris didn’t understand what the twisting of his insides at the sight of the mage’s grateful smile meant exactly, but he knew that it brought out the lights of Anders’ eyes somehow. And he also knew that, strangely, he wished that the mage would smile more from then on.

Spending time with Fenris had been… enlightening for Karl.

Firstly, the normally composed elf seemed strangely off center when he’d brought up the subject of Karl’s safety on that fateful afternoon. Anders had closed the clinic early in preparation for his leaving for the Deep Roads, and Karl had been watching with curiosity as he muttered his list of things under his breath. Almost seamlessly, the elf snuck into the clinic to stand beside Karl, and eventually he looked over to whisper, “Afternoon, Fenris.”

Fenris grunted. “Afternoon.” 

The elf looked over the scene with Karl and slightly jerked his head in Anders’ direction. “Preparations, I assume?” Karl nodded. “Yes. I do still wish I could go with him, in spite of everything. He doesn’t do well in tight, dark spaces and I fear that if something goes wrong…”

“Karl? Are you talking to someone?” Anders called from the back of the clinic.

Karl smirked in response, even though Anders couldn’t see. “It’s only Fenris! Come to offer me a sanctuary of sorts while you’re gone, I assume.”

Fenris made a strangled sound in the back of his throat while beyond their sight, something fell to the ground in a great crash, followed by some guttural swearing. Or, it sounded like swearing. 

“How did…?” Fenris tried to speak, but he appeared to still be a little stupefied by Karl’s words. He chuckled, rather amused by the proceedings. “What? You think I wasn’t aware that’s what Anders went out to go do last night? As I said, he worries too much; I can handle myself.”

“You could at least give him a little piece of mind,” Fenris grumbled. “If he is already so troubled in tight, dark places by his own mind, then perhaps putting your safety out of his mind will help him sleep better and therefore be rested enough to guide the expedition to safety?” 

Karl cracked the elf a sly smile. 

“Is that concern I hear, Fenris? I’m touched.”

Fenris’ ears reddened with embarrassment and flattened against the sides of his head, shoulders hunching over slightly as he rumbled with discontent.

“Urrgh. Look, I found an exit into Darktown through the mansion’s cellar, and the keys that go to it. Do Anders a favor and come pick out a room before he leaves? I recommend bringing a broom. Also, I am not certain of the condition of the bedding in the other bedrooms, so you may also wish to bring a bucket to wash linens in.”

And with that, the elf stalked off, the flush that had crept into his ears slowly beginning to spread to his face and neck as he disappeared behind the clinic doors. As he was leaving, Anders had finally come out from behind the curtain that was their cordoned off “bedroom”, carrying a worn Chantry meditation pillow in his hands.

“That was Fenris?” Anders asked, face twisting in worry. There was something else there too, Karl noted. A degree of concern that hadn’t been there before yesterday. Karl nodded in response to Anders question as he tried to discern the source of his feathermage’s worries.

“Yes. He came by to offer me sanctuary while you are away. How thoughtful of him.” He fixed Anders with a knowing stare, and the other mage grumbled. 

“Alright, so maybe I went and asked him last night,” Anders confessed under Karl’s scrutiny. “I just… I don’t want to come back and find that you’ve been caught and made Tranquil! I know we took care of your phylactery, but this… this clinic is… it isn’t the safest place.” Anders hugged the pillow tight against his chest as he sniffed and looked away.

Karl sighed softly before walking over to Anders and pulling the other man into his embrace. “Oh, Anders. I’m sorry if I’ve worried you.” He pressed a quick kiss to Anders’ cheek and wondered when his lover had gotten so damn tall. He chuckled, causing Anders’ expression to shift to one of confusion.

“What? Something on my face?”

“No,” Karl said through another kiss, this time pressed against the corner of Anders’ lips. “It’s just that your eyes were barely up to my shoulders when we were together at Kinloch. Now look at you, nearly half a head taller than me! You beanpole, you.” 

Anders chuckled, angling his head so that he could nuzzle his nose (his beautiful, sharp nose) against Karl’s, their eyelashes fluttering against one another’s like the softest of kisses.

“Well, you know what they say about tall people and what’s under their robes… though, I doubt that even with my height I could ever surpass you.” 

“Anders. You’re going to make me blush.”

“Ha! As if I could, you dirty old man. Shut up and give me a send-off that will keep me warm in the Deep Roads, won’t you?” 

Karl hummed in amusement. “Of course, love. And I’ll keep your pillow safe, unless you wish to take it with you…?”

Anders shook his head. “No, I’d like you to keep it for now. Gives me another reason to come back.”

The expedition left around noon two days later, and Fenris had helped Karl settle in the bedroom next to his. However, despite having separate rooms, they spent quite a bit of time together, and this gave Karl ample time to observe and get to know Fenris in whatever capacity he could. Karl, though he was not the healer Anders was, still went down to work in the clinic to tend to the displaced refugees, and from day one Fenris had immediately decided to follow.

Of course he seemed unsure what to do until Karl showed him how to tell the difference between a broken bone and a bruised one, and how to set the broken bones so that if a person took a healing potion then the break would heal cleanly with little help. 

He also showed the elf how to wash and fold soiled bandages, but when he asked if the elf could also help brew potions, Fenris balked at the question.

“It isn’t a hard recipe,” Karl insisted. “It’s just elfroot, some distillation agents. A concentrator. The tasks are very simple.” Fenris glanced at the book Karl had open, but he looked away and said in a voice so low it was almost beyond Karl’s hearing, “They are simple if one can read them, mage.”

Karl blinked at Fenris owlishly, taking a few breaths to think before he spoke.

“I… I see. Well. Would you like to learn? I think Anders might be a better teacher for this, since he was often tasked with teaching the younger apprentices as a punishment –though why that would be considered a punishment is beyond me– but perhaps I could help you grasp the basics well enough. You are a fast learner Fenris, and I believe you have the aptitude.”

Fenris had stared at him for a very long time, as though he were not certain that Karl’s offer was real. So Karl met Fenris’ gaze and said, very seriously, “It is a skill that anyone who wishes to claim their freedom should have, I think. Now, the potions don’t have to be made today, but there are always bandages that need washing. Why don’t you finish the next batch that’s boiling right now and do some thinking, hmm? We can discuss over dinner later if you like.”

The elf didn’t wait until dinner to agree to his proposal. It wasn’t more than a heartbeat after Karl had closed up the clinic and they were walking back to the cellar passage when Fenris brought it up. 

“I want to learn,” he said assertively. “When can we start?”

As soon as possible, Karl decided. 

Through this, they established a routine: get up, have breakfast. As Karl cooked, he usually had Fenris practicing writing each letter or playing a sort of memory game that Karl had devised which helped Fenris recognize letter combinations and so on and so forth. Afterwards they went to the clinic, tried to help the refugees as best they could with bandages, potions, and Karl’s middling skill at magical healing, and usually after lunch they would either go back to work or close up and run errands. 

However, sometimes Fenris would have to do jobs for Aveline or Hayden’s former employer, Athenril. Karl guessed that he didn’t like the work much, but it was good coin and the other elf never shortchanged him. Fenris seemed distressed whenever he had to leave Karl alone, though it seemed to actually stem from genuine worry than fear at leaving a mage to run about without supervision. Karl found it strangely endearing.

One day however, a young refugee boy came running into the clinic and Karl stopped dead in his tracks, fear lancing through his heart. But some other child had gone to fetch Fenris, having seen the elf around and carrying that massive sword of his and he got there just in time to shove Karl in one of the boltholes that Anders had shown him, and they’d lain there for a long time while a Templar raid occurred just outside.

“Are you alright?” Karl had whispered when he noticed Fenris trembling against him. There was not much space in the bolthole, which made Karl wonder how Anders ever tolerated these things, and Fenris was laying right on top of him, trying to keep his markings from glowing too brightly in the dark space. 

“Quiet, Karl,” the elf hissed back, but after a while he relaxed against Karl’s chest and his breathing evened out. “The clinic is going to be a mess,” he muttered, and Karl chuffed. “Could be worse,” he murmured, “they could be dragging me back to the Gallows right now,” and Fenris grunted. “Do not speak of such things. Please.”

Fenris’ hands were clutching at the fabric of Karl’s shirt so hard he feared the elf might tear through them… until he realized that he was only wearing about half of his armor and his sword was missing. His hair was damp; he must have bathed very recently, though he hadn’t used soap because Karl couldn’t detect the scent of the stuff Fenris usually used.

Maker. Fenris reminded him so much of Anders in that moment, though at the same time he was still very conscious of the differences between them.

“May I wrap my arms around you, Fenris?” he asked quietly after a while. “My arms ache and it would make this a bit easier to bear while we wait for the bucket heads to leave.”

Fenris glanced up at him, and Karl noted with surprise that, with the little light his flickering brands provided, they glowed a bright, piercing green.

“Bucket heads?” Came the elf’s slightly bemused reply.

“Circle slang,” Karl answered, shrugging as best as he was able under Fenris’ weight. “For templars. Sometimes we just shortened it to buckets. “Hey, the buckets are clanking this way! Hurry up and finish before you get caught!””

“Finish?”

“Wanking,” Karl finished. “Usually it was in the library, but there were other, less common places. There was more danger in the library though because it was patrolled the most often, and some of the younger apprentices who were learning their way around their bodies liked to see how fast they could do it. Anders used to hold the record for the longest time, though. We made it through almost three entire patrols once before we had to get it over with if we didn’t want to get caught.”

A beat of silence passed before Fenris whispered another question, this time being, “What happened when you were caught?”

When. Not if. Karl wondered if the elf knew he’d made that distinction.

“It depended on the Templar. Some were more lenient than others, and if you weren’t having penetrative sex then your punishment was usually anything from a slap on the wrist to cleaning the floors of the Chantry chapel with a bucket and a hand sponge to perhaps a skipped meal. If you were lucky, you were caught by another mage who might serve as a decent distraction if you needed just a little more time… but mostly you just had to be fast and quiet.”

“Unless you were Anders.”

“Maker, yes,” Karl huffed, trying to keep his laughter to himself. “Oh, the things he got up to. Most of them were with me, but sometimes you just took your pleasures where you could find them.” Karl finished with a soft sigh.

Eventually, Fenris shifted and he cleared his throat as softly as he could.

“Karl.”

“Yes?”

“You can… if you still need to, you can put your arms around me…”

Karl allowed himself a mental chuckle as he held the elf close. Eventually, Fenris stopped trembling and he relaxed against Karl’s chest. He was heavier than Anders despite his smaller size, but Karl found that he enjoyed the solid press of the elf’s weight against him.

“I’m not going anywhere, Fenris.”

Fenris huffed, as though he were about to disagree, but the elf merely relaxed against him further and the two of them listened to the Templars until they were certain they had left. The two of them crawled out of the bolthole sometime in the wee hours of the early morning, and they fixed up what they could of what had been damaged before collapsing together on one of the larger cots.

Until Anders and Hayden returned back from the Deep Roads with only Varric in tow, the two seemed unable to sleep alone, at which point even Fenris didn’t object to Karl’s request that Anders join them.

To Anders, it was strange coming from that hellhole of a trip and stumbling back into his clinic. For one, Fenris and Karl had developed a… was it a relationship? It was hard to tell. They certainly didn’t do the things with one another that Anders did with Karl.

From what Karl told him, there hadn’t even been a single kiss.

But there was something between them, and it was clear that it mattered very much not only to the elf, but to Karl.

“He reminds me of you, in a way,” was Karl’s explanation for it when Anders had asked him. “And yet… he is most definitely not you. There is still a part of him that remains wired to protect, while another wishes desperately to be protected.” Anders frowned. “Have you spoken to him about this?”

Karl shook his head. “I find that it is rarely useful to speak to Fenris about his feelings unless he is the one to initiate the conversation. As far as I know, Hayden is the only person who he has consistently done that with.”

Anders sat down next to Karl on the bed that they shared with Fenris. It was strictly for sleeping; if they wanted to have sex, the room Karl had originally claimed as his while Anders was away was where such things usually occurred. Fenris was currently away with Hayden on a trip to Sundermount, looking for some rare ingredient or something. Ironbark, Anders thought.

“Does… does he like Hayden? As in, romantically?”

Karl sighed, turning to stare intently at the floorboards. “There is definitely attraction there, what with how shamelessly Hayden flirts.” Karl’s lips twitched upwards in a half smile. “They flirt with you too, don’t they? Only not as much.”

“I… I like Hayden. Sometimes, sometimes when I can get Justice to give me enough time and space for a wank, I don’t always think of you.” 

A chuckled huffed its way out of Karl’s lips. 

“That’s understandable. Hayden is rather captivating. Though… I’m fairly certain you fantasize about Fenris too, if your dreams from the other night were of any indication.” Anders gasped and covered his mouth with one hand as though that might stop the flush of heat in his cheeks from spreading.

“What? Did… did Fenris hear?”

“I don’t believe so, but if he did, I’m positive that he would have confronted you about it.” Anders groaned, putting his head in his hands. “It’s not my fault they’re all so pretty…” He sat up and tried to physically shake off the residual embarrassment.

“Do you know what Hayden thinks of you?”

“Why do you ask?”

Anders flopped backwards against the sheets, and Karl shifted so that he could see Anders’ expressions.

“Because I think that even though Hayden seems very attracted to Fenris and myself, they feel like they’re trying to keep their distance because of you.”’

“Perhaps they’ve been behaving that way because they don’t know that a person can love more than one person at once?” Anders hummed softly in agreement. “Perhaps. Leandra is a strong woman and I get that she’s done her best to raise Hayden on her own since the death of her husband, but… even Hayden has told me before that she doesn’t quite have the broadest of world views, you know?”

Karl nodded sagely. “Yes, I think so too. But for now I think we should see if Hayden and Fenris intend to go further than flirting. As for what Hayden thinks of me… do you mean are they attracted to me?”

Anders stared up at the ceiling and nodded. “Yes. I’ve seen them looking at you before. Usually after you’ve shaved recently. Like they can’t keep their eyes off of you.” Karl huffed. “I’ve noticed that too. Perhaps I should flirt with them and see if they reciprocate?”

“Karl!”

“I’ll be gentle, I promise.”

“Gentle. Right.”

Karl reached for one of his hands and held it until Anders’ gaze shifted to meet his. “Anders. If you would rather I not…”

“It’s not that I’m uncomfortable with you flirting with someone else,” Anders said seriously, sitting back up again as he crossed his legs underneath him. “It’s more that Hayden is… I don’t know. Innocent?”

Karl snorted. “You haven’t been to cards in a while, have you? No, I think not… well, you haven’t heard the raunchy ribaldry that they come up with when Isabela starts singing tavern songs then. I think they are less innocent than they appear, Anders. Naive, perhaps. Idealistic. But definitely not innocent.”

“I just remember when you first started flirting with me after you got tired of my baiting you.”

“Oh. Well, if that’s what you’re afraid of, I’m sure they’ll be fine as long as you don’t go letting any rumors about my “monster dong” run about loose in Darktown. I merely want to see if they’re attracted to me and if they’re bold enough to flirt back.”

A chuckle rumbled its way out of Anders’ chest.

“Ah, yes. I remember those rumors. No, those are definitely going to stay in my head where they belong. So… I suppose it’s fine. And perhaps I should join you for cards later. You might have to talk Justice into letting me go.”

Karl winked at him and squeezed his hand gently.

“Consider it done,” he said.

So it was about a week later when Anders was busy working on his manifesto and Hayden was washing linens with Karl that he heard his lover call the younger healer “quite fetching in their new robes” that had Anders keenly listening for Hayden’s response.

“You’re quite fetching yourself, Karl,” Hayden chuckled with a nervous little lilt. “Anders is a very lucky man.” 

“He doesn’t have to be the only lucky one…”

“Karl!” Hayden cried, and Anders heard them slap Karl with one of the still wet linens. Anders couldn’t keep the smirk from his face. Served him right.

“You know, my mother warned me about men like you,” Hayden flirted back, and Anders heard Karl laugh, low and throaty and damn if that one didn’t go straight to Anders’ cock. That was Karl’s “sounds like sex” laugh.

“Your mother couldn’t have warned you about men like me, because there are no men like me.” Hayden coughed, and Anders would’ve given anything to see their face in that moment. “I… I suppose not,” Hayden replied quietly, almost shyly. Anders was willing to bet good coin on their blushing right about now, with just a little color to their cheeks like a fine dusting of sugar powder on the little Orlesian cakes that Karl so loved to make.

Anders thought that Karl might say more, try to press Hayden’s buttons a little, but instead there was silence.

He couldn’t help but glance back at the two of them and saw Hayden smiling to themselves a little, that flush in their cheeks just as fine as Anders had thought it would be. Anders caught Karl’s gaze and when the force mage noticed him looking he flashed him a sheepish smile.

Anders merely shook his head and went back to work.

Well. So Hayden was a little attracted to Karl, at least. They still thought that perhaps they should let Hayden and Fenris figure things out between them before approaching them about… something. A relationship? Anders barely knew what he was doing with Karl, and they’d been together for a long time.

However, time and circumstance were not on their side, and there was to be a long string of unfortunate events that would inevitably force a series of conversations that all of them had been avoiding.

It all started with an arrow.

A warning arrow, shot from above a cliff-face, by a man declaring that Hayden was in possession of stolen property. Fenris, or so Anders assumed. However, Justice’s voice burned within him and he let the spirit come to the fore as they shouted together, “Fenris is a free man!” And they shot off a fireball in the slaver’s direction, starting a fight that ended with Fenris holding a half dead mage in his gauntleted fists against the blood spattered sand.

There was an interrogation, and Hayden glanced at Anders when a name was mentioned. Hadriana. And Fenris seemed to know who this person was.

“Has he mentioned that name to you?” Anders asked in a low voice. Hayden shook their head, wincing when Fenris crushed the heart of the slaver mage after he’d gotten the location of this Hadriana out of him. 

“No. He talked about how he came to leave Danarius, but he’s never mentioned a Hadriana before…”

“I was a fool to think I was free!” Fenris swore, and Varric, who was also with them, got their attention before Fenris turned around, still fuming. “They’ll never let me be!” 

“Who is this Hadriana?” Hayden asked, as thought they weren’t certain they wanted to know, but there was definite worry in their eyes. Hadriana was Danarius’ apprentice, and once Fenris said that, Hayden’s mind was made up. 

“So we go after her. Show us these pens so we can catch her before she runs.”

They found the slaver pens, and had to slog through wave after wave of demons until they rescued the poor elf girl, Orana. Hayden tried to do the right thing and offer her a job in their estate, but Fenris was so riled up that he accused Hayden of wanting to become a magister before they were able to explain themselves clearly.

Anders wanted to hit him. Yell at him. But he could hear Karl’s voice in his head cautioning him to see past the elf’s anger and find the root of it.

He wished he were better at such things, but with Justice still swirling so close to the surface, he was finding it difficult to see past whatever walls Fenris had built up around him in his anger. He wished he were better at calming people down. Karl was good at that.

“What do you want, mage?” Fenris snapped, drawing Anders from his reverie. 

Had he been staring? And where was Hayden? Scouting ahead?

“I… I want to help you.” Damn. Why did those words have to be the first things out of his mouth? Stupid, stupid. And of course, he kept going. “I know I’m shit at this, but please don’t take this out on Hayden. Um… shit. What the hell would Karl say? Damnit…”

Fenris stared at him, and his expression morphed from one of anger and frustration to… fear? Yes. Fear. Fear and regret.

“I don’t know how else to react, Anders. I… I’m…”

“I wish I could tell you it’s going to be alright,” Anders whispered, “but that’s probably a lie, so I won’t. But I still want to.”

“And I wish I could believe you.”

They were so close; Anders could see tiny flecks of yellow in the green of Fenris’ eyes. He noticed that Fenris’ eyebrows were black, and not the same white as the hair on his head. There were bits of dried blood splattered everywhere: on his armor and his skin, in his hair. There wasn’t any on his lips though, and Anders thought that if he angled his head just so...

“Blondie! Broody! We think we got her cornered!”

The two of them broke apart as their heads snapped around to see Varric waving at them from the doorway, but they shared a lingering look that made Anders wonder if Fenris didn’t hold some form of feelings for him too. Anders certainly couldn’t deny it any longer.

They slogged through more demons, more slavers. When they came to the apprentice herself, the fight was not as difficult as getting there had been, and the woman herself was not terribly remarkable.

Fenris’ fury, on the other hand… he had a clawed gauntlet in her chest before she could even say a word, and though she tried getting him to spare her life by telling him about the potential existence of a sister, Varania, her death was quick. Anders almost wished it could have been drawn out a little more, that Fenris had inflicted a little more pain… and he wasn’t entirely sure if that desire was his, Justice’s, or both.

“Do you… do you want to talk about this?” Hayden tried to ask, but Anders saw what Hayden could not: Fenris had just killed one of his tormentors and that… that did things to a person. Anders wasn’t sure what it was doing to Fenris, but calming down was the last thing on his mind as he rounded on Hayden and shouted, “No, I don’t want to talk about it!”

Hayden stiffened and their eyes widened as they backed up in fear. Anders rushed to support them before they tripped and hurt themselves.

Fenris ranted about how this entire set-up could be a trap (which was entirely possible–the Templars had set similar traps for Anders in the past), and that even if this sister was real then Danarius had to know that Hadriana knew of her, and therefore would still be suicide to try and find her!

Hayden stepped away from Anders and tried to approach Fenris again, with more confidence this time. “Fenris, surely that cannot be all–”

“All that matters is that I got to crush that bitch’s heart!” Fenris snapped. “May she rot and all the other mages with her.” 

No. He didn’t just say that in front of–

“Then… maybe we should leave,” Hayden tried a third time. There was something off about their voice; a kind of coolness was present in it that Anders had never heard before, and yet Hayden’s expression was still one of concern even as they reached out with trembling fingers to try and touch Fenris’ shoulder. “Hayden, wait–” Anders tried to stop them, but it was too late.

Fenris threw off Hayden’s touch with a snarl and hissed.

“No! I don’t want you comforting me…”

Anders saw first the fear return to Fenris’ eyes, only for that fear to disappear behind his wall of fury. Then Hayden’s face, wracked with grief and frustration. There was something else there too: determination. Hayden seemed to see something in Fenris that Anders couldn’t, and Anders had to trust that they knew the right things to say.

Because Maker knew that Anders didn’t.

“Fenris, please,” Hayden insisted, as calmly as they possibly could, but Fenris still refused to see whatever reason Hayden kept trying to call him back to.

“You saw what was done here!” Fenris shouted, gesturing to the bodies of dead slavers and abominations and demon husks. “There’s always going to be some reason, some excuse why mages need to do this!”

“Damnit, Fenris!” Hayden shouted back at him, finally through with remaining patient. There were tears in their eyes and a flame of anger behind them as they advanced on the elf. “Did you forget what I am?” And suddenly Fenris’ face paled and he retreated, though his anger still simmered as glowing brand does when taken away from the flame.

“Hayden…” Fenris pleaded, voice cracking a little as he appeared to try to apologize with their name alone. “Even… even if I found my sister, who knows what the magisters have done to her. What… what has magic touched that it does not spoil?”

Anders’ heart felt like it had dropped through his stomach and the floor, taking his stomach along with it. 

Hayden’s eyes still glistened with unshed tears, but they refused to let them fall while they waited for Fenris to realize the gravity of the question he’d just asked. Yet, when it finally happened, Fenris seemed unable to handle the damage he’d done, and he could only just manage to quickly mutter, “I… I need to go,” before running off through the slaver pens and out into the night.

Hayden buried their hands into their hair and leaned against a nearby wall, sliding down until they were sitting on the floor amongst the slaver corpses and demon husks. Blood was splattered all over their robes, and their hair tie had fallen out somewhere, causing their hair to spill across their shoulders and in front of their face. Anders knelt next to them and touched their knee gently.

“Hayden?”

He wasn’t going to ask if they were alright. He knew they weren’t.

Hayden sighed deeply and looked up to meet Anders’ eyes.

“I… should go after him, shouldn’t I?” Anders blinked owlishly at Hayden. “Um… probably, yes.” He frowned, finding the question somewhat perplexing. “But why… why are you asking me? You’re the one who knows him better than all of us.” Hayden shook their head and huffed out another sigh, smiling sadly.

“But you and Karl live with him, don’t you?”

Karl. Karl would know what to do. 

“Karl has this… connection with Fenris. He might know what to do.”

“Then I’ll go see if I can find him,” Hayden told him, getting up from the floor with Anders’ help. “You find Karl and if Fenris comes back to his mansion before I find him… please, tell him I’m worried about him. I want to help him.”

Which was funny, Anders thought, since they’d said the same thing to Fenris only moments prior to this disaster.

Fenris’ words has hurt Hayden, and had hurt them deeply.

But Hayden knew a little about why Fenris spoke and acted the way he did from talking with Fenris himself; his was definitely not a life of sunshine and roses. That was why they were so adamant about having Fenris talk about the fact that he’d just killed his former master’s apprentice instead of running off and trying to deal with the fallout on his own…

Not that that had turned out well, exactly, but Hayden was determined to find him and make sure he was alright before the night was through.

It proved strangely harder than they had originally thought to find a single elf in all of Kirkwall. Even Fenris’ extremely unique description brought up nothing until they reached the Hightown market stalls which were almost finishing packing up for the day.

An apple seller Hayden knew that Fenris frequented told them that the elf had been headed to the “old Amell estate”. Their estate. They felt almost stupid, thinking that Fenris would go anywhere else, but in the back of their mind they figured that perhaps they didn’t know Fenris as well as they thought they did.

And that stung a little, though the fact that Fenris had headed to the estate…

Perhaps they could help Fenris after all.

Fenris was waiting in the entrance hall when they arrived: head down, hands hanging loose between his knees, his feet flat against the floor but for the twitching of his toes. He started a bit when the door opened, and he was on his feet almost immediately as Hayden set their staff aside to greet him properly.

“I…” Fenris began slowly, still staring at the floor and wringing his hands. His… hands? Yes, Hayden noted, Fenris’ gauntlets had been removed and were sitting on the bench Fenris had been previously occupying. “I’ve been thinking about what happened with Hadriana…” Fenris glanced up, and his shoulders tightened as though it were a struggle to meet their eyes.

“I took out my anger on you,” he confessed, ears slightly lowered and quivering. “Undeservedly so. I was… not myself. I’m sorry.”

Hayden sighed and was about to reach out to touch the elf when they remembered Anders’ warning when they had tried to comfort him in the slaver pens. They pulled their hand back at the last second and felt strangely awkward; not knowing what to do with their hands.

“I had no idea where you went,” Hayden finally muttered, thoroughly frustrated with themselves. “I was concerned.” They met Fenris’ eyes and their shoulders lowered with weary exhaustion. 

“Can we sit? I feel like we should be having this conversation sitting…” They looked around. “Or… at least in private.”

Fenris looked away again.

“I find that I cannot sit still, I’m afraid. I was pacing shortly before you arrived. And I apologize for worrying you, but I needed to be alone.”

Hayden nodded slowly. “I wish I could say that I understand, but I am beginning to feel as though I don’t understand you as well as I thought I did. After all while I am flattered to find you here, waiting for my return, I spent a good amount of time looking for you elsewhere…”

Fenris ran a hand through his hair, which Hayden now noticed was still streaked with flecks of blood.

“Perhaps you might understand if I told you that as a slave, Hadriana was a torment. She would ridicule me, deny my meals, hound my sleep–”

“Fenris,” Hayden sighed, “I appreciate you telling me these things, but I have not lived the life that you have. I cannot–” Fenris turned around and held up a hand. His face was pulled back in a snarl, but there was a deep pain in the elf’s eyes that made Hayden’s heart ache. “Because of her status, I was powerless to respond, and she knew it. The thought of her slipping out of my grasp now? I… I couldn’t let her go.”

Suddenly, understanding dawned upon Hayden.

“It… has been years since your escape. You… were able to claim your freedom and establish a life here, but… because the people who hurt you still lived, that hatred stayed with you.” Hayden lip quivered, and they tugged idly at some of their hair that had fallen over their shoulders. 

“Well… holding a grudge isn’t a crime, Fenris,” they said soothingly. “It’s… it’s certainly not the most healthy of practices, but no one is going to judge you for that, you know?”

“I know!” Fenris hissed, backing away a little as he shook his head in what Hayden could only assume was an attempt to rid himself of some dark or disturbing thought. “I just… I thought I’d gotten rid of this hate inside me…” His hands curled in on himself, fingers prying at his armor like he could cast off his hatred by removing it, or perhaps they were trying to get at his own heart as though it were possible to dig out his hatred as one might a peach pit.

Eventually, he gave up and wrapped his arms around himself and sniffed wetly as he stared at the floor.

“…but it dogs me no matter where I go.”

Hayden walked forward a few steps until they stood but a hair’s breadth apart, Fenris looking up at Hayden with eyes full of unshed tears.

“To feel it again,” Hayden breathed, “knowing that it was they who planted that hatred inside of you… it was too much to bear, wasn’t it?” They let out a long exhale, causing several strands of Fenris’ bangs to flutter away from his face. “I feel terrible that this is eating away at you. I wish I could… that I could offer you more than my friendship, Fenris.”

Fenris blinked owlishly at Hayden and stepped back a little. Hayden noticed that the tips of the elf’s ears were flushed and his cheeks flooded with extra color to them as his breath hitched.

“I… I did not come to burden you,” he insisted.

Hayden shook their head forcefully. “Are you a burden to Anders and Karl? I doubt it that they think so.” They rubbed at their face before taking a breath and fixing Fenris with a serious yet tender stare. “The three of you are all that I think about, and often I can think of little else. It is hard enough sometimes to deal with just being the way I am, but then I find comfort in the support of the people I care for the most. If you can, please let me be one of those people for you, Fenris. Yet, if you cannot, you must tell me to cease pursuing you and I shall.”

Fenris was quiet for a long few breaths before he glanced up to meet their eyes.

“Anders… and Karl? They care for me?”

Hayden chuffed. “You let them into your bed did you not? Some part of you cares for them enough to trust them to let them so close. That may or may not even take into account the rapport that you’ve shared with Karl ever since Anders and I came back from the expedition, and Anders’ first thought after you left was that Karl might know what to do to help you. They care, I promise you.”

“And… so do you?”

“I want to,” Hayden whispered, moving in close again. “But only with your consent. Command me to go and I shall, Fenris.”

Fenris frowned. “I doubt that I could command you to do anything, regardless of what I wanted..”

“Fenris,” Hayden stressed. “Please. May I hold you, if only for a moment?”

Something shifted in Fenris face and he nodded, the movement so slight that Hayden almost missed it. But they did not, and they took the elf into their arms, armor and all, and held them tightly against their chest, the fingers of one hand threading into silky white hair while the other was wrapped around the elf’s waist, holding him tight yet not so tight as to be oppressive.

Fenris practically melted against Hayden after a heartbeat of tension. A low purr stuttered to life from somewhere in the elf’s throat, and the two of them just stood there for what felt like an eternity before Hayden cleared their throat as quietly as they could to get Fenris’ attention.

“Would you like to go home now?” they asked, and Fenris sighed deeply. 

“I… find that I do not, but the hour is late. And if Anders and Karl care for me as much as you say, they will be worried. Yet I strangely do not wish to be parted from you.”

Hayden chuckled softly. “I could tell my mother that I won’t be home tonight, and perhaps I could join the three of you for an evening?”

Fenris seemed to perk up a little at that. “You… would you really?”

“Just to sleep, mind,” Hayden said, yawning. “All that running about today… really tired me out. I ache everywhere.”

Fenris hummed noncommittally. “Anders is… very good with his hands. He could help you with that, if you wished, and I would very much like you to… to stay for the night if that is what you mean.”

Hayden smiled at him, and asked him to wait a few moments more before they informed Leandra that they wouldn’t be coming back until morning before they left with Fenris for the mansion he occupied with Anders and Karl.

Upon arriving, the two other mages had been deep in conversation but were surprised when the door opened and Fenris walked into the room with Hayden trailing not far behind. Karl stood first and eyed them, looking to Fenris and then to Hayden. He cleared his throat.

“Anders told me what happened,” he said in a low, soothing tone. “Or at least everything that happened that he knows about.” He walked over to Fenris and offered a hand to the elf. “Come sit? There’s stew. I know you’re probably tired, but you should eat before we go to bed.”

“Hayden is staying the night,” Fenris mumbled, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a rush. A single grey eyebrow rose as he glanced in Hayden’s direction, and Hayden nodded in answer to the unspoken question.

“Yes, my mother knows I won’t be home this evening. No, she doesn’t know that I am here.” Their lips quirked up in a wry smile and they added, “And she doesn’t need to know. Besides, she might have a fit if she did, and I have to think of her health after all.”

Anders chuffed. “You’re such a good child, worrying about their mother.”

A chuckle rumbled its way out of Hayden’s chest. “Right. Worry. Yes, let’s go with that, shall we? I’m totally not here because I want to spend a night with the three people I care about, nope.”

Karl merely sighed and shook his head as Fenris took his hand gingerly and they all sat down on the rug in front of the fire. 

Hayden had sat down next to Fenris and Karl, and Anders sat next to them. The room was quiet for a long time but for the sounds of stew slurping and spoons clinking against the bottom of bowls as the fire crackled. Hayden felt strangely warm, but it wasn’t from the heat of the flames. Rather, their heart felt full and heavy with a feeling they could not name, but it was not an uncomfortable feeling. Actually, it felt as though they had finally come home for the first time since fleeing Lothering from the Blight.

From that night forward, things were different. There were things that tried to tear them apart, like Ser Alirk’s “Tranquil Solution” where Anders almost killed a mage girl, Fenris’ own memories resurfacing and disappearing after the first time he and Hayden had sex, and... the horrific death of Hayden’s mother. All of these happened even before the Arishok decided that they’d been in Kirkwall for long enough and attempted to raze the city to the ground...

...resulting in Hayden becoming Champion. 

Suddenly, everyone wanted them, wanted their love, their time, their attention... but Hayden only had eyes for Anders, Fenris, and Karl. These three had brought warmth into their heart in a place where they had only expected coldness... and they made them feel like they had a home again in the face or all they had lost.

And that made all the difference.

[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke feels: Standing Still

In which Hawke duels the Arishok, and Fenris finally gets his head out of his ass... but the timing is less than ideal. 

A longer one, again (~6600 words). Here is a clumsy link to the AO3 post, since I don’t want the fancy new Tumblr anti-porn-bot algorithm to hide this post from tag searches: tinyurl.com/fenhawke 

**************

Fenris did not consider himself a particularly fast learner.

Hawke would heartily disagree, and he supposed she was right when it came to some things. Fenris was a skilled combatant, and he could master a weapon in the space of a few sessions. And Hawke had said he’d learned to read even faster than she’d thought possible.

Even so, when it came to life-changing realizations - things that shifted his way of thinking like an earthquake, tilting the ground beneath his feet and forcing him out of the confines of his own beliefs - Fenris was unforgivably slow on the uptake.

Revelations. They always seemed to bash him in the face with the devastating force of a Qunari warhammer. Escaping Danarius had been like that; it wasn’t until Fenris had looked upon the aftermath of his own horrific mass murder that he realized that he couldn’t live under the yoke of Danarius’s control anymore.

And it wasn’t until he was clutching Hawke’s crumpled body on the ground outside the Viscount’s Keep that he realized he couldn’t live without her.

*****************

A few hours earlier... 

“Should’ve stopped by the Hanged Man and grabbed a bottle of whiskey,” Hawke panted as they ran up the steps to the Viscount’s Keep. “I could use a drink right about now. A little liquid courage never went amiss, wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s probably best we didn’t,” Fenris replied. “Falling over drunk is not a defensive strategy I’d recommend.”

“But we could have offered some to the Arishok!” she said. “Friendly drink to loosen him up, persuade him to change his mind about converting or killing everyone… It’s a classic negotiating strategy, right?”

“I think we’re a little past the talking-over-drinks stage by now,” Varric called breathlessly from behind them.

Hawke paused at the doors to the Keep and threw Varric a rueful grin. “And that, my friend, is what’s really wrong with politics. Hardened enemies become fast friends with the power of a drink.” She pointed playfully at him. “You can quote me on that for that damned novel of yours.”

Fenris smirked and shook his head, but beneath his amusement, he was worried about her. She’d been cracking jokes nonstop since they’d found Isabela’s farewell note on Wall-Eyed Sam’s body. To Fenris’s eyes, her incessant humour was a clear indication of how upset she was about her best friend’s abrupt disappearance.

Hawke took a deep breath, then raised her eyebrows at their little group. The whole crew had insisted on coming this time, despite the obvious danger. “All right, kids,” she said. “Last chance to go home and hide under your beds. Anyone having second thoughts?”

There was a general murmur of negations and readiness, and Hawke grinned at them all. “Oh good. Then you lot can go on in for me, because I’m definitely going home to hide under my bed.”

Aveline shot her a desperate look. “Hawke, we have to hurry-”

Hawke laughed brightly, then shoved open the doors to the Viscount’s Keep.

They were instantly set upon by a small contingent of Qunari warriors. Fenris immediately phased through the nearest one, materializing inside of him and blowing his innards apart in a shower of blood.

The next few minutes were a blur of clashing weapons and explosive magical attacks, of battle roars and shrieks of pain. Once their final enemy was felled, Fenris straightened and looked around the room.

It was a scene of blood and disarray, but his gaze skipped carelessly over it all until he spotted Hawke, upright and hale at the top of the stairs. Her face was as serious as it always was in battle, but when she met his eyes, she smiled and blew him a kiss.

He shook his head in mock exasperation, then jogged up the stairs with the others to join her. Panicked screams were emanating from the grand hall, and Hawke jerked her head in the direction of the ruckus. “Let’s join the party, shall we?”

They all ran toward the grand hall, and Hawke didn’t hesitate this time before pushing open the doors.

They stepped into the room, and a familiar face stared up at them from the base of the stairs - a face that was separated from the rest of its body: the Viscount’s decapitated head.

Merrill gasped.

“Maker save us,” Sebastian breathed.

“Shit,” Varric muttered, and Hawke huffed. “You can say that again,” she whispered.

Fenris merely twisted his lips in rueful acknowledgement of the Viscount’s death. Frankly, he was unsurprised. It was only logical for the Qunari to dispense of the existing authority before imposing their own.

“Shanedan, Hawke. I expected you,” the Arishok rumbled. He slowly made his way down the stairs, ignoring all of them except for the dark-haired mage. “Maraas toh ebra-shok. You alone are basalit-an.” He opened his arms expansively and glared at the assembly of terrified hostages. “This is what respect looks like, bas,” he announced. “Some of you will never earn it.”

Then he returned his austere gaze to Hawke. “You know I am denied Par Vollen until the Tome of Koslun is found. How will you see this conflict resolved without it?”

Hawke offered the Arishok a sickly sort of smile, and Fenris suppressed a wince. He could practically see the quip gathering itself at the tip of her tongue, but he had to agree with Aveline: this was not the time for jokes.  

Before Hawke could speak, a sardonic voice called out from the door.  “I believe I can answer that.”

Hawke’s face slackened in surprise for a split second before lighting up with joy. “Bels!” she exclaimed.

Isabela sauntered over to Hawke’s side with an enormous tome in her arms, and Fenris watched her approach with no small amount of surprise himself. He’d been just as shocked as Hawke at Isabela’s abandonment, given how close she and Hawke were, but he was even more surprised at her return. Isabela had many fine traits, but it was clear from her antics with this blasted relic that loyalty was not among them.

After a moment’s hesitation, Isabela handed the huge book to the Arishok. “I’m sure you’ll find it mostly undamaged,” she said.

The Arishok took the book reverently, and Isabela shot Hawke a small sideways look and rubbed the back of her neck. “It took me a while to get back, what with all the fighting everywhere,” she said with a shrug. “You know how it is.”

“You fucking tart,” Hawke said happily. “Showing up at the eleventh hour. You trying to steal my place as the heroine of Varric’s book?”

Isabela folded her arms. “This is your damned influence, Hawke. I was halfway to Ostwick before I knew I had to turn around. It’s pathetic.”

“Yes, coming back to help your dearest and most attractive friend in the whole wide world,” Hawke retorted. “How very pathetic.”

Isabela tutted and rolled her eyes, and Hawke beamed at her until the Arishok spoke again. “The relic is reclaimed. I am now free to return to Par Vollen.” He turned his stare to Isabela. “With the thief.”

Hawke stiffened, and Isabela instantly dropped her confident stance. “What?”

Fenris couldn’t help himself. “You thought you could strand them here for four years without consequence?” he drawled.

Isabela glared at him over Hawke’s shoulder. “Hey. Whose side are you on, anyway?”

The Arishok ignored them and addressed Hawke. “She stole the Tome of Koslun. She must return with us.”

Hawke folded her arms, her face and posture now utterly serious. “Sounds like you have something very specific in mind,” she said cautiously.

“She will submit to the Qun and the Ben-Hassrath,” the Arishok said. “More than that, I will not say.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes. “Well, I don’t like the sound of that, whatever that means,” she retorted. “You have your relic. Isabela stays with us.”

“Then you leave me no choice.” The Arishok lifted his chin, then proclaimed, “I challenge you, Hawke. You and I will battle to the death, with her as the prize.”

“No!” Isabela blurted. “If you’re going to duel anyone, duel me!”

The Arishok finally deigned to look at her - a very quick dismissive glance. “You are not basalit-an,” he said. “You are unworthy.”

Isabela opened her mouth to protest, but Hawke held up one hand. “I accept your challenge,” she said.

“Oh no!” Merrill squeaked, and Aveline took a concerned step forward. “Hawke, wait-”

Fenris stepped away from Hawke’s side and gestured for them to back away. “Don’t interfere,” he said, primarily to Aveline; the Guard-Captain looked ready to pounce on the Arishok herself. “It will be fine.”

He took his place among the other spectators that lined the walls, and Anders stormed over to him. “How are you all right with this?” he hissed. “She’ll be killed! You would just stand back and watch her face off against that - that beast?”

Fenris didn’t bother to look at him. “She will be fine,” he repeated firmly. “Hawke is strong. Unlike some mages I know,” he added waspishly. He folded his arms. “Besides, it is her choice. She wishes to resolve this with as little bloodshed as possible, then I am happy to stand here and watch.”

“I can’t believe this,” Anders snapped. “You argue with her at every turn, yell at her for every other decision she makes, and now that she decides to face off against a two-meter tall horned warrior with battleaxes in both hands, now is when you just stand back and watch?” He leaned away from Fenris in disgust. “Why do you even follow her? Do you even care about her at all?”

“Shut your mouth,” Fenris snarled. “You know nothing of this kind of respect. You are unworthy to follow her, not me.” He stared venomously at the scowling mage. “Don’t speak to me again unless you wish to have your heart torn out of your chest,” he spat, then stalked away from Anders to stand beside Sebastian instead.

And then Hawke’s battle with the Arishok began.

Fenris had been fighting at her side for years now, but as he watched her fingers tapping slowly on the smooth handle of her staff, he realized that he’d never really had a chance to watch her in combat before. He was always at the forefront of a fight, while Hawke threw up barriers and rained fire and lightning on their foes from behind.

This was different from any other fight Fenris had seen her in. A single foe in close quarters, one who wouldn’t be tricked by some of her more discombobulating magical attacks: it was a duel in the truest sense of the word, and despite his confidence in her skill, Fenris was curious how she would adjust.

Her posture was tense and nervous, but her first dodge was perfectly timed when the Arishok lunged at her, and the fireball she threw at his back was swift and unerring. Fenris relaxed slightly as Hawke played to her strengths, maintaining a careful distance and striking from behind when the Arishok couldn’t deflect.

And then she didn’t dodge quickly enough, and the Arishok ploughed into her with a powerful lunge.

Fenris flinched as Hawke slammed back against a pillar with a sickening thud. She slumped to the ground and sat frozen for a second, then drew in a gasping breath and clenched her fist.

A glow of green healing magic shivered over her skin, and she was on her feet a second later, rolling clumsily away from the Arishok’s swinging battleaxe.

Fenris released his breath, then continued to watch her intently, feeling a bit more nervous than before. The battle went on for minutes that seemed to stretch like hours, and Fenris tried to quell his growing anxiety as she took a number of strikes from the Arishok, recovering each time with the help of her own healing spells.

She struck the Arishok multiple times as well, and soon he was limping from a bleeding wound to the thigh. But Hawke was slowing down. Her dodges and evasions were becoming less timely. She didn’t have a warrior’s stamina, and if Fenris could see her fatigue, then the Arishok certainly could.

That’s when the Arishok grabbed her by the neck and hauled her off her feet.

Fenris’s entire body went tense. Everything was frozen: his lungs, his heart, his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth - he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe as he watched Hawke kicking her feet ineffectually, scrabbling to grab hold of the Arishok’s armoured wrists, then his bare forearms -

Smoke began to rise from the Arishok’s skin where Hawke grabbed it. Finally he snarled with pain and released her, and she dropped to the ground like a rag doll.

Fenris moved - a slight step forward, he knew he shouldn’t but he couldn’t stop himself - but someone was holding his hand and keeping him in place.

It was Isabela. She looked just as horrified as he felt, and her fingers were clutching his own in a death grip.

Hawke drew in a desperate scraping of air, and Fenris whipped his head around to look at her. She was on her feet again, the glow of her healing spell fading already and her lips drawn in a snarl.

She twisted her left hand in a vicious gesture, and the Arishok was encased in a cage of pure magic.

The huge Qunari warrior tried to slam his way out of the cage, but the snapping bars of light threw him back. Hawke heaved a huge exhausted sigh and ran a hand through her hair. “Friendly drinks would have been the way to go,” she said, her voice rough with fatigue. Then she slammed her staff on the ground.

A crackling pattern of ice appeared on the Arishok’s belly, crawling and thickening across his abdomen, and Fenris held his breath, knowing what was coming next -

Hawke jabbed her staff in the Arishok’s direction, and his frozen organs exploded along with the magical cage, scattering grey-and-red chunks of frozen flesh and viscera across the floor.

The Arishok fell to his knees. He lifted his eyes to Hawke’s face. “One day, we shall return,” he rasped. Then he collapsed on the ground with a limp finality.

For once, Hawke didn’t instantly reply with a clever quip. She bent over, hands on her knees and her long hair falling forward to hide her face.

In silence, the remaining Qunari began to file out of the room. Fenris pulled away from Isabela’s grip and strode toward Hawke, but she was standing upright again already before he could reach her side.

She smiled tiredly at him. “Remind me to bake them a cake if they do return,” she said to him. “A chocolate one. With icing. Everyone likes chocolate.”

Fenris gripped her arm and peered at her face. “Are you all right?” he demanded. She certainly looked fine; tired, of course, but there wasn’t even a hint of bruising on her neck, thanks to her healing magic.

She nodded. “I’m fine. Really, I’m fine,” she repeated hastily as the others all hurried over with worried faces. “Let’s just get out of here before-”

“Is it over?” A ringing, authoritative voice cut her off, and Hawke pulled a little face. “Too late,” she muttered.

Meredith strode into the room with a handful of Templars at her back, and Hawke squared her shoulders before turning to face them. “It’s over,” she replied. She gestured at the Arishok’s half-frozen body. “One chilled Qunari, as ordered.”

Her irreverent words seemed to break the tension in the room; someone laughed, and then the noble hostages were cheering and applauding.

Hawke cringed slightly, and Meredith narrowed her eyes. “It seems Kirkwall has a new champion,” she said.

“Oh Maker’s balls, please don’t call me that,” Hawke begged. “‘Champion’ is such a heavy word, it carries so much responsibility…”

But it was too late: the nobles were already calling her name, calling her the Champion, and Hawke rubbed her face and shot Meredith a half-hearted smile. “Thanks for that,” she said.

“I look forward to seeing how you will serve your city with this new… title,” Meredith replied, her tone positively dripping with subtext.

“I’ll be serving myself a drink or three first, if you don’t mind,” Hawke quipped. “Now if you’ll excuse us…” She edged around Meredith cautiously and headed for the door at a brisk pace.

Fenris and the rest of the group followed at her heels. Once they’d stepped out of the clamour of the grand hall, Varric chuckled. “The refugee mage from Lothering defeats the Qunari chief in single-handed combat,” he said, with much relish. “Oh, this is good. Nobody will believe it. That’s what will make it so compelling.”

Hawke groaned. “Please, Varric, give me one single day without having to make…” She trailed off and rubbed her face. “...without making editorial comments,” she finished faintly, then headed for the stairs.

“Hawke?” Anders’s voice was sharp as he called her name from the back of the group.

She didn’t reply, reaching instead for Isabela’s arm as they approached the stairs. “Now you,” she said pointedly. “I can’t decide whether to punch you or hug you. I knew you’d come back, you know. I knew you wouldn’t really leave.”

Isabela rolled her eyes. “You’re reading way too much into this.”

“Wrong,” Hawke said as she tottered down the stairs. “I know exactly why you came back. You know you love me, you tart. You wouldn’t really-”

She stumbled on the bottom step, and Fenris and Aveline grabbed her arms. “Kaffas,” Fenris swore. “Hawke, are you-”

“I’m fine, I promise I’m fine! I just need some air, let’s - we’re nearly…” She seemed to run out of breath, and her feet were dragging as she tried to keep on walking.

“You’re not fine!” Aveline exclaimed, her voice tense with worry. “Are you hurt? Where are you hurt?”

“I’m not,” Hawke insisted. “I’m just… need some air.” She tried feebly to twist away from Fenris and Aveline’s hands, finally wresting one arm away from Aveline to push open the door to the Keep.

Fenris kept a steady hand on her arm, and it was a good thing; as soon as she took two steps into the smoke-scented nighttime air, she seemed to lose control of her legs, and Fenris caught her before she could hit the ground.

“Venhedis,” he hissed. Her eyelids were at half-mast and her eyes were unfocused as they drifted vaguely across his face.

“Fenris,” she murmured, “you’re so… Have I ever… told you…?”

Her smile was lazy, and he glared at her. “Hawke, what’s wrong?” he demanded. “Where are you hurt?”

“I’m not,” she mumbled. “I’m…” She trailed off into silence, her body going limp in his arms.

Fenris stared at her stupidly, struck dumb by her sudden stillness. She couldn’t be - no, it was impossible. Hawke was never seriously hurt. She was too lively, too full of vitality and optimism. She couldn’t be…

A yawning terror suddenly opened inside Fenris’s belly, a pit of sucking fear the likes of which he’d never felt before, and he fought to breathe as he stared at her precious face. Wake up, he thought with rising desperation. Wake up, or nothing will ever be right again.

The words sat frozen in his brain. He was unable to speak. He was paralyzed by this new and petrifying terror. Then suddenly Anders was there.

“Move, you idiot,” he hissed, then shoved Fenris roughly until he shifted aside. Anders hovered his hands near Hawke’s temples and closed his eyes, muttering under his breath as a cool green glow emanated from his palms.

“She’s overextended,” Merrill whispered tremulously.

“What does that mean?” Isabela demanded.

“She pushed herself too hard without help,” Merrill explained. “No lyrium, no blood magic to supplement -”

“Her mana is almost depleted,” Anders interrupted brusquely, his hands still glowing with restorative energy. “Please, be quiet while I…” He trailed off, and the rest of the group fell into a tense silence as he worked.

Fenris was completely still. He could barely breathe, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Hawke. Her magic force was almost depleted - that force that he hated on principle, but which Hawke controlled so well and which was such an integral part of who she was. Of course Fenris didn’t hate that part of her, because it was her, it was Hawke, and he didn’t hate Hawke. He hated nothing about her, not a single thing, not her constant flirting or her pro-mage tendencies or her teasing the Templars or her inability to take most things seriously - he didn’t hate anything about her, of course he didn’t, because he loved her.

Andraste save him, he loved her. He fucking loved her, and if she died…

An interminable eon later, Anders leaned back opened his eyes. “She’s stable now,” he said, and Fenris’s heart thudded with a painful squeeze of relief. “She needs to rest. And she needs lyrium supplements, carefully controlled. But she’ll be all right.” He looked at Aveline, his manner brisk and clinical. “Aveline, will you-?”

“Of course,” Aveline said, and she carefully lifted Hawke into her arms.

They made their way to Hawke’s mansion as quickly as they could, ignoring the disastrous mess that the evening’s battle had made of the city. Fenris ran at Aveline’s side, oblivious to everything except the knowledge that Hawke would be all right.

She would be all right. The world wasn’t a complete ruin.

Sebastian banged on the door to Hawke’s mansion, and Fenris wasn’t sure if it actually took longer than usual for Bodahn to come to the door or if it just felt like it, but by the time he opened the door, the entire party was so impatient that they poured inside like an unstoppable tide.

“Guard-Captain Vallen? Brother Vael? I - what has - Serrah Hawke! Is she - what’s happened? The Qunari, did they-?” Bodahn was completely flustered, and Fenris was vaguely aware of Sebastian pulling him aside to explain the situation while the rest of them followed Anders and Aveline up to Hawke’s bedroom.

Aveline laid Hawke tenderly on the bed, and Anders immediately began issuing orders, sending Merrill to fetch some lyrium and Varric to get some cloths and a basin of water before resuming his treatment.

Fenris prowled restlessly at the foot of the bed, his eyes scanning Hawke’s face and body almost compulsively. She was so limp, her breathing so slow and her face so pale, and he couldn’t stop staring at her as though the force of his gaze alone would revive her.

Anders said she’ll be fine, he reminded himself firmly. He didn’t trust Anders’s ethics or motivations or his companionship, but he did trust the man’s healing skills.

“Would you stand bloody still?” Anders snapped at him. “You’re distracting. Stay still or get out.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes, his temper rising instinctively at Anders’s tone, but he forced himself to comply. If standing still helped Anders to help Hawke, then he would do it. He would do anything.

Merrill eventually returned with an armful of bottles from Hawke’s medicine cabinet, and Varric came back with the basin and the cloths, and Anders continued to tend to her, giving calm and quiet directions to Merrill and Varric as needed. Aveline, Sebastian, and Isabela stood at the sides of the room, waiting and watching as Anders worked. Orana drifted in and out, bringing extra chairs and glasses of water as they all settled into their sickbed vigil.

Finally Anders sat back on his heels with a tired but satisfied sigh. “All right,” he said. “I’ve done everything I can for tonight. The best thing for her now is rest, so I’d suggest you all go home.”

“Are you staying?” Merrill asked shrewdly.

Anders frowned. “Yes,” he said. “I have to monitor her, check on her every hour. But you should all go.”

Merrill folded her arms obstinately, and Varric chuckled. “I think you’ll be finding yourself on the losing side with that order, Blondie,” he drawled. “No one’s going anywhere.”

Anders scowled more deeply. “Well… You all need to leave this room, then,” he said severely. “Give her some space.”

There was a general grumble of protest, but eventually everyone drifted out one by one, with Bodahn’s fervent promises to set up accommodations for them in the other rooms of the mansion.

But Fenris refused to move. He remained at the foot of the bed where he’d stood for the past hour.

Anders frowned. “Go on, get out of here,” he said. “You’re not helping anyone by standing there.”

“No,” Fenris said simply.

Anders gave him a hard look, but Fenris calmly returned his stare. “I am not leaving,” Fenris said quietly. He shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other before speaking again. “You should get some rest. You… worked hard tonight.” He broke off and swallowed hard. This was the closest he could get to expressing his appreciation for Anders, and he hoped that the mage would accept it for what it was worth. “I can rouse you if she seems unwell. But you deserve the rest.”

Anders stared at him for a moment longer. “Fine,” he finally said, then rose to his feet. “If she spikes a fever, or stops breathing, or does anything at all except for sleep peacefully or wake up peacefully, then you fetch me immediately. Do you understand?”

Fenris nodded, and Anders gave him one last suspicious look before heading for the door.

“Thank you,” Fenris said, to his own surprise.

Anders frowned. “I’m not here for you,” he retorted, but with a little less heat than usual. Then he left the room.

Fenris returned his gaze to Hawke’s sleeping form. She looked peaceful and comfortable now, less like an unconscious invalid and more like her usual sleeping self. For the first time in hours, Fenris felt his muscles starting to relax.

Slowly and cautiously, he approached the bed and pulled up a chair, then sat close to her head. He’d been in this exact position a mere week ago, sitting at Hawke’s side after her mother had died. How strange and terrible for them to be here again so soon, and under such dire circumstances.

He gazed at her tenderly. Anders and Merrill had removed her armour and cleaned her face and neck of the majority of the night’s dirt and sweat, but her long dark hair was in disarray, a mass of sweat-dampened waves that smelled of acrid smoke. As Fenris studied her, his eyes tracing the delicate lines of her cheekbones and her lips, he realized he wasn’t alone.

He turned toward the door and found Isabela standing there, looking deeply uncomfortable.

She caught his eye, and they stared at each other in silence for a moment.

“Would you really have given me over to the Qunari?” she asked suddenly. Her tone was belligerent, but she was holding herself very still, like a rat in a cage.

Fenris frowned. “No.” He turned his eyes back to Hawke.

“But you said… that thing you said,” Isabela muttered.

“I don’t think you should have gone with the Qunari,” Fenris said. “But maybe you should act with some forethought on occasion.”

Isabela scoffed and took one step into the room. “Oh, like you should be giving advice.”

Fenris tore his eyes away from Hawke to scowl at her. “What are you on about?”

“Fenris, look at you!” Isabela exclaimed. She waved an exasperated hand at Hawke’s sleeping form. “You’re in love with Hawke,” she said bluntly. “Everyone knows it. You’re the only one who won’t admit it. Just do something about it already, won’t you? It was kind of cute two years ago. It’s not anymore.”

He didn’t bother to reply, because she was right. Silence settled over the room again as he watched the comforting rise and fall of Hawke’s ribcage.

After a long, quiet moment, he spoke. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

He raised his eyes to Isabela’s face, and she glared at him. “Don’t look at me like that,” she snapped. “I know you almost left after you dumped her.”

Fenris flinched at her scathing words, then calmly replied. “I was not judging you. I was just… asking.”

Isabela looked at him for a long moment, the defensiveness melting from her expression until she dropped her gaze to her fidgeting hands. “You’ll look after her, won’t you?” she muttered.

Fenris nodded. “I will be here,” he said. There was nowhere else he could imagine being than by Hawke’s side. It was a truth he’d been fighting for years, but the possibility of losing the chance - of losing her...

Fenris was a slow learner, but he’d learned this much: his life would mean nothing without Hawke in it.

Isabela lifted her eyes back to his face. Then she gave him a small smile. “I won’t be gone forever,” she said. “Just until this all… you know… blows over.”

Fenris nodded a silent acknowledgement. Isabela took a tentative step closer, then leaned over and pecked him on the cheek. “You two had better be fucking again by the time I come back,” she said playfully.

He studied a lingering smudge of dirt on Hawke’s cheek. Isabela was waiting for a lighthearted response, he knew, but his heart felt so damned heavy, weighed down by the night’s revelations, and he didn’t quite have it in him to dig up the expected reply.

Isabela sighed. “Oh, Fenris. Someday you’ll get that pretty head out of your ass and then you’ll be happy, I’m sure of it.” She shifted, then made her awkward way toward the door. “I’ll… I’ll see you, all right?”

“Safe travels, Isabela,” he replied. Then he smirked. “I hope you do not die.”

She scoffed at his use of the Qunari farewell, then threw one last regretful look at Hawke’s slumbering body before leaving the room.

Fenris returned his attention to Hawke. Her hair really was a mess, and it was sure to get even more tangled if she moved around in her sleep.

He wanted to stroke it. Run his fingers through the dark mass of waves and rinse it clean of the sweat and smell of battle.

No, that was the least of what he wanted. What he really wanted was the reassurance of her heated and hedonistic body in his arms. He wanted the privilege of crawling into this bed and curling around her like he had when her mother had died, when his unconscious body had deigned so boldly to hold her when they’d both been asleep.

Fenris dragged his fingers through his own sweat-matted hair. Did he dare to admit, finally, that he wanted something? To tempt the cruelty of his life into taking something more away from him?

But this felt like so much more than wanting. This - her, the woman in this bed, Rynne Hawke - she was what he needed. He needed her as badly as he needed to be free of Danarius. Hawke had torn a hole in the fabric of his life, patching the tear with levity and humour and trust, and worst of all, with hope - with blasted, poisonous, fucking hope.

The realization was blinding: bright and bruising, brilliant and difficult to look at directly. Acknowledging that he loved Hawke - he, Fenris, loved someone: it was like tearing away a blindfold he’d always worn, like breaking the shackles he’d always maintained around his heart. It was another kind of freedom: freedom to want her, to need her, to… to feel something other than anger and hate and resentment.

But Fenris had never been particularly good at making the most of the freedom he already had. He’d run away from Danarius only to trap himself in the limbo of the present. For years he’d sat in a precarious kind of balance, with Hawke on one shoulder and his unknown past on the other. He’d refused to take any risks, refused to tip the uncomfortable but familiar balance of his stagnant life by launching himself wholeheartedly into either his past or his future, and thus he’d simply… stood still.

For the second time in his life, Fenris was free. And for the second time in his life, he didn’t quite know what to do with this freedom.

Suddenly Hawke inhaled, a deep draw of breath through her nose, and Fenris snapped out of his roiling reverie to look at her. Her eyelids were fluttering, and as he watched, breathless with anticipation, she lifted one limp hand and rubbed her cheek.

Finally she opened her eyes, her gaze roving slowly over the canopy of the bed as she slowly came awake. Then she turned her head and met his gaze.

She blinked at him with those beloved bronze eyes, then smiled slowly. “Fancy seeing you here. Yet again.”

She was cheeky as always, with a smile on her face as always, and Fenris thought his heart might thump clean out of his chest if it beat any harder.

He released an unsteady breath. “I was thinking the same thing,” he said. “You are devastatingly unlucky.”

She chuckled tiredly, then stretched her arms. “Well, I don’t know about that. I’m alive, aren’t I?”

It was true. She was alive, and Fenris had never been more vehemently grateful for Anders’s healing abilities than he was tonight.

Almost as though she’d heard his thoughts, she suddenly lifted her head and looked toward the door. “Was Anders here? He must’ve looked after me, didn’t he? Is he still here?”

Fenris nodded. “He is. They’re all - well.” He broke off, then decided against telling her for now that Isabela was gone. “The others are sleeping here tonight,” he said carefully. Then he hesitated before going on. “Do you want Anders? Should I fetch him…?” Fenris didn’t want anyone else to interrupt this time with her, but he would if it’s what she wanted.

Hawke shook her head, then rolled onto her side to face him. “No. Let him rest. He’s probably almost as exhausted as I was. I…” She grimaced. “Damn, Fenris. I was not prepared for that fight. The bloody Arishok, for fuck’s sake?” She shook her head in wonderment, then smiled at him and tucked her hands under her cheek. “See, this is testament to how lucky I am.”

He returned her smile, his throat throbbing with a potent combination of fondness and retroactive fear and incredulity. She’d almost died multiple times tonight, and her mother had died a mere week ago, and she called herself lucky…

Of course she did. That was Hawke. Her pain was inked on her back in twisting black lines so she could maintain that beautiful smile.

Fenris swallowed hard. He had no idea it could hurt to love someone this much. “Yes, well,” he said gruffly. “Anders said no more adventures for at least a week, so your luck can have some time to recover.”

She groaned. “Bedrest? Not having to run from Lowtown to Sundermount to save everyone? What a pity. Shall I gnash my teeth and wail in despair?” She yawned deeply, covering her mouth with her hand to hide the yawn.

Fenris smirked. “Go back to sleep, Hawke. You need it.”

She smiled again. Her eyes were drifting closed already. “Bossy,” she slurred. “You can use that bossy tone with me anytime.”

He huffed with amusement, but the smile was already slipping from her face, her cheeks relaxing back into the easy rest of slumber. Moments later, she was asleep again.

Fenris quietly studied her sleeping face, that residual smear of dirt on her cheek, the tangled ropes of her hair that coiled around her head and neck. A few minutes later, when he was sure she was deeply asleep, he reached toward her.

With this thumb, he carefully wiped the dirt from her cheekbone.

He hesitated. Then, very carefully, he lifted a lock of hair away from her neck. Gently, so gently, he ran the edge of his thumb along the delicate line of her jaw, then reluctantly lifted his hand away.

Fenris had to be with her. There was no question about it. But that meant that he had to act.

There was no excuse anymore for the suspended state in which he’d lived his life. If he wanted to be with Hawke, he had to know everything about his past. He had to make sure he hadn’t left any skeletons behind - figurative or literal - that would rise up to steal his future. He had to know if he’d once had a family, if he’d once been capable of caring for someone without hurting them constantly the way he’d done to Hawke.

Fenris had to be whole and good and strong, so he could stand beside Hawke and support her the way she supported him.

And there was only one way to find out everything he needed to know.

He had to find his sister.