DA2 Fic - Lyrium and a Lover 2/3

[solanyxe]

Dragon Age 2
Title: Lyrium and a Lover 2/3, part 1 is HERE
Spoilers: The fic takes place during Act II and III, so spoilers for most of the game.
Pairing: Fenris/Hawke (female mage Hawke), friendmance
Summary: He was caught in one of the qunari riddles. Fenris' PoV through Act II and III.
Word count: ~8 000 for this part, ~19 000 in total
Rating: R
Warning: Content of sexual nature and violence, though both to a smaller extent. Some angst. My Fenris is slightly obsessed. Does that need a warning?
Other01: author's notes HERE 
Other02: Fanmix
Other03: Thanks to jayitaintso  for the initial feedback.

Happiness

Fenris extended his arms, drew her closer, and rested his head between her ribs and navel. Hawke caressed him, her fingers sliding into his hair and lifting it gently, tuft by tuft.

He closed his eyes. He was peaceful yet frantic.
His hands slid from the back of her knees up.
Determined yet nervous.
Hawke twitched slightly when he reached under her skirt and tugged the underwear down.
He didn’t look up at her face, didn’t dare to, but instead focused on his own hands and what they held.
Shameless yet timid.

She leaned on his shoulder with one hand, trying to pull her underwear away. Her hair tickled Fenris’ face and engulfed him with its fragrance. She removed her boots as well.

His blood stirred, and without thought or reason, Fenris began to undo the corset that constrained her breasts. He had lunged at it like an animal, Fenris was aware of that, but he didn’t care.

The clasp that held it gave in quickly, and he touched her pale skin, tracing her curves. Then his fingers sunk into the soft flesh and squeezed. Fenris placed his lips to her red nipples, kissed them, and Hawke’s fingers reached into his hair again to press his face closer.

He looked at her. Her head was tilted to one side, her eyes narrow from pleasure. Red cheeked and panting lightly, she smiled to him. Fenris dragged her near, so she was sitting atop him just the way she had before.

What was it? The power he felt in his veins, the joy, and the admiration, what were they? Was this what everyone felt when lying with a lover? He was giddy with Hawke’s closeness, unable to think, and he let go of what he was supposed to do or not to do. His body didn’t care for such questions.
His hands and mouth moved with their own purpose.

Hawke did not oppose when he buried his face into her bosom and swept his tongue over her nipples.
Fenris heard his own mouth make hungry, wet noises against her skin.
She embraced him and started rocking back and forward. First gently and almost imperceptibly, and then her swings came with greater fury each time she grazed with her body over the swelling in his breeches.
She touched his face and lifted it to kiss him. Fenris closed his eyes and clasped his arms around her waist.
When she pulled back from his mouth, Fenris looked at her as if someone had roused him from a dream. The contours of her face were soft, the blue of her eyes tempered slightly by the twilight, and he let out a sigh.

Hawke rose to strip herself of the skirt. Quickly, Fenris pulled his breeches and underclothes down. All garments ended on the floor together.

She bade him to lie down, and he did so, asking himself if perhaps he wasn’t still at the old mansion only imagining this.
Hawke’s flesh seemed real. Was real.
She traced his white lyrium veins with her lips. From his neck to his nipples and lower, Fenris could feel the wet and subtle marks of her tongue. It felt as though she were branding his markings again, as if the scorched flesh were made anew, soft and vulnerable and powerless.

‘I thought it would show somehow.’ The sentence Hawke had said kept reappearing in his mind. Hawke’s magic. Fenris shivered and breathed in more deeply. As much as the prospect was appalling, it roused him, filled him with anticipation.

Fenris hadn’t seen Hawke use electricity yet, and still he thought he could feel the subtle titillation of her magic on his scars. It tickled and tingled, making Fenris whimper and arch against her. Yet when he looked down, there was no magic. Only Hawke’s mouth was drifting over his skin, leaving pins and needles in his limbs as it moved. Fenris gritted his teeth, commanding his mouth to remain shut and his hands not to force themselves upon her body yet.

He gulped down. Hawke sat on him astride again, and he crept with his fingers up her knees and thighs. She moved against him slowly, in deliberate motions, pressing onto him and taking him in a bit more with every sway she made. She was warm. Her movements were like a current that pulled him in, twisted him into pleasure, and left him adrift, again and again. Fenris closed his eyes to bask in this new sensation, and then he joined her rhythm.

“Wait.” Hawke pushed him down with a hand. After staying unmoving in the same position for several moments, she scrambled down and sat next to him. “I never thought this would really happen. I mean you, that you would really come to me…”

Fenris couldn’t follow what was going on. What was she trying to say? Did Hawke want him to continue or stop? He lifted his back, waiting and wondering if perhaps this had been a mistake.

“I know we are sometimes in disagreement, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care for you.” Hawke said. “Because I do care for you, Fenris.” She planted a small kiss on his lips “More than is good for me, according to… some people.”

Fenris stared at her, wanting to say the same. He touched her cheek with his fingertips, feeling as if the moment would fall apart and disappear, taking Hawke and everything with it, if he only tried to hold onto it more firmly. He didn’t want to wake in Danarius’ mansion or even in Tevinter, amidst pain and futile promises of revenge. Not tonight.

“I… know,” Fenris said. If there was one person he trusted, that was Hawke. The one person he didn’t wish to part from. A mage, what irony.
And he didn’t need to guess who these ‘some people’ were.

Hawke smiled and leaped back into his arms, and the warm touch of her body swallowed him up. He kissed her lips, her cheeks, and her throat, leaning onto her, until Hawke clasped her hands around his neck and yielded under his weight.

He was cautious at first, or rather unsure. He entered Hawke slowly, watching for any sign that what he was doing was wrong or unpleasant, but Hawke merely played with her fingers on his scars, as if the lyrium markings were something beautiful. Her moans were growing louder, and her little pushes became more frequent and impatient.
Soon he forgot about wariness or discretion.
Hawke was tilting her head from left to right and pulling him closer with her hands. The noises she made only urged him to thrust deeper, with a more savage pace. Fenris was losing himself in every small detail - how Hawke’s arms were grasping him, the way her breasts were moving in the dimness of the room, how her eyes were fixed upon him. The mingling scents of their sweat and the way Hawke’s mouth moved with soft cries as he pushed in. It submerged his senses. His voice came out low, cut into strained gasps without any control. He needed more. Hawke’s mouth to open more, her voice to scream louder, her entire body to become his.

There was nothing to tether him. Nothing to restrain him; all the paths were unforbidden.
Fenris thrust deeper, and Hawke moaned and bit into his shoulder.
His body was his own. He was free to give and take.
Hawke writhed under him, let go of his shoulder, and drove her fingers into the skin on his back. Her breathes echoed loudly in his ear, drowning his own.
She wrapped her lips around his once, for a brief moment, and then her mouth spread open to release a cry. Her whole body shuddered, her head fell on the pillow, and her eyes opened again only after a while.

Almost as if it were a wave that passed from her to him, Fenris could sense his muscles clench. The tension amassed in his body like a keen delight, choking his breath out, and sending him into spasms at the release.

Hawke touched his cheek as he closed his eyes. Something inside him cracked. He howled.

---

Memories

Loud thumps were resounding through his head and spreading into his arms and legs. Between the echoes of his heart, voices and visions were breaking through.

The patch of dirt in the courtyard where they played, he and… Varania. The man in pretty silken robes kicked him then without any reason.

Fenris crept down, toward the edge of the bed.

“What is it?” Hawke said.

A young elven woman with red hair… his sister… was looking at him with worried eyes.
“Leto, mother can’t go on like this. She cannot rest, and the illness getting worse. And if they’ll notice, they’ll kill her before the illness takes her.”

“Then I’ll find a way to set her free. I’ll set you both free, mother and you.”

Mother?
Coarse linen clothes and the smell of food and soot from the kitchen. There were flashes of warm embraces, a face furrowed with thousand worries, tears.
Tears.

“Fenris, are you all right?” Someone tried to touch him.
He pushed the hand away, made his lyrium markings flash.

“Don’t cry, Leto.”

His father, a corpse without a grave, was thrown into the waves of the Boeric Ocean. A boy was promising revenge each time he looked at the sea.
Varania made stitches on Master’s robes at nights, between one chore and the other, even if she could have been a magister. She had power enough, but nobody trained slaves. Slaves’ magic was there to be oppressed and used. If they had been free…

Mother coughed at night.

Fenris cowered, clasped his shoulders, and rocked back and forward.

“Does it hurt? Fenris?”

Hawke? Was that Hawke?
He couldn’t see. Other faces begun to blaze in front of him.

Danarius’ face.
“You are stronger than your appearance lets on. Perhaps you will yet survive.”

“Keep your word, and I don’t mind dying. Anything is better than living like this.”

“You’re too cocky for a slave, yet even that trait will serve me well. You’re savage like a little wolf, but you’ll learn to bite at my command. The boon? Yes, of course. I’ll do as promised.”

“Stop,” Fenris said, “Stop.”

“Fenris?”
He turned to the voice and saw her. Hawke. She was sitting next to him, naked, worried, and before he knew, Fenris had already fallen into her arms.

While Hawke was stroking his hair, he placed his head on her shoulder and wound his arms around her.

“It’s all right,” she whispered. “It’s all right. You’re safe here.”

Her body was warm, the touch soothing, and Fenris could feel how her heartbeats followed the rhythm of her breathing in the otherwise quiet room.

His own breaths were settling into a calmer pace, and though his head was heavy with all the memories igniting inside, at the same time Fenris felt light. As light as a spirit. There was nothing of this world to chain him or hold him down. Not his past and even less his present. He couldn’t see why he had been afraid before.

With his body still twined with Hawke’s, Fenris let himself slump onto the mattress.

“We can take this slowly,” Hawke said into his ear and kissed its point. “I’m sorry, I was too impatient.” Her kisses continued in a trail on his cheek, and Fenris pulled her closer and planted a kiss on her hair in response.

She smiled, and even in the twilight of the room, her eyes retained the vibrant color, clear and blue like lyrium in a flask.

“I won’t let anything hurt you from now on,” she said.

He raised his face barely enough to meet her lips. With his tongue, he scraped around her mouth to savor her taste once more, and then he laid his head back down. Except for the whispery sound of breathing and the rustling of sheets under them when they shifted, the room was at lull.

“I’m here. It’s all right.” Hawke’s whisper was tender, gliding across his entire being like a caress.

Her skin smelled sweetly of lyrium and perspiration, and Fenris closed his eyes.
He had heard of templars and their addiction to lyrium. He wondered if it was possible that his markings made him prone to a similar obsession, or if that was only a pretext to absolve his desire. It didn’t matter anymore, for she had granted him a finer absolution.

His rage was broken; it had poured away and left him clean despite his scars. Then it had changed its course and flew backwards, back into him to replenish his veins with devotion. Perhaps it had been yearning under the guise of hate all along.

“It’s all right,” Hawke murmured again.

Fenris breathed in through his nose, savoring the closeness of her skin. The past was as immutable as his markings, but he could draw power from both. He promised to himself to find out what had happened to his mother and sister, but now he needed rest. When Hawke stayed this close, the weight of other matters dripped away. Fenris was free.
Sleep came silently, diluting his senses till there was nothing.

---

Decisions

The bed wasn’t his. It took Fenris a few moments to remember where he was. Hawke was sleeping beside him; she must have woken up before him and lain back, for she was wearing her undergarments now. Fenris twitched in shame, as he realized that she must have cleaned him after he had fallen asleep. Careful not to wake her up, he caressed her dark hair.
Hawke’s other clothes were still scattered on the floor, entangled with his. Fenris skulked out of the bed to pick his own.

At every small noise and clack of his armor, he glanced back at her.

The recollection of his life before the lyrium ritual was waning already, thinned by his everyday gestures. He was losing himself. Maybe it was better to forget - his faults would be erased as well.
Or was there something to hold on to?

Fenris sat at the brink of the bed. Hawke was sleeping peacefully, and Fenris wanted to stroke her face again, but he knew he couldn’t. He took the red sash from his pouch and took it to his mouth whilst looking at her.
It was not enough.

He jumped to his feet and began searching. Something to hold onto, something stronger than his guilt and cowardice. He rummaged through the papers on the desk, the drawers, and the closet, feeling like his sanity was pinned to that one thing he wasn’t able to find.

With trembling fingers, Fenris picked Hawke’s clothes from the floor and pressed them to his face. He breathed in and quickly unfastened a ribbon.
The memories were dying like sparks, glowing brightly one last time, and then there was only darkness. A nothing saturated with pale apparitions of hope and pain that Fenris didn’t know if to chase or let go entirely. If it only stopped…

He sobbed without sound or tears.

He didn’t know what to do.
To go or to stay, to speak or keep silent. He just wished for it to end. End already.

He covered his eyes and waited. After some time, perhaps minutes, perhaps hours, Fenris felt calmer. In the fireside, the flames were going out, and he grabbed a few logs to throw in.

The flames rose, imprinting bright stains in his eyes, and the last images faded away. He was bereft. Emptiness was like a weight that was trying to drag Fenris down to his knees again.

There he stood, stripped of his past again and unable to catch but a glimpse, no matter how he struggled to regain it.
Only a vague sensation of guilt was searing him from inside. Guilt and agitation.

He needed them. Fenris wanted back his name, his memories, and his solution to the nameless riddle.

Was this going to happen each time? Each time Hawke would touch him, he’d remember and then forget?

It must have been connected to his markings and the fact that Hawke was a mage. It must have been. Part of him believed it wasn’t true, but the conviction grew regardless.

Magic spoiled everything. If Hawke weren’t a mage, this would be easy; Fenris could stay.
But he was cursed. Magic had taken too much from him and was still demanding more. His affection.

He took Hawke’s ribbon to bind it to his wrist with the red sash. The sash was a bit too short, however; it was falling from his clawed fingers again and again, and Fenris cursed.

Was it so wrong to seek a little happiness? Was it really impossible for him? Why did it always end like this?
In that moment Fenris realized that he had already made his decision. He had chosen to end it. Pain squeezed his chest.
He bound the sash with a knot.

From a drawer, Fenris took the Hawke emblem he had seen before, and fastened it to his belt. It occurred to him that Hawke probably didn’t even know that all this time, he had been wearing the belt she had given him. Yet he had been wearing it for that reason alone.
And this emblem, was it for him to know or for her? Who would he wear it for? Did it matter in the end?

Fenris looked at the ribbons on his wrist. Although he couldn’t offer anything else, his hands and his life were still Hawke’s to use as she might.

That had to be enough.

He waited by the fireplace, measuring the words to use and watching Hawke sleep.

Only now Fenris noticed that his feet had left dirty stains on the white sheets on the bed.

He belonged neither in this tidy house nor in the life that it offered. Sucking his lower lip in, Fenris thought that indeed, the place that most suited him was that wreck of a house he lived in. At least what seemed so disgraceful here passed completely unnoticed among the ruins there.
Hawke looked peaceful while asleep, beautiful, and that only made his guilt rankle more. He had no right to be here.
It was not her fault in any way, but he felt as if he were again an uncultivated slave in a foreign house. Perhaps that was because he was in truth such; uncivilized and in a house that was not his.

Fenris turned and stared into the bright flames in the fireplace.

At least he was no longer a slave, as little as that consoled him now.

Hawke woke up after a while.
She thought it was the pain, that his markings had hurt. That was not the truth. Fenris tried to explain, but his explanation sounded weak and laughable. He was a coward. Hawke must have thought so too. It was all over her face, and Fenris couldn’t bear to watch. He had to leave.

---

Of Wine and Dreams

If the way to Hawke had seemed short, on the way back the streets were winding without end, and each detail hammered at Fenris’ senses. The stone under his bare feet gave him chills with every step, while the howling of the dogs faraway made him uneasy. The night air was sharp in his throat. Above, the colorless moon was peering down from the clouds like a malicious eye, and Fenris looked back at every turn, expecting something dark to follow.

Fenris didn’t try to avoid the bandits that plagued the town at night. He marched straight into them, and if they didn’t let him through, their corpses did soon afterwards.

Getting to the mansion was a relief, if only a momentary one.

The Agreggio had been long gone, so the wine he drank now was less agreeable to the palate, but it equally dulled the mind.
In his drunken state at the brink of sleep, Danarius was promising him the proper punishment because Fenris had refused to kill at command.
But how could Fenris do it? It was only a child, of his own race, and frightened. From the pool of blood, the little boy was pleading to him with his white lips and empty, unmoving eyes. At that point Fenris wasn’t sure if he still had to kill him, or since the boy was dead already, he didn’t have to do it. Or perhaps was he still alive? Did corpses speak? How would he know?
Fenris knew only he’d still be punished for opposing Danarius’ orders. Although Fenris wanted to move, either to run away from Danarius or toward him to slaughter the ‘Master,’ he was grounded to the spot. The magisters at the banquet were laughing at him, and he was promising to kill all, but then Hawke came and held him closely in her embrace. “It’s all right,” she said, kissing him. “You’re safe now.”

Fenris closed his eyes, giving into the touch, and everything else disappeared, at least until someone said, “That’s no place for a slave.”
Danarius’ apprentice took his meal and emptied it above the chamber pot, though Fenris hadn’t eaten for days.
“If you wish to eat, you can do it here,” Hadriana said. “From here. This is what animals like you do, isn’t it?”

The memories were blending with dreams and countless fears inside Fenris’ mind. The wine made his head feel heavy and strange, but without it he felt even worse.

Thus a day went by, or maybe it was already two or three. Fenris couldn’t tell. Hawke didn’t call for him, and that’s probably what he deserved after the way he had left. It made things easier if she hated him.

Only when Fenris closed his eyes, Hawke was there sometimes. He could still will her into existence. There, by his bed she was taking off her clothes and smiling. She disappeared each time, driven away by other images, echoes of memories Fenris knew were his, but couldn’t recall the moment they passed.

Then he woke in the middle of the night, gasping in pain. Too late he realized. Magic was shaking his body with convulsions.

Hadriana pulled him by the hair. “Did you think I wouldn’t find you? You know what’s going to happen now. It doesn't matter where you hide.”

It stank of lyrium and that disgusting smell coming from her hands and body, like something singed, something that not even her costly perfume could hide.

“You should be thankful you can help a future magister practice her magic,” Hadriana said. “At least your kind is useful for something. Or do you think your markings make you so special? Don’t let it go to your head.” Her fist pulled his head back and forward with violent jerks.

Fenris cursed and tried to move.

“Will you squirm again?” She loosened the grip on purpose, and Fenris froze, reliving again what would happen if he dared fight back.

There would be only more pain for disobedience. It didn’t matter that his master was Danarius and not Hadriana, he was at her mercy all the same.

“So you finally got it into your head how to take orders?” She released him, and he could guess what was coming next.

Although Fenris’ knew better than to use his powers against her, not after the torture Danarius had put him through the last time, his hands went up instinctively to protect his face.

“No? You still don’t know?” Hadriana laughed. How he hated that shrilly sound.
“Of course, animals like you don’t have the brain to understand,” she said.

As she hit him on the forehead, electricity spread from her palm. She pulled Fenris by the hair again. He couldn’t even scream from the pain. His skull would crack, he thought his skull would crack. The room around him shook and split into bright blotches in front of his eyes.

Fenris woke again in the empty mansion. He was covered in sweat, his heart was hammering inside his chest. Hadriana was dead. He killed her with his own hands. She was dead. She was dead. It had been only a dream.
Fenris reached for another bottle. The wine burned in his throat, and he drank until he finally found slumber without dreams.

---

Distance

“I see your small pleasures are growing in quantity.”

Awoken by the voice, Fenris shot up. His right hand extended forward, ready to kill with lyrium, but he managed to stop in time.

Hawke stood in front of him with two empty bottles in her hands. She barely flinched. For a moment Fenris thought he was still dreaming.

“It’s you.” He lowered his hand and relaxed.

Hawke put the bottles down. “Were you expecting anyone else?”

Still lightheaded, Fenris rubbed his eyes. Pain clasped him like a band tied too tightly around his head, and something was grating at his stomach.

“Why are you here?” His voice sounded petulant and resentful even to his ears. It was not how he intended to address her.

Hawke sat on his bed, and Fenris could hear every rustle of her robe. He could hear her every breath.

“I’ve been asked to perform several errands,” she said, “and I would appreciate if you could come with me.”

Fenris looked down at the robe around her knees. “If you need me, I shall come.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d still agree to that.” Hawke’s breathing instantly became deeper, relaxed, and colored with smiles.

“I don’t see why anything should be different,” Fenris said. “So far I’ve always come whenever you’ve called.” When he received no reply, he added, “Just tell me your two mages won’t be tagging along. Sometimes I think you’re bringing them just to torture me.” He meant it as a joke, as far as one could joke about such things, but it came out as gruff.
He ventured a look into her eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m being like this.”

They both knew why, however.

“They will tag along,” Hawke said. “And surprisingly, you’re the last to complain about it. Anders has already said that he never imagined he’d stroll about with a blood mage and a stubborn elf who hates mages with more passion than the templars.” She waved her hand as if it were something funny. “Anders said that between you and Merrill, one would be more than enough to deal with.”

“I tend to agree with that,” Fenris murmured.
He didn’t say that in his opinion one among all three would be enough, and the other two were not needed. After all, deciding who would accompany her was Hawke’s call, not his. “I’m not any fonder of that mage than he is of me. If he decides to stop following one day, I will not be sorry.”

Hawke went on. “And Merrill said you were both mean to her, even though her magic is part of old Dalish knowledge that has been passed down for generations from Keeper to Keeper.”

“Not everything is meant to be preserved,” said Fenris, making Hawke sigh.

“I think you three could learn to be more acceptant of each other,” she said. “And you, Fenris, you have to see that not all mages are the same. There are as many personalities as there are mages. You can’t judge all by the actions of few.”

“I hope you didn’t come here to lecture me.” Fenris closed his fist, and his gauntlet clacked. “You want me to be more acceptant of mages, regardless of what they did to me, but at the same time you pit me with such a fine company. An abomination and a blood mage. Do you expect my opinion to change?”

“Perhaps. And I didn’t come to lecture you.” Hawke remained silent for a while, gnawing on her lower lip. She took an empty bottle in her hands. “I need it because of myself, actually. The three of you.” She rotated the bottle and looked at her reflection on the dark surface. “As you know, I haven’t been raised in a Circle. I don’t know how that must feel, to be locked in a tower without any sort of freedom, but it’s my duty to know. My father used to tell me stories about his time in the Circle, but that’s not enough. I must know what that oppression feels like.”

She had Anders in her mind, Fenris could tell, and although he didn’t feel like contradicting Hawke about mages and the Circles right now, he wished she would stop.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Hawke whispered, “but I need something… someone to remind me at any time why a mage would ever choose blood magic.” She seemed absorbed in whatever she was seeing in that empty bottle. “Back in Lothering, I’ve heard only scary stories about blood magic and demons from my father. Abominations, blood, murders-stories to frighten the children, but that’s why I’ve never considered using it. As a child I was afraid of it, even terrified. Every night before going to sleep, I used to pray to the Maker that no demon would find me in the Fade. I’m not even sure if I believe in the Maker, but ever since we’ve come to Kirkwall, I’ve began to feel the same way. I even prayed once or twice.” A smile curved her lips, but she still didn’t lift her eyes. “I’ve never told this to anyone. Bethany and Carver always thought I was brave. Me, brave. I still can’t sleep at night sometimes. It’s so… suffocating here. Everywhere in Kirkwall.” She polished a smear on the bottle with one finger and wiped away the signs of her fingertips. “So I need to see what blood magic really looks like. If you look at Merrill, it seems so harmless. It’s nothing like the abominations I’ve heard of, but I was told the beginning is always like that. I need a reminder that giving in is easy and that one can never be too cautious.”

“At least you know that. There’s nothing harmless about mages. Give them all the freedom they want, and they’ll use demons to take if away from others in return,” Fenris said.

He heard Hawke huff, and he regretted his words, as true as they were. Maybe they weren’t true for Hawke, but they were for most mages he had met.
Now if this conversation ended this instant, before it got any further, Fenris would be happier for it.

There was something in Kirkwall that set him on edge too. Too many mages on the loose, too much madness. The air itself was heavy.
Despite that, Fenris felt safer when he was with Hawke than when he was alone. He could not say the same for her companions, but for Hawke, he could.
Just the smell of her or the sound of her voice were enough to remind him how much he needed her, how much he had missed her. If he could simply hold onto Hawke’s presence now without smearing it with thoughts or words… But that could not be.

“Still I don’t see why you have to drag that blood mage everywhere with you,” said Fenris. “It’s a temptation more than a warning.”

“Not to me,” said Hawke and went silent for a bit again.
“And lastly,” she said, looking Fenris straight in the eyes, “if the worst comes to pass, I need to…” Her lips twitched in a smile. “At least I’ll know you’ll have the pleasure to strike me down.”

It chilled Fenris like ice on bare skin. “It would bring me no pleasure to strike you down.”

He wasn’t even sure if he could. If she made a blood pact with a demon, what could he do? Could he ever draw his weapon against Hawke?
The realization came with agony, a sensation of helplessness that tied his body. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t do it.

If this very instant Hawke told him, ‘These blood mages, help me protect them!’ or if she ordered him to fight all the templars in Kirkwall or even whole Thedas, Fenris didn’t know if he could defy her.
He’d question her judgment, but he’d probably do as she would bid him. Whatever she asked of him.

“Be careful what you ask of me,” he said in a low voice.

“Because you might listen?” said Hawke, the expression on her face bitter.

“Yes,” he said. Not in the way she thought, though. He couldn’t tell her, ‘Mind what you ask of me, because I can’t say no to you. I’d rather perish by your side than lose you.’

She sighed. “I’m sure you’d live through it.”

He wasn’t.

Hawke’s gaze lowered to Fenris’ flanks. It rested on the emblem that he had fastened to his belt, and Fenris began to feel uncomfortable.

“About what happened the other night…” she said.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Fenris got up and so did Hawke.

“All right, I understand,” she said. “We can talk about it later on.”

“No,” he swung his hand as if to keep her away. He had to keep her away. “You don’t understand. I don’t wish to talk about it.” His voice rose with each word. “Not now, not later, not ever.”

She stood there benumbed, and Fenris felt like a fool. Inside he was breaking again, trapped under the pressure of things far greater than himself. She wasn’t supposed to be this way; Hawke wasn’t supposed to hurt because of him. If he only hadn’t sought her out that night…

Fenris stepped to the door, furious at himself for being a brittle and fragile thing in front of her, and at Hawke for having such power over him. At Hawke for being...whatever she was.

“Where do we need to go this time?” he said.

“Alienage.” Her voice was weak.

“Then we better go.” He moved away from her.

There, it was done.
If there had been any hope that things might have ended differently, it was lost. Not that it could have ended any differently.

---

Gambles Lost

From that day on, it was hard to tell which was worse, the nights when in an empty bed Fenris pretended he had her, or the days, where he could see Hawke, even smell her when she walked against the wind, but could never touch her.
It was for the best to let her be, but it didn’t feel that way.

He didn’t know what to do with himself anymore. The mercenary jobs he took occasionally, when Hawke didn’t need his help, were enough to occupy his hands. Fenris needed something to occupy his mind too, however.

With time his visits to the Hanged Man became more frequent.
Playing cards with Varric and Isabela, usually without Hawke, proved a good distraction, though Fenris lost more money than gained. Surprisingly it helped to lighten his mood, at least until he met Hawke again.

Across the table, Isabela raked a handful of coins to herself. “Well, well, looks like Fortune is on my side tonight as well.”

“Enough for me,” Varric threw the last card away. “I know when I’m outmatched. I’ll find out one day how it is that you cheat. It’s none of the tricks I know.”

Isabela grinned. “You’re welcome to keep trying. And what about you, sweetheart, do you want to go another round?”

Fenris shook his head. “I don’t have any money left.”

“You could put on stake something more interesting, if you wish,” Isabela said, lowering her body over the table and making her bosom more visible. “I’m willing to make other arrangements for you.”

Fenris had contemplated taking on Isabela’s immodest advances more than once, to fight fire with fire, but something had always stopped him.

“Perhaps another time,” he said.

“Another time? As you wish.” She leaned back in the chair, stretching herself. “I’m not about to force anyone.” Then she supported her chin with a hand and looked at Fenris. “You never told us what happened. I thought you were all dewy-eyed for Hawke.”

Fenris got up from his chair. “That’s none of your concern, and I was not dewy-eyed.”

“I’m just asking. Pity though, it would make such a smoldering little story.”

Varric placed a hand over his forehead. “The Maker and all the Ancestors save us from your little stories.”

“What?” said Isabela. “A slave tortured by mages eventually falls in love with a mage. Just imagine the sparks. I’ve even started writing the first chapter, and I guess I’ll have to scrap it now.”

“That would be former slave. I’m not a slave anymore, least of all to a mage,” said Fenris trough his teeth. “And as I said, it doesn’t concern you.”

“Ah, touchy, are we?” Isabela made a knowing smile. “At least with all that anger, I bet the sex would be passionate as well.” She grabbed the nearest tankard, gulped down all the beer, and wiped her mouth. “Don’t dwell too much on it, sweetheart, some things are just not meant to last.”

If that was meant to console Fenris, it didn’t help.

Varric approached Fenris later on, when Isabela moved upstairs with other patrons.

“Listen, about Hawke…” Varric began, but quickly lifted his hands since Fenris scowled. “I know, Elf, I know, it’s none of my concerns. But whatever it is, maybe it would be better for you to sort it out with Hawke first. For Hawke, if not for yourself. Friendly advice. ”

Fenris sneered. “And here I thought you were just a funny dwarf. Now you’re giving friendly advice too? You must be worth your weight in gold, as little as that nets for a dwarf.”

“What can I say? I’m a dwarf with many talents, just ask Bianca. And you look like you need a friendly advice right now.”

“I have sorted it out with Hawke,” Fenris said in a lower voice, although at that point he had no idea if it was true. Everything was too confusing. One thing he had learned, though. Opportunities were like coin. Once they were lost, they were lost forever, and no amount of words or ‘sorting’ could change that. “I… thank you for the advice.”

“You’re welcome, El... Fenris.”

---

Prayer

In the end Fenris tried praying too.
During slavery, Fenris had often besought the Maker for help, though to little avail.
He wasn’t sure what he had hoped to find in the Chantry now, but he came to the conclusion that wishing to believe was not the same as believing. If the Maker indeed listened to Fenris’ pleas, he didn’t answer or offer any solution this time either.

Perhaps there was no solution. Hawke was a mage, bent on helping mages, and Fenris… was the opposite.

Hawke wanted him to see how each mage was different, and that he did see, but the more mages Fenris encountered, the more he was becoming convinced that the consequences of their actions were the same in most cases.

Hawke was the one who refused to see.

The aftermath of magic was nothing less than Fenris had expected in the case of Hawke’s mother, for sure. Killed by a blood mage and transformed into a monster.

‘If only I weren’t right about mages.’ That’s what he thought when Hawke’s shoulders shook above her mother’s corpse. ‘Would that I had been wrong, at least this time.’
Had the necromancer not been dead by Hawke’s hand already, he’d kill him again. And again.

If only more people had realized that mages needed to be locked and controlled, such things would never have happened.
‘You would have never met Hawke if more people had realized that mages needed to be locked and controlled,’ something whispered inside him. Before Fenris even knew, his mind began making excuses as to why Hawke was different and that didn’t apply to her.

After her mother’s burial, Fenris locked himself in the mansion.
For two days he had been conflicted on what to do. It was not his place to lick Hawke’s wounds, not anymore, if it had ever been. Yet doing nothing felt equally inappropriate. Fenris had nothing to say, though, and she hadn’t seemed in the mood for company when he had last seen her. On the third day he decided to visit her after all.

Hawke was sitting in her room, lost in thoughts, when he arrived. She didn’t cry, and Fenris saw only then that he hadn’t expected her to.

Instead, as Fenris sat next to her on the bed, Hawke asked of his mother, a subject Fenris was not very knowledgeable of, so that conversation ended quickly.

“I didn’t think you’d come.” Hawke smiled. “Nobody else did.”

“Perhaps they thought you preferred to be alone,” Fenris said. In truth, he didn’t know and didn’t care what Hawke’s other companions thought. If the whole lot of them disappeared, he wouldn’t mourn, but he was here to offer some comfort to Hawke, so he kept that to himself.

Instead of thanks, Hawke gave him a cold stare. “Do you really think so?”

The silence lingered.

“I let her down,” she said finally. It sounded like a sob.

“Whom? Your mother?” said Fenris.

Hawke jumped to her feet and began pacing the room. “My mother, my sister, my brother, everyone. It doesn’t matter how hard I tried.”

Fenris forced a smile to his lips. “It probably doesn’t mean much coming from someone who lives in a rundown mansion with no friends, but you can’t please everyone.”

“That was my role from the start,” she yelled. “Take care of Bethany, she’s younger. Be nice to Carver, it’s difficult for him. You’re the eldest. And from Hightown to Lowtown - do this, Hawke, do that, Hawke. I need your help, Hawke. Take care of my happiness, Hawke. Friends, strangers, everyone needs something. You’re a true friend, Hawke.” She laughed, but a tear rolled halfway down her cheek. “But when it comes to me, nobody cares. I’m doing all I can, and I still can’t keep anyone. I can’t keep anyone. In the end everybody… leaves.” She rubbed her eyes. “And everyone just keeps staring at me, expecting me to solve everything, and I try, but I can’t. I can’t.” She covered her face and marched to the window. “I can’t make it right, no matter how I try. There’s always someone, always something…” her voice cracked. “And now she’s dead too.”

Fenris stood, trying to choose the right words.

“How was I supposed to know?” Hawke said. “How was I supposed to know? I don’t know even what I’m doing. I can’t take care of everything in this city forsaken by the Maker himself. Why does everyone always expect of me to have a solution? I don’t have answers, I don’t have solutions. I can’t even save my own mother.” Lips quivering, chest heaving, she looked at Fenris. “But you know that, don’t you? That I have no solutions. That’s why you left back then.”

It wasn’t even a question. Fenris didn’t know what to think. Hawke wasn’t herself. And the reason he had left was not because she hadn’t solved his problems for him. He felt both offended and guilty at the thought, but most of all, he felt unwilling to discuss it.

“You’re not making your life any easier with this,” he said. “You had a family that loved you, and friends who’ll follow you wherever you ask. I cannot claim the same. Not to mention that you have no former master ready to drag you back in chains.”

“No, only the templars. And you’re making your own life much easier by antagonizing everyone you meet, don’t you? I don’t even know what you’d do if there weren’t mages for you to hate. Really, what other excuse would you find to waste your life?” She paused and sniffed, not looking remorseful for her words in the slightest.

“Is that what you think of me?” Fenris said. Anger coiled inside him, and it hurt when it flashed briefly along his lyrium markings, hurt even more because all he wanted was for Hawke to take her words back and ask him to stay.

“But that’s all right,” Hawke said as if she hadn’t heard him. Her voice was sweet again, her gaze vacant and looking right through Fenris. “I don’t need you. Not you, not Aveline, or Varrric, I don’t need any of you.” The veins on her neck pulsed as her voice grew louder. “Why don’t you just leave me alone for once?”

She turned her back to him, and Fenris could hear her strained breathing. He was standing there, unable to move as if all strength had left him, as though he were dead inside.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Please, leave. I need some time for myself.” In his ears, Hawke’s whisper ringed louder than the screams before. “Leave.”

Fenris closed the door behind him and sat down. His legs were heavy.

“Mistress has been like that for days. You’re mistress’ friend, aren’t you?”

Startled, Fenris looked at his right. There by the wall sat an elven girl, clasping her knees close to herself. The slave… former slave Hawke had taken in. Orana, was it?

“I don’t know what to do,” Orana said. “I miss my papa too, so I understand, but this isn’t good. Mistress has refused almost all the food I made. It’s been two days now. I don’t know what to cook anymore.” Orana brought her hands to her face. “Have I done something to displease her?”

“No,” said Fenris. “This is what grief does to people.”
Involuntarily, he followed the soft tread of Hawke’s steps across the room. They were facing away. Inside the room she was weeping.

Fenris looked Orana in the eyes. “Hawke is not keeping you as a slave, is she?”
Part of him hoped Hawke did, so he could at least have one excuse to hate her. Hating was easier than being heartbroken. The first gave power, the other took it away.

Orana shook her head. “Mistress always pays. She’s so kind to me. Like her mother was. I still have everything she gave me - I keep it safe. Do you want me to show you?”

“No need,” Fenris said.

From behind him, the sound of Hawke’s wailing was becoming louder. High-pitched, torn screams were cutting into his mind. Fenris had screamed like that when they had carved the markings into his skin. And days after that.

“Mistress?” Orana looked around fearfully and knocked on the door.

The cries went on.

“Let her be,” Fenris said.
He felt betrayed. By Hawke, by his own expectations, everything. Of course, he deserved to be hated and cast aside. It had been his own choice. Hadn’t he wanted Hawke to hate him? Hadn’t he thought it would be easier that way?

So why did he still wish for Hawke to call him back? To smile at him like usually and temper his anger?

A bang came from the room, followed by another. Fenris didn’t have to see to know that Hawke was throwing down everything on her desk.

Why did he wish with all his being to open the door and… grab Hawke by the hands and shake her?
To forget that a mage’s mind was at any time an invitation for demons?
Fall on his knees in front of her and cry? Kiss her on the mouth and take her pain away somehow? Anything that would make her stop and return into herself, anything that would make her say, ‘Stay. I need you.’

The house had that recognizable scent Hawke carried, and with each breath Fenris felt a greater need to smash the door open and reach for her.
It would be wrong to do so, however. He didn’t even have the right to, not anymore.

The muffled sound of crashing furniture and the sobs were clouding his reason. Still sitting, Fenris turned around and placed one hand on the door.

“Hawke,” he whispered, not for her to hear, but because he didn’t know what else to do.
With his cheek pressed onto the door, Fenris could feel the warmth of his own breath reflected back to his lips. It stirred memories that burned like a physical presence in his flesh. The way she had leaned toward him that night, kissed him, licked the white scars below his lips…

He hit the door with his forehead once, twice. His palm closed, and the metal tips on his fingertips drew screeches and white lines on the wood. He hit his head again.

“Please, Messere,” said Orana, her eyes darting from the door to Fenris. “Don’t do this. Please.”

As if awaken from an illusion, Fenris again took notice of where he was. He leaned on his back and rubbed his forehead. Then he squeezed his hands into fists and opened them again in a nervous motion.

Why was he still here? Hawke didn’t want him here. There was nothing for him here.

Hawke’s red sash and ribbon were still bound around his wrist, like tokens of every word unsaid. Fenris stared at them, trying to remain calm, although hearing Hawke behind that closed door was making his blood rush. He could hear her whimpers almost as if he were standing right next to her. His sweaty hands twitched imperceptibly at every sob she made.

“You could live whatever life you wanted,” he said, unable to decide if it was meant for Orana or himself. “You don’t have to be here. You’re not a slave anymore.”

“I like it here,” Orana whispered. She looked more composed now that Fenris seemed to be. “And mistress is good to me. I wouldn’t know where else to go.”

“Yes,” said Fenris. “I know.” He pressed his lips on the knot where the red band was tied together, and closed his eyes for a moment.
There was nothing he could do. He got up. “She’ll come around soon. She’s Hawke,” he said before walking away.

As futile as the endeavor undoubtedly was, Fenris prayed to the Maker again that day. He did not pray for himself.

---

Yours

In another two days Hawke was her usual self. Composed, reasonable, and ready to listen to everyone’s plight - the perfect image that people would feel prone to follow and revere.

“I’m sorry about the other day,” she whispered, pulling Fenris aside, while Merrill and Varric were playing with a large and dirty ball of twine in Hightown.
They had been on their way to the Viscount.

Merrill threw the ball into Varric’s hands. “I told you I don’t need it anymore.”

“And I told you to keep it, Daisy.” He caught it and flung it up again.

Fenris shrugged his shoulders, as though she had mentioned something trivial. “You’ve seen me in worse states.”

“It wasn’t right to lash out on you.” Hawke looked at him, doubt in her eyes, lips sucked in with fearful expectation.

“I remain at your side,” Fenris said.

Hawke’s eyes lingered where her fingers were still clasping him, where the red sash was tied around his wrist, and her scent squeezed Fenris like a rope around his neck. He wanted to breathe in with full lungs, caress her face and pull her closer, but instead he could only draw in shallow breaths.
He jerked his hand away from her and looked the other side. His other hand moved to cover the ribbons as if to hide what he’d always meant to show.

“We’ve always known that we have our differences,” Hawke began. “I do not wish to keep you by my side against your will.”

“But still I am yours.”

At that her lips opened as if she wanted to speak, and Fenris wished she did, but then she merely nodded without expression and joined the rest of the group.

She laughed, catching the twine midair. “Enough playing, you two. We have to move on.”

“Say that to Daisy.” Varric winked to Merrill.

Hawke placed the ball of twine gently into Merrill’s hands, saying, “Oh? And doesn’t it take two to play in pairs?”

“You know me, Hawke.” Varric lowered his frame in a mock bow. “I’m nothing but courtly.”

Even in those small gestures and laughter, Fenris could see fragments of Hawke as she had been a few days ago, her constant effort to please and make things right. It was so obvious that he had to marvel at the fact that everyone, himself included, had overlooked it.

“Do you think they’re done talking, then? Do you think they’re together now?” Merril said into Varric’s ear. “Or should we start playing again to give them more time?”

“Hush, Daisy, hush. You’ll spoil it.” Varric glanced at Hawke first and then at Fenris.

Fenris was looking away on purpose, pretending he hadn’t heard.

“I always do something wrong, don’t I?” Merrill said aloud.

Part 3