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“Right, everyone, pack light, no time to waste, if you can’t carry it forget you ever had it, let’s move,” says Hawke. “We’re fugitives as of this morning and I give us about an hour before the combined forces of the Chantry decide they’re not feeling forgiving. Less. We’ll take ship out of Kirkwall and then we’d better split up. Isabela –“
“A pirate’s life for me,” says Isabela, with a wry grin. “I can take you almost anywhere you need to go, Hawke, though there’s not many places you’ll be safe. Your best bet would probably be Seheron, but under the circumstances…”
Fenris sees that they’re all avoiding each other’s eyes. The Champion of Kirkwall can hardly hide from the Chantry among the Qunari.
Hawke sighs and runs a hand through his hair, dishevelling it. “We’ll figure something out,” he says. “That is, if you want to come at all, all of you. It’s going to be me they want. Merrill and Anders had better go on the run – Kirkwall’s about to get pretty hot for apostates – but the rest of you have lives here.”
That cannot stand. Fenris says quietly, “I have no life here if you are not here.”
There was a time when he would have hesitated to make such a declaration before them all, but that time passed when Hawke sided with the mages of the Gallows. Everything is changed now. Hawke goes red and doesn’t reply. There’s a moment of awkward silence. Then Varric snorts.
“We’re coming with you, Hawke,” he says. “Though I’ll leave the mushy stuff to the elf.”
“We’re a family now,” says Merrill. “Sort of, anyway.”
“I’ll get Donnic and meet you at the docks in an hour,” says Aveline briskly. “If I’m not there don’t wait for me.”
“You can leave me behind. I’ll slow them down,” says the abomination. His eyes are alight with the fervent glow of fanaticism, a glow which has nothing to do with the Fade creature possessing him. “You’re more important to the cause than I am now, Hawke. You’ll survive, and word will spread; the Circles will rally behind you –“
Hawke swings around and points his staff at the abomination. The glowing crystal that caps it is right under the vile mage’s nose. “You,” says Hawke grimly, “shut up.”
The abomination frowns. “I –“
“Shut up before I change my mind about killing you,” says Hawke. “Not a word, Anders. Not one word.” He sighs, and shoulders his staff again. “The docks,” he says. “One hour. Take nothing you can’t carry, and be careful.” He turns to his brother then, to bid him farewell. The others disperse swiftly. Fenris hangs back and waits while the brothers Hawke embrace. Carver will be returning to the Grey Wardens through the Deep Roads. No doubt he will report all that has transpired here to his superiors. The Wardens stand apart from politics, but they number both mages and former templars among their ranks, and the war that is about to break out will shake the whole world.
The farewell is quick. Both brothers seem unwilling to linger too long, afraid perhaps of increasing the hurt of their parting. Fenris knows how Hawke misses his family, dead or absent. His own company, he suspects, is a poor substitute for all Hawke has lost.
But he is growing maudlin, and Carver is already gone. “Fenris?” says Hawke. “You should go to the mansion now and get your things.”
“There is nothing there I require,” Fenris says. The only thing he owns which he would wish to carry away from Kirkwall with him is the book of Shartan, and that is at the Hawke estate, lying open on the desk in the library.
“Oh,” says Hawke, and summons a grin with a visible effort. “I should have known. Nothing to tie you here, right? Well, I’ve got a couple of things to pack, and I’d better let Bodahn know where Sandal is, he’ll be worrying. Though I don’t know why. I’m starting to think I’d bet on Sandal’s boom against every demon in the Fade.” He’s walking as he talks, gabbling his words out quickly. He’s frightened, Fenris thinks, keeping pace, and only giving into it now the battle is done. He puts a hand on the back of Hawke’s neck, and Hawke jumps. Fenris lets his hand fall. He knew sex as a slave, though not love, and he has learned, in the past few months, how to kiss Hawke until his breath comes in short desperate pants, how to touch him so he cries out, how to hold him afterwards. How to be a lover, of a sort. But he has never learned how to be comforting; as a lover, truth be told, he is not good for much.
Fenris is selfish: he does not care that Hawke could do better than a damaged former slave, because he cannot imagine himself anymore without Hawke.
He rescues the book from the library and waits while Hawke throws a few things into a pack. He takes surprisingly little, less than Fenris would have guessed. The only valuables he picks up are things that are both light and easy to sell, a cache of gemstones from a hidden drawer in the desk, the untouched contents of his mother’s jewellery box. That surprises Fenris for a moment, until he reflects that when he first met Lady Leandra she did not wear jewellery. All those things are new, then. From his mother’s room Hawke also takes a very simple porcelain statuette of Andraste, wrapping it several times in a cloth. “That was hers from when she was a girl,” he tells Fenris, though Fenris did not ask. “She took it to Ferelden with her when she married my father, and then when she came here it was the only thing she brought back.”
The contents of the small chest at the foot of Hawke’s bed go into the pack too – more things from Lothering. Almost nothing from his life in Kirkwall. Fenris has never given Hawke any sort of gift – has never had anything to give him, in fact – so he cannot know if Hawke would have chosen to keep it. He suddenly regrets that. This ache in his chest, this helpless wanting, is something he’s lived with for three years, but he thought when he and Hawke became close again it would end. Instead, if anything, it has grown worse. Being close to Hawke only makes Fenris all the more aware of how much he needs him, how little he really knows about what Hawke feels in return.
“Right,” says Hawke finally, squaring his shoulders and looking around. “Now where’s my dog? Fluffball! Here, girl!”
The mabari lumbers up from the kitchen. She is well over ten years old, Fenris knows, very old for a warhound, and in her dotage she moves with slow dignity that belies her name. “Good girl,” says Hawke, and bends down to scratch her behind the ears. Fluffball yawns and sniffs his hand.
“Hawke,” says Fenris. They do not have much time. The hound will slow them down, if she can even make it to the docks.
“I know,” says Hawke. His expression is set. “Bodahn’s things are still here, he’ll be back for them. I’ll leave a note. Sandal always liked her, they’ll take good care of her.”
“I am sorry,” says Fenris inadequately.
Hawke crouches and buries his face in the elderly mabari’s fur. She huffs out a breath at this undignified treatment, and noses her master’s hair. She is the last remaining piece of the family that came with him from Ferelden, and now they too will be parted. When Hawke stands he swipes the back of his hand across his eyes. “Goodbye, girl,” he says, and shoulders his pack. Fenris wants to reach out and touch him, to wrap him in an embrace that will protect him from all of this. He thinks fleetingly of the abomination, and growls under his breath at the sheer selfishness of what the creature has done.
“What’s got your goat?” says Hawke.
“Nothing,” says Fenris.
Normally Hawke would push, make suggestions, crack jokes. It says a lot about his state of mind that he just nods and says, “Let’s go.”
They drop off Aveline and Donnic on the Fereldan coast, at a sheltered inlet some three or four miles from Amaranthine. A smuggler’s drop-off point, obviously, presumably one Isabela knows of old. “Stay safe, both of you,” Hawke says.
“Maker be with you, Hawke,” says Aveline, and bows to him, an oddly formal gesture. Fenris stands beside him and watches the couple go. He is not sure how to feel.
Merrill is crying. “It’s so sad,” she says. “Of course I know it’s sensible, but I’m going to miss you all so much –“
“There, there, Daisy,” says Varric. “It’s not forever. I’m sure we’ll all meet again. Where next, Captain?”
“Where do you want to go, Varric?” asks Hawke.
“Oh, any of the Free Cities will do. I’m a Marcher for life. I’ll probably go back to Kirkwall once things quiet down. The merchant’s guild there is keeping an eye on my assets.” Varric shoulders Bianca more firmly and adds, “Honestly, right now, anything to get off this damn boat.”
“It’s a ship!” says Isabela indignantly.
“Whatever it is, dwarves don’t have sea legs.”
Varric is the next to leave them, and once he is gone Fenris feels unpleasantly surrounded by mages. Hawke he trusts beyond reason, and after six years of acquaintance he is grudgingly prepared to admit that the elf witch, in her own scatterbrained way, is strong of will. Like a tree, she bends with the winds of demonic power, but she is not likely to break.
The abomination is another story. And his plans make Fenris feel sick to his stomach.
“We should go to Tevinter,” the monster says at dinner. “No – don’t look at me like that, all of you. We’ll be safest in Tevinter.”
“Ambitions to become a magister, Anders?” says Hawke lightly.
“Of course not. Their ways are unjust,” says Anders, and his eyes catch the lamplight oddly as he says it.
“Watch it,” says Isabela. “None of that on my ship. Captain’s orders.”
“So you want to go to Tevinter and start another revolution. Wonderful,” says Hawke. “Just what I want out of lying low. No, Anders.”
“I wouldn’t,” says the abomination. “I can keep my head down. And the way mages are seen in the Imperium, we’d be safe, all of us –“ this with a glance at Merrill. He does not look at Fenris. The only way Fenris and the abomination have been able to deal with being kept at close quarters like this is by each pretending the other does not exist.
Fenris would not be safe in Tevinter, but that hardly matters to a being like Anders.
“It’s not your head troubling me,” Hawke is saying, “except for the part where it’s full of fluff. It’s Justice’s head that has me worried. Don’t even try to tell me you can keep him down. I’ve heard that one before.”
“Just think about it, Hawke,” the abomination presses. “Forget about me. I won’t go with you. You’re right, Justice would be a risk. I’ll go back to the Wardens, they probably won’t execute me. But you and Merrill should still go to Tevinter. It’s the only really safe place for you both.”
“He’s got a point, you know,” says Isabela. “What are your options? If it’s the chantry or the Qunari, I’d take Tevinter too.”
“I don’t mind, really!” Merrill chirps. “All this exploring is very interesting. I do like to travel.”
“I’ll think about it,” says Hawke.
Fenris says nothing.
He and Hawke share a cabin, a bed, lie wrapped up in each other and rocked by the ocean every night. The first few nights out of Kirkwall they had feverish sex before falling asleep every time, Hawke shaking to pieces under Fenris’ hands, Fenris feeling halfway to shattered himself. There’d been nothing gentle about any of it; it was a madness, a desperate coupling born of the need to be away from everything that had happened if only for a few shining empty moments. It’s turned strange since, slow and careful, nothing Fenris understands. Sometimes it doesn’t happen at all. Fenris doesn’t know why or why not. He never thought for a moment that he and Hawke would be simple, which is just as well. They’re not.
Tonight Hawke strips off his shirt and drops onto the bed with his head in his hands. Tevinter, Fenris thinks. The towers of Minrathous, perhaps. The streets he knows so well.
“The abomination is right,” he says. “You would be safest in Tevinter.”
Hawke stiffens. “Do you think so?”
“It is obvious.”
“I wouldn’t be like them,” says Hawke.
“Perhaps,” Fenris answers.
Hawke sighs and stretches out on the bed. “Where would you go?” he asks, staring up at the ceiling.
Fenris does not know what expression is on his face.
“Fenris?” says Hawke.
“With you,” says Fenris. “I would go with you.”
Hawke props himself up on his elbows and turns to stare at him. “You would?” he says. “To the Imperium?”
“Hawke,” says Fenris, “anywhere. I have told you again and again. I will not live without you.”
Hawke says, “I thought –“
“I do not tell lies,” Fenris says. “I do not exaggerate. If you choose the Imperium, I will follow you. I will hate every moment but I will not leave. Hawke, I cannot leave.”
Hawke looks lost. His mouth works. Fenris sits down on the bed they share. He wants to touch Hawke but he does not. The ship creaks and rocks gently with the motion of the water. After a moment Hawke says, “I thought for sure you’d go again. Sooner or later.”
“No,” says Fenris.
Hawke puts his hand over Fenris’. His fingers are warm.
“I cannot leave,” says Fenris again, and he’s full of helpless longing again, still, always, for three years, for something he can’t even name –
Hawke kisses him, deep and slow and careful. His fingers creep into Fenris’ hair. Fenris puts his arm around Hawke’s shoulders and tilts his head and lets himself be kissed until his breath is coming fast, and Hawke pulls them both down onto the bed side by side and says all in one breath, “Fenris, me too. I won’t leave. I can’t. I won’t lose you too, and we’re not going anywhere near Tevinter because I don’t trust myself not to start ripping magisters limb from limb to make you smile and that would cause trouble –“
“I have never known you hesitate to cause trouble,” says Fenris. He feels a very small smile settling on his face.
“You’re all I’ve got left,” Hawke says fiercely. “If you change your mind on me again I’ll probably murder you. You mean it? You’re sure?”
“What have I been saying?”
“You’re sure.”
Fenris pushes him down onto the blankets and kisses him hard for an answer. Hawke returns the kiss just as hard, his hands scrabbling at Fenris’ shirt and then at his bare shoulders, his hips arching. For a few moments it it is just like those first desperate gasping encounters. Then something shifts without warning and somehow it has gone slow, comfortable, and they are trading easy kisses back and forth. Fenris’ hands map the sculpted muscles of Hawke’s arms and Hawke’s fingers work clumsily on Fenris’ belt. When he finally manages to get it open on the fifth attempt he actually chuckles, quick and breathless. Fenris has never heard Hawke’s familiar laugh in bed before. It eases something in him that he didn’t even know was tense.
“Give me some room to work here, Fenris,” Hawke says, trying to roll them over.
“I see no reason for that,” Fenris answers, settling his weight. Hawke is not a small man – Fenris is smaller, physically – but Fenris’ strength is all out of proportion to his frame, and Hawke cannot move him if he does not wish to be moved. Hawke gives up trying after a moment, looks up at him and laughs.
“Come up here, then,” he invites easily. “I want to suck you.”
Fenris’ breath catches, and he crawls forward. There’s no reason to be armoured, aboard ship, and every reason to keep his armour away from the wet salt wind; Hawke shoves the soft pants and underwear Fenris wears out of the way, licks his lips appreciatively at the sight of Fenris’ cock, and presses his hands against the lyrium markings that run over his hips. The faint spark of Hawke’s magic is enough to make them react, igniting a slight glow, sending a not-unpleasant shock through Fenris’ nerves that makes him twitch. Fenris’ attempt at a scowl does not fool Hawke in the least. He laughs again, soft, delighted, and Fenris cannot help but smile.
“I seem to remember you had something in mind for this evening’s entertainment,” he comments.
“Cocksucking,” says Hawke, smirking, “is what I had in mind. If that’s all right with you, serah.”
“No objections,” says Fenris, leaning down to touch his fingers to Hawke’s lips. Hawke licks them teasingly. Then he props himself up on the pillows, using his hands on Fenris’ hips to guide him forward. Fenris’ breathing is already speeding up. Hawke’s mouth closes around the head of Fenris’ cock, soft and hot and wet, and his eyes flutter closed at the same moment. His face is so beautiful, Fenris thinks, and he wants to touch, so he does.
Hawke hums contentedly around his cock at the brush of Fenris’ fingers at his temple, and sucks harder. He sucks Fenris’ cock like there’s nothing he’d rather be doing, like he could do it all day. The first time they did this Fenris was standing, back against the wall, fingers scrabbling at the panelling for support while Hawke knelt in front of him. It had felt strange beyond measure to have a mage take a position of such submission for him, stranger still to realise that Hawke enjoyed it. Hawke does enjoy it. Hawke loves doing this for him. Fenris can see the hectic flush in his cheeks while he sucks; his hands are gripping Fenris’ hips hard enough to leave bruises.
Orgasm takes him by surprise, so that he doesn’t have time to shove his fist into his mouth and muffle his usual shout. Hawke swallows around him and then sucks him gently through the aftershocks, only letting Fenris’ cock slip from his mouth when Fenris shudders and pushes him away. His lips are red and wet, obscene. He grins up at Fenris. “Well, the whole ship probably heard that one,” he says. “Isabela’s going to congratulate me at breakfast.”
Fenris collapses on top of him. “Be quiet,” he orders, not meaning it.
“You could probably shut me up if you tried,” Hawke offers a little breathily, shifting under him. He’s still wearing his trousers, but he’s very definitely hard against Fenris’ hip.
Fenris takes a moment to collect himself. Hawke’s words from earlier are echoing in his mind. You’re all I’ve got, he’d said, but it goes both ways. When he’s got his breath back he finds Hawke is watching him with a hopeful expression.
“Sex?” he prompts after a moment. “Please?”
Fenris kisses his throat and chuckles wickedly. “I daresay I can think of something,” he says.