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“Go. I’ll keep them off you.”
“Hawke—“
“They know this place better than we do, we can’t escape them just by running. I’ll draw them off. No offense, but I’m better at this whole distraction business than you are.”
“They have mages. They’ll capture you.”
“Nonsense. I am very slippery.”
“Hawke.”
“Please, Fenris. There isn’t time. You need to go.”
“I’ll come back for you.”
“No. I can escape on my own.”
“You can’t. They have mages.”
A shout from their left. Hawke tenses. “Go, Fenris. Now.”
“Be careful, Hawke.”
“I’m always careful.” He flashes a grin.
Then he’s gone, and Fenris runs.
——
It takes ten days for Fenris to mount a rescue.
Hawke is captured did not work, so he switched to Hawke has vital information about the Inquisition that may fall into enemy hands. That provokes a response. Inquisition soldiers trickle in from all directions until there are enough to make up a platoon, with rebel mage support. That takes a week. From there they must find where Hawke is being held. That is another two days.
On the tenth day they begin the assault. The element of surprise aids them well, and the village falls quickly. Fenris stalks the houses, searching for remnant Venatori, forcing himself to wait. He must finish the battle first, cannot let any Inquisition soldiers fall as a result of his heedlessness.
There are none left. Fenris strides up the main street toward the town hall. Hawke. He must find Hawke. They will not have killed him; he is far too valuable, and even if they could not extract from him the information they sought, they would no doubt try to break him, to make of him an agent of their own ends. They are Tevinters, their methods refined over a thousand years.
Fenris knows Hawke, knows he has a hundred tricks up his sleeve. But the Tevinters will have a thousand more. And it’s been ten days. A pair of soldiers nod at Fenris as he enters the town hall, and they direct him to the underground floors.
He is afraid.
Venatori corpses in the hall. Open doors slide by on either side. Storerooms and offices. There’s another soldier by the stairs at the end, and she jerks her head. “Jails are next floor down.”
Fenris descends.
The air is cool and close. More corpses, and empty cells, two on each side. In the flicker of torchlight three figures stand in the hall. Two are in armor. Inquisition. The taller one supports the third figure, hulking, hunched, a cloak wrapped around his body. Beneath the hem his feet are bare.
Fenris takes a half-step forward. “Hawke?”
Hawke turns with the soldier’s help. His face is blackened and bruised. “Oh. So you are here.”
Not the blissful reunion Fenris was hoping for. Although he had not truly expected such a thing. “What did they do to you?”
Hawke lets out an annoyed sigh that ends in a wince. “I’m not going to bother with this again.”
“What?”
“Let’s just get going, shall we?”
“Hawke—it’s done. They’re dead. You’re safe now.”
A brittle laugh. “Right. I stopped believing that after the first two times, I really don’t know why you’ve kept on trying.”
The soldiers exchange a look. Fenris tightens his jaw. Venhedis. “Hawke, this is real. I don’t know what they showed you before—“
“Can we skip this? Please? Let’s get to the part where I arrive at Skyhold and take a nice, long bath. That bit’s always my favorite.”
Fenris starts to say something but decides against it. This mess will have to be untangled later, when they’re not in a jail surrounded by corpses. “Fine. Let us go.”
——
Hawke sleeps most of the way to Skyhold.
It’s a day and a half of travel up into the mountains. Fenris sits in the wagon with him and watches him sleeping. He scrubbed himself off in a river before they left, and seemed to mind the freezing water not at all, though his skin blanched white beneath the bruises.
There are many bruises.
He’s covered from head to toe. Burns, too. But no cuts, no places where they might have inflicted permanent damage. Yes, they had planned to use him. Not a bad start, either. Hawke’s eyes, when he wakes, skate over Fenris as if he’s a stranger—or even less, just an object, like the crates of rations stacked in the front of the wagon. That does hurt Fenris, deeper than he’d expected—can Hawke truly not recognize him from a Venatori ruse? Can their bond, forged over almost fifteen years, really be broken by only ten days’ worth of stress? He pulls his knees up to his chest, trying to scrape away the loneliness that gathers over his thoughts like rust after rain.
As the wagon rumbles on, he turns the situation over in his head. From what he’s gathered, the Venatori manipulated Hawke’s mind somehow—with blood magic, of course, it’s always blood magic—and made him live through scenarios just like this one, of escape to safety and the arms of his lover. And then they pulled him out, and did the whole thing over again, repeatedly. In between the beatings and burnings, that is. Fenris wonders how many times he’s been through this, how many days he passed in each false dream. What will it take now to convince him that this is real? Worse, Hawke is the most stubborn man Fenris has ever met, and he will likely see his staunch disbelief as a victory, as outfoxing the Venatori. An added layer of resistance.
So Fenris will have to outfox them both. Perfect. He is no schemer, especially not compared to Hawke or a contingent of Venatori blood mages. Nor can he simply wait until the passage of time convinces Hawke of the truth. The best way to end a dream, of course, is to die.
Hawke might do it. Might. Fenris isn’t sure, but the mere possibility is bad enough. He cannot be passive about this. He must fight, must plant the seed of doubt early enough to keep Hawke curious.
Which still leaves the question: how, exactly, is he meant to do that?
The Skyhold gate rises with a long groan, and the wagon trundles forward. Hawke gazes, listless, at the mountains over Fenris’s shoulder.
This will not be easy.
When they climb the stairs Fenris goes beside Hawke, who is still injured and might fall. Hawke scans the courtyard, resentment flickering on his face. “Never changes,” he murmurs.
Fenris shrugs. “Should it have, since we were here last?”
Hawke glances over. “You never change either.”
Fenris stops, but of course Hawke does not so he must hurry forward to avoid being left behind. “You really cannot discern me from some—magical shadow?”
“Yes, indignation. That’s a solid strategy.”
“It’s not a strategy. It’s a reaction.”
“It’s all right, no need to explain. I’m quite aware of the situation.”
“You really aren’t.”
“Please spare me the indignity of trying to persuade me you’re actually him.”
“I do not see why persuasion should be necessary! We have known each other for thirteen years—“
“There it is. You bring that up every time.”
Fenris curses himself. A misstep. “The point remains.”
“Right. Of course. Now why don’t you let me just get this over with in peace?”
His tone is brutally patronizing. Fenris grits his teeth and decides to let it go for now, lest he make another mistake.
In the great hall he asks the steward for a room with its own private washroom, a request she firmly denies until Fenris remarks pointedly that he hopes Hawke’s obvious signs of torture do not disturb any of the others at Skyhold’s baths, at which point the steward glares and gives him the suite on the top floor at Skyhold’s northwestern corner.
Fenris heads through the great hall, then halts. “Hawke.”
“Hm?”
“You will need to lead the way.”
“Well, that’s an improvement.” Hawke brushes past. “All the previous times, you’ve been able to get there yourself. Nice to see this time you’ve gotten it right.”
Fenris has never managed to sort out Skyhold’s maze of corridors. Apparently a detail that did not make it into Hawke’s dreams. It’s a promising start, at least. He follows. “How many ‘previous times’ were there?”
Hawke strides through the hallway. “Five.”
“And how long did they last?”
“Days. Every one. They were all a little different, of course. But then…I really don’t need to be telling you this.”
Fenris does not press the issue.
The suite is impressive, plainly meant for the more important nobles who might drop in for a visit with the Inquisitor. The decor is lush to the point of extravagance—is there any point to tassels? Fenris has always wondered—the bed enormous and piled with pillows, and the room considerably warmer than the rest of the castle. Hawke starts to extract himself from the clothes he borrowed off one of the soldiers—struggling some, since the clothes are, as one would expect, too small—and at last casts them onto floor.
He is bruised.
Fenris had not seen before, but his back is crossed with lash marks as well. Did they lay those before or after burning him? The sight tears at him, and his determination wavers. He wishes to go to Hawke, to kiss him, to tell him you’re safe now, they can’t hurt you anymore—
But of course that is precisely what some constructed version of himself would do—would provide Hawke with comfort, with reassurances and love, so that the waking would rend him yet more deeply. Fenris takes a long, slow breath as Hawke unwinds the bandages from his chest, his arms and legs. He refused a healer, and he will not care about cleaning his wounds beyond the little he did in the river yesterday morning, since he does not believe any of this is happening.
It seems this, too, is up to Fenris.
“Come.” Fenris pushes open the door to the washroom.
Hawke follows him inside. “Damn. Forgot to ask for a bath to be drawn. And I was so looking forward to it.”
“You do not need a bath. Simple soap and water will do.” Fenris goes the table in the corner. There’s a basin of water sitting on it, but he also notices drawers underneath. Drawers? He opens one.
A variety of little instruments plated in gold.
Fenris presses a hand to his eyes. He has not seen these for almost twenty years. Grooming instruments, such a variety here as only the most wealthy would know how to employ. The most wealthy or their slaves, that is; Danarius certainly did not take the trouble to learn to use them himself. But they might have other uses. He takes a miniature pair of scissors from the drawer and rests it on the table, then soaks a cloth in the basin and rubs it with soap. “I’m going to clean your wounds.”
Hawke laughs. “Really, you don’t need to.”
“I’m going to do it anyway.”
Hawke watches him for a moment, considering. Fenris stares back, the wet cloth dripping onto the tiles by his feet.
Then Hawke shrugs. “Fine. Have it your way.”
Fenris approaches.
Hawke flinches a little when the soap hits open skin, but he makes no comment. Fenris goes quickly and steadily. This is, after all, only preliminary. He intends to be thorough. When he’s finished he wipes away the soap with a second cloth, then picks up the scissors. “You may sit down.”
Hawke sits.
Fenris begins with the worst-looking burn, a broad patch on Hawke’s chest. He lifts the edges with care, inspecting them, and then begins to cut away the crusted dead tissue. Hawke grits his teeth. “Is this really necessary?”
“Yes.”
“Not even going to kiss me to ease the pain?”
“You don’t think I’m real. I find that rather insulting. So no, I’m not going to kiss you.”
A snort. “Well, you’re certainly more ornery this time around.”
Fenris grunts in response and continues with his work. His suspicions were correct—Hawke had expected comfort and affection, that being the entire point of these dreams. So Fenris must not give it. It’s true that Hawke’s needling is irritating him, although the brutal purple-black of his skin, the long lash-cuts, the crusted burns…
Fenris does want to kiss him, very much so. But no. Not yet.
When he’s done cutting away the dead tissue he cleans the wound again, watches Hawke’s eyelids flicker. He should not have to suffer more pain, not like this, not alone. Yet he must, or Fenris risks losing him. It was the Venatori, he reminds himself, the Venatori who did this to Hawke, who saddled him with this long, cruel healing process.
Bandages. He forgot to ask for those. He goes out to see if there are any lying neglected in the bottom of his pack and finds instead a pair of fresh rolls sitting on a brass tray beside the door. It seems the steward wanted to avoid having her expensive Orlesian sheets stained with blood. He goes back to the washroom and finds Hawke frowning down at his crossed ankles.
“You’re brooding,” Fenris says, and sits beside him.
Hawke levels a smile at him—a malicious thing, without humor. “I learned from the best.”
Fenris lets out an annoyed sigh. He tucks one end of the bandage under Hawke’s arm. “I thought you were supposed to enjoy these dreams.”
“I don’t,” Hawke says shortly. “Except for that nice, hot bath, anyway.”
“Why would I let you take a bath? You shouldn’t soak these wounds.”
Hawke lifts an eyebrow at him. “Because I’ve just been tortured for Maker knows how many days and I deserve a bit of happiness?”
“It was ten days.” Fenris wraps the bandages around his chest. “And I suspect you won’t actually be happy until you realize this isn’t a dream.”
“That would be nice. Unfortunately this is, in fact, a dream, despite your efforts to convince me otherwise.”
Fenris’s eyes flick up. “Again, the fact that you continue to believe I am some magical construct is rather insulting.”
“I can’t insult you. You aren’t here.”
“And yet somehow you’ve managed it anyway.” Fenris cuts the bandage and tucks the trailing end. “I’m going to work on your back. I’d warn you not to flinch, but a few jabs with the scissors will hardly matter, after all, considering they don’t exist.”
Fenris chooses one of the many burns on Hawke’s back and pulls up the encroaching black crust, cutting it away. Hawke flinches, hissing in pain. Fenris does not apologize. It helps, this hostile back-and-forth—a type of exchange Hawke is very good at, although he’s never wielded it against Fenris. Until now, that is. Fenris responds instinctually, and is less tender in his ministrations than efficient, discarding bits of dead tissue as he goes.
The process takes some time. By the time Fenris is finished Hawke is trembling slightly, his hand pressed over his mouth. Fenris, standing, hesitates. “Are—are you all right?”
“It hurts,” Hawke murmurs. “I don’t especially enjoy being in pain.”
It’s over. You’ll heal soon enough. Fenris extends a hand. “Here.”
Hawke takes it and rises.
The wardrobe is stocked with clothes. Hawke stuffs himself into the least extravagant items he can find. Fenris, watching with some mild amusement, asks, “Are you hungry?”
“Always. Let’s go to the kitchens.”
“You should be careful what you eat. You told me they were starving you. Too much food too soon will make you sick.”
“Never has before!” Hawke says brightly.
Fenris rolls his eyes. Best to let this lesson take its natural course.
Hawke throws up later. After he’s scrubbed his face and beard clean, he emerges from the washroom, thoughtful. “You were right.”
Fenris sits in the corner, reading by candlelight. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“Hm.”
He crawls into bed. After a moment Fenris glances up and finds he’s sequestered himself to one side. “No need for that, Hawke.”
“Sorry?”
“Leaving half the bed free. I will be sleeping on the floor.”
“You’ll what?”
“You’re injured.” Fenris goes back to his book. “What if I roll over in the night and disturb one of your wounds? Surely you’ve suffered enough.”
Hawke is silent for a moment. Then: “All right.”
Fenris turns the page.
——
It does not get easier.
The next day Fenris announces he’s going to see if Varric’s at Skyhold. Hawke responds with a nonchalant, “Good luck.”
Fenris discovers that Varric is in fact back in Kirkwall. Hawke smiles at the news. “Thought so. He’s never been here before either.”
Fenris exhales to calm his irritation. “He spends the greater part of his time in Kirkwall these days. It is not surprising that he is there now.”
“Right. Listen, I’m going to go for a walk.”
“I will come with you.”
Hawke lifts an eyebrow. “I didn’t expect you’d want to spend more time in my company.”
“I do not seek your company. I seek to ensure you don’t do anything foolish.”
Hawke nods. “Want to make sure I don’t fling myself off the battlements, do you? Not a bad instinct. That’s how I brought this all to a close last time.”
Venhedis. Fenris had suspected that. Hawke is reckless beyond sense. “I would ask you not to do that.”
“Don’t worry. I like this new strategy of yours, I wouldn’t mind sticking around to see where it goes.” He stands, wincing. “Just a short walk around the gardens, I think. Still a bit sore.”
More than a bit, Fenris thinks, but Hawke will pretend for as long as it takes that none of this is affecting him. It is, of course. Hawke is an excellent liar, but Fenris has known him for a very long time, and can trace the insouciance back to the defiance back to the anger back to the fear and at the root of it, the pain inflicted on him for ten days, both what they did to his body and how they managed to tear Fenris away from him—how Fenris became not a pillar of hope but a source of mistrust, a façade, an omen of worser things to come…
Hawke shuffles down the hallway, hunched and alone.
Fenris trails a few feet back, his mind whirling, as always. How can he prove himself, prove all of this? He still hasn’t any idea. Hawke can’t be outsmarted except with an enormous effort of cleverness, or by pure chance. Fenris sighs and supposes he will have to lean on the latter.
The day is bright despite the pale clouds that blanket the sky like drifted snow. The chill of autumn isn’t so sharp today as it was during the journey here, for which Fenris is grateful; he’s never been much for cold weather. Hawke wanders the garden paths. First they pass the herbs, thick carpets of green dotted with kitchen workers who gather supplies for the day’s meals. Hawke names everything as he goes. Rosemary, mint, basil. Thyme and coriander. Parsley and sage. Tarragon.
Fenris takes a long, slow breath. The scent of the herbs is soothing. In Tevinter it was spices, or the fruit of the citron trees that grew in every park in Minrathous. The herbs are different. To him they mean home.
The stone path circles, and on either side bright bursts of flowers bloom. Hawke smiles with split lips and names these as well. “Goat’s beard. Celadine and toadflax. Windflower, bugloss, bloody-william in the back. Spiderwort, bear’s breeches, that’s a winecup, that’s…”
He stops.
Fenris comes up beside him. He’s staring at a cluster of plants just at the side of the path, large, pale leaves surrounding tall clusters of small pink blossoms. “Hawke?” Fenris asks. “What is it?”
“These weren’t here before,” Hawke mutters.
It’s certainly possible. The two of them haven’t been to Skyhold in a few months, and these flowers are likely a new addition. Not present in Hawke’s previous dreams, it seems.
“I know the name, I just…” Hawke strokes his beard with absent fingers, still staring. “I know them. We grew them in Lothering.“
Fenris knows a few of these flowers now, if only because he would accompany Hawke when they walked these paths during earlier visits. He remembers the toadflax, and the winecup, and of course the bear’s breeches. But he cannot help Hawke here.
“I know it,” Hawke murmurs. “I know it. Why don’t I know it? I can’t—“
Then he turns to Fenris, his face breaking open in desperation. Fenris freezes. He hasn’t any idea how to respond—doesn’t know what the damned flower is called, nor why the forgetting has made Hawke so afraid. Should he comfort Hawke? Or would that just make everything worse—
“Lamb’s ear,” Hawke blurts out.
He turns away, kneels slowly and starts rubbing one of the leaves, which Fenris can see now are covered in a fine white fuzz. The desperation is gone. “Hawke?” Fenris tries.
Hawke glances up, narrowing his eyes. “Still here, thank you very much.”
Oh.
He had thought he was losing himself. That the Venatori ruse was breaking down his mind, so he could not even name flowers anymore, an act in which he’s always taken great pride. Fenris crouches, curious, and rubs one of the leaves. “Oh!”
“Hm?”
“They are—soft.”
Hawke pauses. “They…they are. Hence the name.”
Lamb’s ear. It makes sense. “I will remember it.”
Hawke sighs to himself. “Maker, I wish you were real.”
Fenris rolls his eyes. “I am.”
Hawke snorts. “Persuasive as always.”
“You know as well as I do that you can’t be persuaded of anything. You decide what you want to believe and that’s the end of it.”
“Well, that’s a bit harsh.”
“No. It’s true.”
“Still angry with me, are you?”
“Still can’t see that I’m your partner and not some Venatori ruse?”
“For someone who claims to care about me, you seem rather distant.”
“That does not mean I am not concerned.”
“Really? Bit hard to tell.”
“Why would I show it? You’re only going to rebuff me.”
Hawke is silent, his amusement fading down to nothing. Then he rises. “Let’s keep walking.”
Fenris watches his back. What was that? He probes the situation as he follows, parses it, and plans an approach. The afternoon grows colder, a chill wind blowing in from the south. They finish their stroll without another word.
Fenris waits until the evening. Hawke is lying in bed, a thick tome propped up on his stomach, one he plucked from the brimming bookshelf on the wall. Fenris gazes at him for a moment, still trying to predict what he might say and how to counter it. But that is a futile effort. Hawke can talk circles around anyone, if he’s a mind for it. But Fenris has to try. “Hawke.”
He looks over. “Hm?”
“You have not sought affection from me.”
Hawke sits up. “What?”
“You have not tried to kiss me, or hold my hand, or anything of the sort.”
“You haven’t offered.”
“I am being serious. Even if I weren’t real, surely an illusion of affection is more enjoyable than this—disdain you show me. So why haven’t you sought it?”
Hawke remains silent, guarded.
“You want to,” Fenris says. “I saw it earlier.”
A sigh. “Of course. This, what we’re doing here, it isn’t exactly fun.”
“So why, then?”
“I did. Seek affection, I mean. When I went through this before.”
“And?”
He shifts, half-smiles. “Made it worse, didn’t it?”
An ache lances through Fenris’s chest, an awful tightness. He lifts a hand absently, brushes his shirt, just over his heart.
“It was the fourth time, I think, when I decided, why not? Even if it’s all in my head, at least this will remind me of him. At least I can remember him. So I kissed you and we held each other and lay in bed for hours talking and laughing, and we took a nice, hot bath and afterward I gave you a massage. My hands were oddly free of pain, but I didn’t care. We fell asleep in each other’s arms.” He shrugs. “And then I woke up in the cell and remembered where I was and how you weren’t there and—would you believe I actually broke down? In front of a dozen Venatori, no less. I’ve never been more embarrassed in my life.” He chuckles. “Then they beat me even harder than normal, I think they wanted to drive the point home. So that’s why I threw myself off the battlements the last time.”
Fenris stands abruptly. His fingertips rest on the table, his other hand clasping the front of his shirt. He takes an uncertain step forward, then another. Kneels on the bed.
Then reaches out and grasps Hawke’s bruised hand. “I didn’t—I should have come for you earlier. I…I am sorry.”
Hawke stares for a moment at their joined hands, silent and still. Then he jerks away, quick anger crossing his face. “Yes, of course you are.”
“Hawke—“
“You can get out of my bed now.”
Fenris narrows his eyes. “Yes. The bed that’s all in your mind.”
“That makes it mine, doesn’t it?”
“Fine. I’ll leave you alone, if that makes you feel better.” Fenris slides off the bed and returns to his seat in the corner. Hawke holds his book in his lap, closed now. Fenris picks out the words on the spine. The City-State of Kirkwall.
“I think…I’m going to sleep now,” he says softly.
Fenris returns to his own book, a thrilling adventure on the high seas. It reminds him of Isabela. He needs the comfort right now. “Do as you wish.”
Hawke lies down on his side and pulls the covers up over his shoulders.
Fenris tries to read and makes no progress. His eyes skim over the page, gathering nothing. Why did he do that? Everything is worse now. He knew that showing affection would drive Hawke away, but he did it anyway, because he could not bear to see that pain. And now Hawke is angry again. How can he make it better? How can he even get it back to where it was before?
At last he gives up and turns in for the night, stretching out on the plush carpet with a pair of pillows under his head and trying not to think about how he is failing, how he has failed.
——
Even through the lace curtain the moonlight streams bright and crystalline. Else Fenris might not have noticed, when he emerges from the washroom, the bed sitting empty, the covers tossed up and tangled.
He stares for a moment, waiting for it to change, waiting for his sleep-muddled mind to reveal to him Hawke still lying there. It does not.
Terror jolts through him, so intensely it makes his gut twist and clench. Sweat prickles over his back and arms, and he lurches for the door—turns, goes to the wardrobe, and takes a winter cloak. Then a second.
He dashes through the halls.
How does he get outside? He still doesn’t know how to navigate this damned place. Fortunately he nearly smacks into an older woman carrying an armful of laundry who, though startled by his desperation, is kind enough to point the way. Fenris murmurs the directions to himself as he goes. He cannot get lost again. Every second is vital. Or perhaps it is too late already and none of this matters—no, no, he cannot think of that, cannot think of how his ill-fated attempt at comfort a few hours ago may have led Hawke to—
He bursts outside, slings one of the cloaks around himself. It is cold tonight, despite the warmth of the day. The stone is smooth and well-worn against his bare feet. He scans, the moonlight setting Skyhold awash in a gentle glow of white. Here and there pairs of figures stand or stroll, metal helmets gleaming. Not Hawke. Where is he? Where is he? Where—
—a hulking figure, across the courtyard—
Fenris runs.
Only a short distance, but by the time he arrives he is breathing hard, and sweat still trickles down his back despite the cold. He halts a few feet away, clutching the cloak.
Hawke stands on the edge of the battlements, gazing down at the mountainside below.
Fenris hesitates. What if he errs again? What if his words send Hawke plunging down onto the rocks? But he must try, he must. “H—Hawke—“
He looks over his shoulder. “Evening.”
“Please don’t do this.” The words burst out of him. “Please. I need you.”
“Mm.” He gazes ahead again, at the mountains limned in moonlight, and then down once more, where the rocky juts and crags await him. “You know, it was really easy last time. Almost fun. Never gotten a chance to throw myself over the walls before.”
“Hawke. This isn’t—this is real, I’m real, please—“
“It did hurt, though. At the bottom. Hurt something awful. Even that was sort of fun, in its own way. I’d never died before either.”
Tears burn in Fenris’s eyes. The wind, perhaps. “Please don’t say that. Please don’t leave me.”
Hawke folds his arms around himself. The wind is sharp up here, sharp and wintry. “I’ve already left you. They’re going to break me, you know. It’s going to work. Honestly, I thought it couldn’t be done. You know me, got more conceit than all the Chantry combined.”
“They don’t have you. They don’t have you anymore. They’re dead, Hawke, we killed them all—“
“Doesn’t feel like that. Feels like I’m still there.” He shivers convulsively. “But it’s better that way than believing. It doesn’t—doesn’t hurt as much, when I think about it—“
“Hawke, please, please, just wait, I’ll—I can prove it to you, I just don’t know how yet. Let me think of a way—“
He turns. “I miss you. I miss you so bloody much. I’m glad at least it’s me they have and not you—“
“I’m not!” Fenris steps forward. “I regret every minute having left you to their mercy! I should have stayed. Together we might have had a chance. And I wouldn’t have left you to be—to have this done to you. To make you feel like this. Conceit, yes, I’ll certainly give you that, but you’re still a good man. You don’t deserve this.”
Hawke watches Fenris for a moment. Confusion strays across his features.
As does a single snowflake, drifting from the sky, coming to rest on his beard.
Fenris holds the winter cloak out. “Here,” he mutters.
Hawke hesitates, then reaches out and takes it.
The flakes are small and sparse, swirling through in spits on the gusts of wind. A flurry. Skyhold may see its first frost of the year tonight. Hawke wraps the cloak around himself. His feet, too, are bare.
He shivers again. “I think…let’s get back inside.”
Fenris embraces him.
Foolish, he knows, and unhelpful, and perhaps for Hawke even distasteful. But he cannot help it. To have almost lost Hawke, to still be losing him, is a pain he cannot bear and must bear anyway. And the worst of it is that he does not know what to do, that nothing he has tried has worked. So instead he does this—holds Hawke, selfishly, needing the comfort of Hawke’s presence, at least, even if what lies between them is still broken beyond recognition. Even if it is his responsibility to fix and he is failing, over and over. His fists ball in Hawke’s shirt.
The lightest brush of a hand at his back, through the thick winter cloak.
Fenris breaks away. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, and strides off across the battlements.
——
The next day Hawke avoids him.
Fenris wakes again to an empty bed above him, but there’s a note this time. Still alive, just went out early. No need to come find me. The panic dulls to mere worry, and Fenris folds up the note again, smoothing the creases with careful fingers.
He decides to go find Hawke.
It takes some time—when the search drags, he goes for breakfast and resumes—locates Hawke at last in the tavern, glances up and sees him balanced there on the third floor railing, his feet twined in the balusters. Fenris doesn’t approach; there is a card game going, the Warden and the Fereldan elf girl and a couple of people he doesn’t know, and he asks if he can buy his entry with a round of drinks. The suggestion is met with great approval, and by the time he has returned clutching four mugs of ale Hawke has disappeared.
It doesn’t matter. If he doesn’t want to be approached, he won’t be. Fenris sits, and Blackwall deals him in.
The game soothes his mind some, the recognition of patterns familiar to him, the employment of strategies he has used many times before. He knows this. He loses still, but even that is comforting. It is, after all, a habit. The two he does not know drift away after a time. Sera suggests a different game, a somewhat crude title he is not familiar with. Blackwall translates—Fishpie, a game Fenris knows from the Hanged Man. Sera sticks her tongue out and declares she likes her name better. Fenris must agree; with the play on words, it is certainly more memorable.
Blackwall draws a card, considers it, and lays it down. “Saw Hawke. Looks like he’s had a rough few days.”
Fenris takes the card. “That is one way of putting it.”
Sera draws. “Looks like he got stepped on by a whole herd of druffaloes. Piss!” She lays the card down.
Blackwall picks it up. “Something’s wrong, though, and it’s not just that. You’re worried.”
Fenris sighs, staring at his hand. Then he draws. “The Venatori manipulated his mind and forced him to experience this over and over. The escape, the return to Skyhold, the healing. Now he does not believe that this is real. That I am real.”
He holds his card, so Sera draws. “I say give him a good knock in the boots. That’ll stick his head back on right.” She grins.
Blackwall sighs. “If you don’t want to be quite so direct, maybe you could try just being honest with him.” He picks up from the discards. “Surely he’ll see you for who you really are.”
“I have tried that. He is, unfortunately, rather headstrong—“ an understatement, in truth, “—and refuses to entertain the idea.” Fenris draws.
As does Sera, and rearranges her cards. “Boots. Knocking.”
“So what if he’s headstrong?” Blackwall asks, and picks up the card Sera’s just exchanged. “So are you. Fight back if you have to.”
Fenris smiles at his hand. He is a little wary of Sera’s advice, but Blackwall’s words are heartening. After all, if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s fighting.
They play into the afternoon, until no one can remember who’s won the most rounds and Blackwall rises with a groan and says he promised to spar with some of the soldiers today. So the three of them adjourn, and Fenris strolls across the courtyard, up to the gardens.
Hawke is there, as Fenris had suspected. He sits on a stone bench, alone, his bruise-blackened face decidedly out of place among the bright bursts of blooms. From down the path he catches Fenris’s eye. They gaze at each other a moment. Then Fenris turns and goes back the other way.
He spends the afternoon and evening acting as a foil for the recruits when Blackwall tires. His Tevinter forms prove too much for them, so he switches to the styles he picked up in Kirkwall. So long unpracticed with those techniques, he makes nearly an even match. When the sun is too low for the practice to continue, he shakes Blackwall’s hand and goes for supper.
Hawke does not return to their room for some time, enough so that Fenris begins to worry again, and his distracted mind can no longer grasp the cluttered text that fills the pages of his book. For a while he paces, and thinks of going out to search. But that will get him nowhere. Hawke is invisible in the dark.
So instead he puts down his pillows, unfolds the quilt from where he’d folded it and lies down to sleep.
He wakes to the sound of the washroom door closing. Hawke. Hawke is here. The knowledge fills him with warm relief, and he half-dozes once more, his worry soothed. Some minutes later, the washroom door again, then the mattress creaking at his back, the rustling of covers. Fenris rolls on his back. “Where were you?” he murmurs.
“Just wandering. I was trying to figure out…if this was any different from the times before.”
Fenris pauses, rubbing his eyes. “And?”
A moment’s quiet. “I couldn’t tell.”
That is not comforting. Still, he did come back. Maybe it isn’t all lost. Or maybe he just wants to remain here a little longer, to stay away from the Venatori and their lashes and their brutal hands. Fenris curls up again under his quilt (scented with some flower, he isn’t sure which). There is yet work to be done. But he’s too tired now to think of it, and he closes his eyes. In the little room he can hear Hawke’s breathing, and the even sound stays with him as he drifts off to sleep.
“Fenris.”
He squints.
“Fenris? Are you still awake?”
He was asleep, he thinks, or very close. But not anymore. “What do you want?” he mumbles.
“Why are you with me?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean why have you stayed with me? Why do you love me?”
Hardly so urgent a question it needed to be asked in the black of night. Still, he’s awake now, so he may as well answer. “Hm.” He wipes at his mouth. “You are an attentive lover. And you are very good at stealing.”
There’s a long silence. Hawke prompts him. “And?”
“I’m thinking.”
A startled laugh. “That’s all that comes to mind? Two things that essentially boil down to—I’m good with my hands—“
“You woke me up in the middle of the night, Hawke, I’m not sure what you expected.”
“I’m not sure either, but I don’t quite think it was this.”
“I can start naming your less virtuous qualities instead, if you like.” Fenris pulls the quilt up under his chin and shuts his eyes again. “You’re reckless far beyond any necessity, you absolutely insist on sacrificing yourself rather than trusting others to help you, you never listen to me when I tell you to be careful, you always think you’re right, which, it must be said, is true a great deal of the time but not all of the time, you never listen to anyone, in fact, not just me, in summer you complain about the heat in a fashion so dramatic it would put the greatest legends of the Orlesian stage to shame, and when we sleep beside each other you continue to bury me under heaps of covers even after we have discussed the habit a dozen times over. And somehow I love you anyway.” He sighs. “Talk to me in the morning. Perhaps then I will be lucid enough to list your merits.”
It takes him a moment to realize that Hawke’s breaths are not so steady anymore—rather hitched, uneven, shivering. When he speaks his voice is cracked in half. “Fenris—it’s—it’s you—“
Fenris pushes the quilt off and climbs to his feet, wide awake now. “Hawke?”
Hawke is sitting hunched on the bed, staring up at him. “It’s you—Fenris—“
No more of that barbed insouciance. The armor cracked wide, exposing the desperation beneath, and the pain, and the love, the love Fenris misses so intimately and had begun to think he would never see again. He did it. He isn’t sure how, but it’s done, the disbelief broken, though the fear is not. The relief cascades through him as a rain-swollen river, sweeping away the dams that had held back that which he could not show, not until this, not until now—
He comes forward, sits on Hawke’s lap, and kisses him.
Carefully—Hawke’s lips are still scabbed from his period of imprisonment. Hawke makes a ragged noise and pulls Fenris closer, leaning into his chest. “Fenris, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry—“
“It’s all right.” He strokes Hawke’s hair, heart thumping against his ribs. It’s done, Hawke is with him again, somehow— “It’s all right. You don’t need to apologize.”
“Please tell me this is real.” His back heaves with a shuddering sob. “Please tell me this is real, I can’t go back there, I can’t wake up there again—“
"You won’t, Hawke, it's over. You've escaped."
"I can’t.” He shakes his head. “I can't lose you again."
“You won’t. I am here." Fenris tilts Hawke's face up and kisses him, less carefully this time, needing to show him that this is true, that he is safe, he won’t be hurt anymore—
Hawke clutches at his shirt. “I’m—what if I'm wrong, what if I'm wrong—“
"You aren't. You won't wake up there again.” Fenris strokes his cheek gently.
"I want this to be real, Maker, please, just—“ He chokes down another sob. “—please stay. Please stay with me.”
Fenris finds Hawke’s eyes shining. Finds his heart aches at the sight. “Will you lie down?”
Hawke hesitates, then nods and lies back. Fenris settles on his chest, kisses his neck. Hawke wraps both arms tight around him and does not let him go.
“I’m afraid to fall asleep,” he whispers. “What if I wake up and—“
“I will be here with you,” Fenris cuts in. “You aren’t there anymore. I promise you.”
Hawke tugs at his arm, so Fenris leans up and kisses him again, and again—the faint taste of blood as a cut opens on Hawke’s lip, but Hawke does not seem to care, only draws Fenris closer, their bodies pressing together. “I love you,” he breathes. “I love you, I can’t—please don’t leave me again, please—“
“I will not leave you,” Fenris replies. “Not now, or ever.”
Then he settles down once more. Hawke’s calloused palm rubs slow, broad circles over his back.
Several times during the night Hawke wakes with a start, rousing Fenris as well; but then Hawke murmurs his name, runs a clumsy hand down his back, and drifts off again. Fenris does not mind the interruptions, if they are helping.
By the morning they have shifted, Fenris curled up on his side with Hawke behind him. He is woken by Hawke’s chest expanding against him, and flips over, squinting in the morning light. Hawke mumbles something, and Fenris leans closer, presses a sleepy kiss to his lips. Hawke blinks awake.
For a moment he gazes at Fenris through eyes still ringed by bruises. And then pulls him in, holding him close.
Fenris, at last, begins to relax.
——
“You’re very brave.”
Hawke glances up. “Hm?”
“You’re very brave. And determined to help those who cannot help themselves.” Fenris takes another piece of bread, cuts a hunk of butter. “You do not mind going around orders or restrictions if they are getting in your way. And you have a great deal of compassion.”
Hawke motions with his own slice of bread. “You can keep going.”
Fenris smiles, spreading the butter. “I think you get the idea.”
A resigned sigh. “As you wish.”
“Would you pass me an apple?” He reaches out.
Time, of course. It will take time. Fenris does not doubt that Hawke will still be afraid to fall asleep tonight, and tomorrow night, and the night after that. Hawke shines the apple on his shirt before handing it over. But the fear will fade, and the bruises, and the burns and the lash marks will become just a few more scars mixed in with the many Hawke’s accrued over the years.
This, too, may scar. Fenris takes the apple, then twines Hawke’s fingers in his own.
Hawke is silent, for a moment, then picks up Fenris’s hand and kisses it. “It’s still hard for me to—to believe this. I want to, but I feel like—I can’t afford to.”
“You will be all right, Hawke.” Fenris squeezes his fingers. “I will see to it.”
Hawke smiles a little. “I’m lucky to have you. I…don’t know what I would have done otherwise.”
Fenris thinks again of Hawke on the battlements, the wind gusting past him, carrying flurries of snow.
“Can we go somewhere else?” Hawke asks. “Riding’s going to hurt for a while, but I just—I’d like to get out of here. Go somewhere new.”
“Then we shall. Orlais, perhaps?” Fenris suggests. “We have not been there in some months.”
“Yes, but if we go we’ll have to talk to Orlesians.” Then his eyes light up. “Oh, but the food! You’re right. Orlais sounds fantastic.”
Hawke’s smile, the first genuine one in days, sets Fenris’s heart at ease, and he strokes Hawke’s face, their fingers still intertwined. Yes. This, too, will heal.