In which Hawke duels the Arishok, and Fenris finally gets his head out of his ass… but the timing is less than ideal. 

A longer one, again (~6600 words). Here is a clumsy link to the AO3 post, since I don’t want the fancy new Tumblr anti-porn-bot algorithm to hide this post from tag searches: tinyurl.com/fenhawke 

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Fenris did not consider himself a particularly fast learner.

Hawke would heartily disagree, and he supposed she was right when it came to some things. Fenris was a skilled combatant, and he could master a weapon in the space of a few sessions. And Hawke had said he’d learned to read even faster than she’d thought possible.

Even so, when it came to life-changing realizations – things that shifted his way of thinking like an earthquake, tilting the ground beneath his feet and forcing him out of the confines of his own beliefs – Fenris was unforgivably slow on the uptake.

Revelations. They always seemed to bash him in the face with the devastating force of a Qunari warhammer. Escaping Danarius had been like that; it wasn’t until Fenris had looked upon the aftermath of his own horrific mass murder that he realized that he couldn’t live under the yoke of Danarius’s control anymore.

And it wasn’t until he was clutching Hawke’s crumpled body on the ground outside the Viscount’s Keep that he realized he couldn’t live without her.

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

A few hours earlier… 

“Should’ve stopped by the Hanged Man and grabbed a bottle of whiskey,” Hawke panted as they ran up the steps to the Viscount’s Keep. “I could use a drink right about now. A little liquid courage never went amiss, wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s probably best we didn’t,” Fenris replied. “Falling over drunk is not a defensive strategy I’d recommend.”

“But we could have offered some to the Arishok!” she said. “Friendly drink to loosen him up, persuade him to change his mind about converting or killing everyone… It’s a classic negotiating strategy, right?”

“I think we’re a little past the talking-over-drinks stage by now,” Varric called breathlessly from behind them.

Hawke paused at the doors to the Keep and threw Varric a rueful grin. “And that, my friend, is what’s really wrong with politics. Hardened enemies become fast friends with the power of a drink.” She pointed playfully at him. “You can quote me on that for that damned novel of yours.”

Fenris smirked and shook his head, but beneath his amusement, he was worried about her. She’d been cracking jokes nonstop since they’d found Isabela’s farewell note on Wall-Eyed Sam’s body. To Fenris’s eyes, her incessant humour was a clear indication of how upset she was about her best friend’s abrupt disappearance.

Hawke took a deep breath, then raised her eyebrows at their little group. The whole crew had insisted on coming this time, despite the obvious danger. “All right, kids,” she said. “Last chance to go home and hide under your beds. Anyone having second thoughts?”

There was a general murmur of negations and readiness, and Hawke grinned at them all. “Oh good. Then you lot can go on in for me, because I’m definitely going home to hide under my bed.”

Aveline shot her a desperate look. “Hawke, we have to hurry-”

Hawke laughed brightly, then shoved open the doors to the Viscount’s Keep.

They were instantly set upon by a small contingent of Qunari warriors. Fenris immediately phased through the nearest one, materializing inside of him and blowing his innards apart in a shower of blood.

The next few minutes were a blur of clashing weapons and explosive magical attacks, of battle roars and shrieks of pain. Once their final enemy was felled, Fenris straightened and looked around the room.

It was a scene of blood and disarray, but his gaze skipped carelessly over it all until he spotted Hawke, upright and hale at the top of the stairs. Her face was as serious as it always was in battle, but when she met his eyes, she smiled and blew him a kiss.

He shook his head in mock exasperation, then jogged up the stairs with the others to join her. Panicked screams were emanating from the grand hall, and Hawke jerked her head in the direction of the ruckus. “Let’s join the party, shall we?”

They all ran toward the grand hall, and Hawke didn’t hesitate this time before pushing open the doors.

They stepped into the room, and a familiar face stared up at them from the base of the stairs – a face that was separated from the rest of its body: the Viscount’s decapitated head.

Merrill gasped.

“Maker save us,” Sebastian breathed.

“Shit,” Varric muttered, and Hawke huffed. “You can say that again,” she whispered.

Fenris merely twisted his lips in rueful acknowledgement of the Viscount’s death. Frankly, he was unsurprised. It was only logical for the Qunari to dispense of the existing authority before imposing their own.

“Shanedan, Hawke. I expected you,” the Arishok rumbled. He slowly made his way down the stairs, ignoring all of them except for the dark-haired mage. “Maraas toh ebra-shok. You alone are basalit-an.” He opened his arms expansively and glared at the assembly of terrified hostages. “This is what respect looks like, bas,” he announced. “Some of you will never earn it.”

Then he returned his austere gaze to Hawke. “You know I am denied Par Vollen until the Tome of Koslun is found. How will you see this conflict resolved without it?”

Hawke offered the Arishok a sickly sort of smile, and Fenris suppressed a wince. He could practically see the quip gathering itself at the tip of her tongue, but he had to agree with Aveline: this was not the time for jokes.  

Before Hawke could speak, a sardonic voice called out from the door.  “I believe I can answer that.”

Hawke’s face slackened in surprise for a split second before lighting up with joy. “Bels!” she exclaimed.

Isabela sauntered over to Hawke’s side with an enormous tome in her arms, and Fenris watched her approach with no small amount of surprise himself. He’d been just as shocked as Hawke at Isabela’s abandonment, given how close she and Hawke were, but he was even more surprised at her return. Isabela had many fine traits, but it was clear from her antics with this blasted relic that loyalty was not among them.

After a moment’s hesitation, Isabela handed the huge book to the Arishok. “I’m sure you’ll find it mostly undamaged,” she said.

The Arishok took the book reverently, and Isabela shot Hawke a small sideways look and rubbed the back of her neck. “It took me a while to get back, what with all the fighting everywhere,” she said with a shrug. “You know how it is.”

“You fucking tart,” Hawke said happily. “Showing up at the eleventh hour. You trying to steal my place as the heroine of Varric’s book?”

Isabela folded her arms. “This is your damned influence, Hawke. I was halfway to Ostwick before I knew I had to turn around. It’s pathetic.”

“Yes, coming back to help your dearest and most attractive friend in the whole wide world,” Hawke retorted. “How very pathetic.”

Isabela tutted and rolled her eyes, and Hawke beamed at her until the Arishok spoke again. “The relic is reclaimed. I am now free to return to Par Vollen.” He turned his stare to Isabela. “With the thief.”

Hawke stiffened, and Isabela instantly dropped her confident stance. “What?”

Fenris couldn’t help himself. “You thought you could strand them here for four years without consequence?” he drawled.

Isabela glared at him over Hawke’s shoulder. “Hey. Whose side are you on, anyway?”

The Arishok ignored them and addressed Hawke. “She stole the Tome of Koslun. She must return with us.”

Hawke folded her arms, her face and posture now utterly serious. “Sounds like you have something very specific in mind,” she said cautiously.

“She will submit to the Qun and the Ben-Hassrath,” the Arishok said. “More than that, I will not say.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes. “Well, I don’t like the sound of that, whatever that means,” she retorted. “You have your relic. Isabela stays with us.”

“Then you leave me no choice.” The Arishok lifted his chin, then proclaimed, “I challenge you, Hawke. You and I will battle to the death, with her as the prize.”

“No!” Isabela blurted. “If you’re going to duel anyone, duel me!”

The Arishok finally deigned to look at her – a very quick dismissive glance. “You are not basalit-an,” he said. “You are unworthy.”

Isabela opened her mouth to protest, but Hawke held up one hand. “I accept your challenge,” she said.

“Oh no!” Merrill squeaked, and Aveline took a concerned step forward. “Hawke, wait-”

Fenris stepped away from Hawke’s side and gestured for them to back away. “Don’t interfere,” he said, primarily to Aveline; the Guard-Captain looked ready to pounce on the Arishok herself. “It will be fine.”

He took his place among the other spectators that lined the walls, and Anders stormed over to him. “How are you all right with this?” he hissed. “She’ll be killed! You would just stand back and watch her face off against that – that beast?”

Fenris didn’t bother to look at him. “She will be fine,” he repeated firmly. “Hawke is strong. Unlike some mages I know,” he added waspishly. He folded his arms. “Besides, it is her choice. She wishes to resolve this with as little bloodshed as possible, then I am happy to stand here and watch.”

“I can’t believe this,” Anders snapped. “You argue with her at every turn, yell at her for every other decision she makes, and now that she decides to face off against a two-meter tall horned warrior with battleaxes in both hands, now is when you just stand back and watch?” He leaned away from Fenris in disgust. “Why do you even follow her? Do you even care about her at all?”

“Shut your mouth,” Fenris snarled. “You know nothing of this kind of respect. You are unworthy to follow her, not me.” He stared venomously at the scowling mage. “Don’t speak to me again unless you wish to have your heart torn out of your chest,” he spat, then stalked away from Anders to stand beside Sebastian instead.

And then Hawke’s battle with the Arishok began.

Fenris had been fighting at her side for years now, but as he watched her fingers tapping slowly on the smooth handle of her staff, he realized that he’d never really had a chance to watch her in combat before. He was always at the forefront of a fight, while Hawke threw up barriers and rained fire and lightning on their foes from behind.

This was different from any other fight Fenris had seen her in. A single foe in close quarters, one who wouldn’t be tricked by some of her more discombobulating magical attacks: it was a duel in the truest sense of the word, and despite his confidence in her skill, Fenris was curious how she would adjust.

Her posture was tense and nervous, but her first dodge was perfectly timed when the Arishok lunged at her, and the fireball she threw at his back was swift and unerring. Fenris relaxed slightly as Hawke played to her strengths, maintaining a careful distance and striking from behind when the Arishok couldn’t deflect.

And then she didn’t dodge quickly enough, and the Arishok ploughed into her with a powerful lunge.

Fenris flinched as Hawke slammed back against a pillar with a sickening thud. She slumped to the ground and sat frozen for a second, then drew in a gasping breath and clenched her fist.

A glow of green healing magic shivered over her skin, and she was on her feet a second later, rolling clumsily away from the Arishok’s swinging battleaxe.

Fenris released his breath, then continued to watch her intently, feeling a bit more nervous than before. The battle went on for minutes that seemed to stretch like hours, and Fenris tried to quell his growing anxiety as she took a number of strikes from the Arishok, recovering each time with the help of her own healing spells.

She struck the Arishok multiple times as well, and soon he was limping from a bleeding wound to the thigh. But Hawke was slowing down. Her dodges and evasions were becoming less timely. She didn’t have a warrior’s stamina, and if Fenris could see her fatigue, then the Arishok certainly could.

That’s when the Arishok grabbed her by the neck and hauled her off her feet.

Fenris’s entire body went tense. Everything was frozen: his lungs, his heart, his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth – he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe as he watched Hawke kicking her feet ineffectually, scrabbling to grab hold of the Arishok’s armoured wrists, then his bare forearms –

Smoke began to rise from the Arishok’s skin where Hawke grabbed it. Finally he snarled with pain and released her, and she dropped to the ground like a rag doll.

Fenris moved – a slight step forward, he knew he shouldn’t but he couldn’t stop himself – but someone was holding his hand and keeping him in place.

It was Isabela. She looked just as horrified as he felt, and her fingers were clutching his own in a death grip.

Hawke drew in a desperate scraping of air, and Fenris whipped his head around to look at her. She was on her feet again, the glow of her healing spell fading already and her lips drawn in a snarl.

She twisted her left hand in a vicious gesture, and the Arishok was encased in a cage of pure magic.

The huge Qunari warrior tried to slam his way out of the cage, but the snapping bars of light threw him back. Hawke heaved a huge exhausted sigh and ran a hand through her hair. “Friendly drinks would have been the way to go,” she said, her voice rough with fatigue. Then she slammed her staff on the ground.

A crackling pattern of ice appeared on the Arishok’s belly, crawling and thickening across his abdomen, and Fenris held his breath, knowing what was coming next –

Hawke jabbed her staff in the Arishok’s direction, and his frozen organs exploded along with the magical cage, scattering grey-and-red chunks of frozen flesh and viscera across the floor.

The Arishok fell to his knees. He lifted his eyes to Hawke’s face. “One day, we shall return,” he rasped. Then he collapsed on the ground with a limp finality.

For once, Hawke didn’t instantly reply with a clever quip. She bent over, hands on her knees and her long hair falling forward to hide her face.

In silence, the remaining Qunari began to file out of the room. Fenris pulled away from Isabela’s grip and strode toward Hawke, but she was standing upright again already before he could reach her side.

She smiled tiredly at him. “Remind me to bake them a cake if they do return,” she said to him. “A chocolate one. With icing. Everyone likes chocolate.”

Fenris gripped her arm and peered at her face. “Are you all right?” he demanded. She certainly looked fine; tired, of course, but there wasn’t even a hint of bruising on her neck, thanks to her healing magic.

She nodded. “I’m fine. Really, I’m fine,” she repeated hastily as the others all hurried over with worried faces. “Let’s just get out of here before-”

“Is it over?” A ringing, authoritative voice cut her off, and Hawke pulled a little face. “Too late,” she muttered.

Meredith strode into the room with a handful of Templars at her back, and Hawke squared her shoulders before turning to face them. “It’s over,” she replied. She gestured at the Arishok’s half-frozen body. “One chilled Qunari, as ordered.”

Her irreverent words seemed to break the tension in the room; someone laughed, and then the noble hostages were cheering and applauding.

Hawke cringed slightly, and Meredith narrowed her eyes. “It seems Kirkwall has a new champion,” she said.

“Oh Maker’s balls, please don’t call me that,” Hawke begged. “‘Champion’ is such a heavy word, it carries so much responsibility…”

But it was too late: the nobles were already calling her name, calling her the Champion, and Hawke rubbed her face and shot Meredith a half-hearted smile. “Thanks for that,” she said.

“I look forward to seeing how you will serve your city with this new… title,” Meredith replied, her tone positively dripping with subtext.

“I’ll be serving myself a drink or three first, if you don’t mind,” Hawke quipped. “Now if you’ll excuse us…” She edged around Meredith cautiously and headed for the door at a brisk pace.

Fenris and the rest of the group followed at her heels. Once they’d stepped out of the clamour of the grand hall, Varric chuckled. “The refugee mage from Lothering defeats the Qunari chief in single-handed combat,” he said, with much relish. “Oh, this is good. Nobody will believe it. That’s what will make it so compelling.”

Hawke groaned. “Please, Varric, give me one single day without having to make…” She trailed off and rubbed her face. “…without making editorial comments,” she finished faintly, then headed for the stairs.

“Hawke?” Anders’s voice was sharp as he called her name from the back of the group.

She didn’t reply, reaching instead for Isabela’s arm as they approached the stairs. “Now you,” she said pointedly. “I can’t decide whether to punch you or hug you. I knew you’d come back, you know. I knew you wouldn’t really leave.”

Isabela rolled her eyes. “You’re reading way too much into this.”

“Wrong,” Hawke said as she tottered down the stairs. “I know exactly why you came back. You know you love me, you tart. You wouldn’t really-”

She stumbled on the bottom step, and Fenris and Aveline grabbed her arms. “Kaffas,” Fenris swore. “Hawke, are you-”

“I’m fine, I promise I’m fine! I just need some air, let’s – we’re nearly…” She seemed to run out of breath, and her feet were dragging as she tried to keep on walking.

“You’re not fine!” Aveline exclaimed, her voice tense with worry. “Are you hurt? Where are you hurt?”

“I’m not,” Hawke insisted. “I’m just… need some air.” She tried feebly to twist away from Fenris and Aveline’s hands, finally wresting one arm away from Aveline to push open the door to the Keep.

Fenris kept a steady hand on her arm, and it was a good thing; as soon as she took two steps into the smoke-scented nighttime air, she seemed to lose control of her legs, and Fenris caught her before she could hit the ground.

“Venhedis,” he hissed. Her eyelids were at half-mast and her eyes were unfocused as they drifted vaguely across his face.

“Fenris,” she murmured, “you’re so… Have I ever… told you…?”

Her smile was lazy, and he glared at her. “Hawke, what’s wrong?” he demanded. “Where are you hurt?”

“I’m not,” she mumbled. “I’m…” She trailed off into silence, her body going limp in his arms.

Fenris stared at her stupidly, struck dumb by her sudden stillness. She couldn’t be – no, it was impossible. Hawke was never seriously hurt. She was too lively, too full of vitality and optimism. She couldn’t be…

A yawning terror suddenly opened inside Fenris’s belly, a pit of sucking fear the likes of which he’d never felt before, and he fought to breathe as he stared at her precious face. Wake up, he thought with rising desperation. Wake up, or nothing will ever be right again.

The words sat frozen in his brain. He was unable to speak. He was paralyzed by this new and petrifying terror. Then suddenly Anders was there.

“Move, you idiot,” he hissed, then shoved Fenris roughly until he shifted aside. Anders hovered his hands near Hawke’s temples and closed his eyes, muttering under his breath as a cool green glow emanated from his palms.

“She’s overextended,” Merrill whispered tremulously.

“What does that mean?” Isabela demanded.

“She pushed herself too hard without help,” Merrill explained. “No lyrium, no blood magic to supplement -”

“Her mana is almost depleted,” Anders interrupted brusquely, his hands still glowing with restorative energy. “Please, be quiet while I…” He trailed off, and the rest of the group fell into a tense silence as he worked.

Fenris was completely still. He could barely breathe, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Hawke. Her magic force was almost depleted – that force that he hated on principle, but which Hawke controlled so well and which was such an integral part of who she was. Of course Fenris didn’t hate that part of her, because it was her, it was Hawke, and he didn’t hate Hawke. He hated nothing about her, not a single thing, not her constant flirting or her pro-mage tendencies or her teasing the Templars or her inability to take most things seriously – he didn’t hate anything about her, of course he didn’t, because he loved her.

Andraste save him, he loved her. He fucking loved her, and if she died…

An interminable eon later, Anders leaned back opened his eyes. “She’s stable now,” he said, and Fenris’s heart thudded with a painful squeeze of relief. “She needs to rest. And she needs lyrium supplements, carefully controlled. But she’ll be all right.” He looked at Aveline, his manner brisk and clinical. “Aveline, will you-?”

“Of course,” Aveline said, and she carefully lifted Hawke into her arms.

They made their way to Hawke’s mansion as quickly as they could, ignoring the disastrous mess that the evening’s battle had made of the city. Fenris ran at Aveline’s side, oblivious to everything except the knowledge that Hawke would be all right.

She would be all right. The world wasn’t a complete ruin.

Sebastian banged on the door to Hawke’s mansion, and Fenris wasn’t sure if it actually took longer than usual for Bodahn to come to the door or if it just felt like it, but by the time he opened the door, the entire party was so impatient that they poured inside like an unstoppable tide.

“Guard-Captain Vallen? Brother Vael? I – what has – Serrah Hawke! Is she – what’s happened? The Qunari, did they-?” Bodahn was completely flustered, and Fenris was vaguely aware of Sebastian pulling him aside to explain the situation while the rest of them followed Anders and Aveline up to Hawke’s bedroom.

Aveline laid Hawke tenderly on the bed, and Anders immediately began issuing orders, sending Merrill to fetch some lyrium and Varric to get some cloths and a basin of water before resuming his treatment.

Fenris prowled restlessly at the foot of the bed, his eyes scanning Hawke’s face and body almost compulsively. She was so limp, her breathing so slow and her face so pale, and he couldn’t stop staring at her as though the force of his gaze alone would revive her.

Anders said she’ll be fine, he reminded himself firmly. He didn’t trust Anders’s ethics or motivations or his companionship, but he did trust the man’s healing skills.

“Would you stand bloody still?” Anders snapped at him. “You’re distracting. Stay still or get out.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes, his temper rising instinctively at Anders’s tone, but he forced himself to comply. If standing still helped Anders to help Hawke, then he would do it. He would do anything.

Merrill eventually returned with an armful of bottles from Hawke’s medicine cabinet, and Varric came back with the basin and the cloths, and Anders continued to tend to her, giving calm and quiet directions to Merrill and Varric as needed. Aveline, Sebastian, and Isabela stood at the sides of the room, waiting and watching as Anders worked. Orana drifted in and out, bringing extra chairs and glasses of water as they all settled into their sickbed vigil.

Finally Anders sat back on his heels with a tired but satisfied sigh. “All right,” he said. “I’ve done everything I can for tonight. The best thing for her now is rest, so I’d suggest you all go home.”

“Are you staying?” Merrill asked shrewdly.

Anders frowned. “Yes,” he said. “I have to monitor her, check on her every hour. But you should all go.”

Merrill folded her arms obstinately, and Varric chuckled. “I think you’ll be finding yourself on the losing side with that order, Blondie,” he drawled. “No one’s going anywhere.”

Anders scowled more deeply. “Well… You all need to leave this room, then,” he said severely. “Give her some space.”

There was a general grumble of protest, but eventually everyone drifted out one by one, with Bodahn’s fervent promises to set up accommodations for them in the other rooms of the mansion.

But Fenris refused to move. He remained at the foot of the bed where he’d stood for the past hour.

Anders frowned. “Go on, get out of here,” he said. “You’re not helping anyone by standing there.”

“No,” Fenris said simply.

Anders gave him a hard look, but Fenris calmly returned his stare. “I am not leaving,” Fenris said quietly. He shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other before speaking again. “You should get some rest. You… worked hard tonight.” He broke off and swallowed hard. This was the closest he could get to expressing his appreciation for Anders, and he hoped that the mage would accept it for what it was worth. “I can rouse you if she seems unwell. But you deserve the rest.”

Anders stared at him for a moment longer. “Fine,” he finally said, then rose to his feet. “If she spikes a fever, or stops breathing, or does anything at all except for sleep peacefully or wake up peacefully, then you fetch me immediately. Do you understand?”

Fenris nodded, and Anders gave him one last suspicious look before heading for the door.

“Thank you,” Fenris said, to his own surprise.

Anders frowned. “I’m not here for you,” he retorted, but with a little less heat than usual. Then he left the room.

Fenris returned his gaze to Hawke’s sleeping form. She looked peaceful and comfortable now, less like an unconscious invalid and more like her usual sleeping self. For the first time in hours, Fenris felt his muscles starting to relax.

Slowly and cautiously, he approached the bed and pulled up a chair, then sat close to her head. He’d been in this exact position a mere week ago, sitting at Hawke’s side after her mother had died. How strange and terrible for them to be here again so soon, and under such dire circumstances.

He gazed at her tenderly. Anders and Merrill had removed her armour and cleaned her face and neck of the majority of the night’s dirt and sweat, but her long dark hair was in disarray, a mass of sweat-dampened waves that smelled of acrid smoke. As Fenris studied her, his eyes tracing the delicate lines of her cheekbones and her lips, he realized he wasn’t alone.

He turned toward the door and found Isabela standing there, looking deeply uncomfortable.

She caught his eye, and they stared at each other in silence for a moment.

“Would you really have given me over to the Qunari?” she asked suddenly. Her tone was belligerent, but she was holding herself very still, like a rat in a cage.

Fenris frowned. “No.” He turned his eyes back to Hawke.

“But you said… that thing you said,” Isabela muttered.

“I don’t think you should have gone with the Qunari,” Fenris said. “But maybe you should act with some forethought on occasion.”

Isabela scoffed and took one step into the room. “Oh, like you should be giving advice.”

Fenris tore his eyes away from Hawke to scowl at her. “What are you on about?”

“Fenris, look at you!” Isabela exclaimed. She waved an exasperated hand at Hawke’s sleeping form. “You’re in love with Hawke,” she said bluntly. “Everyone knows it. You’re the only one who won’t admit it. Just do something about it already, won’t you? It was kind of cute two years ago. It’s not anymore.”

He didn’t bother to reply, because she was right. Silence settled over the room again as he watched the comforting rise and fall of Hawke’s ribcage.

After a long, quiet moment, he spoke. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

He raised his eyes to Isabela’s face, and she glared at him. “Don’t look at me like that,” she snapped. “I know you almost left after you dumped her.”

Fenris flinched at her scathing words, then calmly replied. “I was not judging you. I was just… asking.”

Isabela looked at him for a long moment, the defensiveness melting from her expression until she dropped her gaze to her fidgeting hands. “You’ll look after her, won’t you?” she muttered.

Fenris nodded. “I will be here,” he said. There was nowhere else he could imagine being than by Hawke’s side. It was a truth he’d been fighting for years, but the possibility of losing the chance – of losing her…

Fenris was a slow learner, but he’d learned this much: his life would mean nothing without Hawke in it.

Isabela lifted her eyes back to his face. Then she gave him a small smile. “I won’t be gone forever,” she said. “Just until this all… you know… blows over.”

Fenris nodded a silent acknowledgement. Isabela took a tentative step closer, then leaned over and pecked him on the cheek. “You two had better be fucking again by the time I come back,” she said playfully.

He studied a lingering smudge of dirt on Hawke’s cheek. Isabela was waiting for a lighthearted response, he knew, but his heart felt so damned heavy, weighed down by the night’s revelations, and he didn’t quite have it in him to dig up the expected reply.

Isabela sighed. “Oh, Fenris. Someday you’ll get that pretty head out of your ass and then you’ll be happy, I’m sure of it.” She shifted, then made her awkward way toward the door. “I’ll… I’ll see you, all right?”

“Safe travels, Isabela,” he replied. Then he smirked. “I hope you do not die.”

She scoffed at his use of the Qunari farewell, then threw one last regretful look at Hawke’s slumbering body before leaving the room.

Fenris returned his attention to Hawke. Her hair really was a mess, and it was sure to get even more tangled if she moved around in her sleep.

He wanted to stroke it. Run his fingers through the dark mass of waves and rinse it clean of the sweat and smell of battle.

No, that was the least of what he wanted. What he really wanted was the reassurance of her heated and hedonistic body in his arms. He wanted the privilege of crawling into this bed and curling around her like he had when her mother had died, when his unconscious body had deigned so boldly to hold her when they’d both been asleep.

Fenris dragged his fingers through his own sweat-matted hair. Did he dare to admit, finally, that he wanted something? To tempt the cruelty of his life into taking something more away from him?

But this felt like so much more than wanting. This – her, the woman in this bed, Rynne Hawke – she was what he needed. He needed her as badly as he needed to be free of Danarius. Hawke had torn a hole in the fabric of his life, patching the tear with levity and humour and trust, and worst of all, with hope – with blasted, poisonous, fucking hope.

The realization was blinding: bright and bruising, brilliant and difficult to look at directly. Acknowledging that he loved Hawke – he, Fenris, loved someone: it was like tearing away a blindfold he’d always worn, like breaking the shackles he’d always maintained around his heart. It was another kind of freedom: freedom to want her, to need her, to… to feel something other than anger and hate and resentment.

But Fenris had never been particularly good at making the most of the freedom he already had. He’d run away from Danarius only to trap himself in the limbo of the present. For years he’d sat in a precarious kind of balance, with Hawke on one shoulder and his unknown past on the other. He’d refused to take any risks, refused to tip the uncomfortable but familiar balance of his stagnant life by launching himself wholeheartedly into either his past or his future, and thus he’d simply… stood still.

For the second time in his life, Fenris was free. And for the second time in his life, he didn’t quite know what to do with this freedom.

Suddenly Hawke inhaled, a deep draw of breath through her nose, and Fenris snapped out of his roiling reverie to look at her. Her eyelids were fluttering, and as he watched, breathless with anticipation, she lifted one limp hand and rubbed her cheek.

Finally she opened her eyes, her gaze roving slowly over the canopy of the bed as she slowly came awake. Then she turned her head and met his gaze.

She blinked at him with those beloved bronze eyes, then smiled slowly. “Fancy seeing you here. Yet again.”

She was cheeky as always, with a smile on her face as always, and Fenris thought his heart might thump clean out of his chest if it beat any harder.

He released an unsteady breath. “I was thinking the same thing,” he said. “You are devastatingly unlucky.”

She chuckled tiredly, then stretched her arms. “Well, I don’t know about that. I’m alive, aren’t I?”

It was true. She was alive, and Fenris had never been more vehemently grateful for Anders’s healing abilities than he was tonight.

Almost as though she’d heard his thoughts, she suddenly lifted her head and looked toward the door. “Was Anders here? He must’ve looked after me, didn’t he? Is he still here?”

Fenris nodded. “He is. They’re all – well.” He broke off, then decided against telling her for now that Isabela was gone. “The others are sleeping here tonight,” he said carefully. Then he hesitated before going on. “Do you want Anders? Should I fetch him…?” Fenris didn’t want anyone else to interrupt this time with her, but he would if it’s what she wanted.

Hawke shook her head, then rolled onto her side to face him. “No. Let him rest. He’s probably almost as exhausted as I was. I…” She grimaced. “Damn, Fenris. I was not prepared for that fight. The bloody Arishok, for fuck’s sake?” She shook her head in wonderment, then smiled at him and tucked her hands under her cheek. “See, this is testament to how lucky I am.”

He returned her smile, his throat throbbing with a potent combination of fondness and retroactive fear and incredulity. She’d almost died multiple times tonight, and her mother had died a mere week ago, and she called herself lucky…

Of course she did. That was Hawke. Her pain was inked on her back in twisting black lines so she could maintain that beautiful smile.

Fenris swallowed hard. He had no idea it could hurt to love someone this much. “Yes, well,” he said gruffly. “Anders said no more adventures for at least a week, so your luck can have some time to recover.”

She groaned. “Bedrest? Not having to run from Lowtown to Sundermount to save everyone? What a pity. Shall I gnash my teeth and wail in despair?” She yawned deeply, covering her mouth with her hand to hide the yawn.

Fenris smirked. “Go back to sleep, Hawke. You need it.”

She smiled again. Her eyes were drifting closed already. “Bossy,” she slurred. “You can use that bossy tone with me anytime.”

He huffed with amusement, but the smile was already slipping from her face, her cheeks relaxing back into the easy rest of slumber. Moments later, she was asleep again.

Fenris quietly studied her sleeping face, that residual smear of dirt on her cheek, the tangled ropes of her hair that coiled around her head and neck. A few minutes later, when he was sure she was deeply asleep, he reached toward her.

With this thumb, he carefully wiped the dirt from her cheekbone.

He hesitated. Then, very carefully, he lifted a lock of hair away from her neck. Gently, so gently, he ran the edge of his thumb along the delicate line of her jaw, then reluctantly lifted his hand away.

Fenris had to be with her. There was no question about it. But that meant that he had to act.

There was no excuse anymore for the suspended state in which he’d lived his life. If he wanted to be with Hawke, he had to know everything about his past. He had to make sure he hadn’t left any skeletons behind – figurative or literal – that would rise up to steal his future. He had to know if he’d once had a family, if he’d once been capable of caring for someone without hurting them constantly the way he’d done to Hawke.

Fenris had to be whole and good and strong, so he could stand beside Hawke and support her the way she supported him.

And there was only one way to find out everything he needed to know.

He had to find his sister.