Chapter Text
The fire crackled. The night had eaten away at it, dimming it to sudden spattering sparks as it slowly died to embers in the middle of their campfire. Across from them, little Orana huddled inside of her blankets. Hawke’s mabari, Aegis, lay with her, snuffling quietly. A sentinel for their most vulnerable member.
By Fenris’ side sat his lover, best friend, and confidante – a mage named Azzan Hawke. The impossible man Fenris had fallen in love with. They both sat up facing the fire despite the late hour, their blankets cool and empty behind their backs. Azzan remained in his armor, as did Fenris; they were on the run, only a week’s travel from Kirkwall, and couldn’t let down their guard even in sleep. Fenris yawned, only for Hawke’s healing aura to whisper against his skin. He looked at Azzan to see those eyes gazing heavily at him.
They had been through much, even discounting the battle against Meredith and her templars just a week before. They’d faced the worst secrets within their relationship, the hatred that had caused Fenris to turn a blind eye to the plight of mages in Kirkwall – the plight Azzan had been trapped within, as well.
Since then, they’d been running. Not to any specific destination. Simply ‘away from Kirkwall.’ At the moment, they were running a path directly away from the mountains, keeping away from where Hawke had told Kirkwall’s apostates to head. They couldn’t risk attempting to cross the Waking Sea; a boat would be too easy to chase and destroy out on the waters. They were left heading West. Closer to Tevinter with every passing day.
He held Azzan’s gaze. Over the past few days, they’d spoken more openly with one another than ever before. Perhaps it was partly because of how close they’d come to losing one another. Fenris believed it was because they’d finally laid themselves bare. Whatever the case, Hawke had admitted his goals for the world, and for the first time, Fenris had stopped denigrating mages and listened. He’d been surprised to learn that Hawke wanted the templars to remain, save more as guards than as jailers. Hawke even wished to perhaps keep the Circles. “We need a place to learn,” Hawke said. “That, at least, is true. We need to know of our powers, and of the Fade. If it weren’t for my father, things would have been very different for myself and my sister.”
Somehow, after hearing Azzan’s goals, it had been as if they could speak about anything. Hawke had never dared tell Fenris his hopes for mages, because, in truth, Fenris would never have entertained them before. He’d closed his mind off, and in doing so, he’d closed his heart. It had been the third night on the run that Fenris had leaned heavily on Azzan’s shoulder and whispered, “I want to change.”
And it had been without hesitation that Hawke had curled an arm around him and said, “no matter what, I’m with you.”
Their fourth night had been the night for a different sort of conversation, likely brought up from their pent-up frustration; they hadn’t enough privacy to spend more intimate time together, and with Orana just on the other side of the fire, they were uneasy with the idea of trying after she fell into sleep. Fenris had grumbled something about taking care of himself beyond the treeline, and Hawke had nearly tripped over himself to help. They’d spent several minutes scratching Hawke’s back against the bark of a tree before flopping back down by the fire and giggling themselves stupid.
“I have never done something that ridiculous in my life,” Fenris had said.
“Really?” The word had been filled with innocent surprise, yet it had made Fenris think.
“Danarius hated getting dirty, and the rest were in return for shelter. No need for an outdoor spectacle.”
Hawke had gone quiet for quite some time. Fenris remembered it, wanted to cradle every single second of that night to his chest. If there was anything he never wanted to forget, it was the way Azzan had looked at him when he’d said, “then that makes me your first.”
It had clearly not been what he’d first wanted to say; his mouth had parted for several seconds before he’d said it. Undoubtedly, he’d wanted to comment on Fenris’ past, to ask questions or, more likely, considering who Hawke was, to apologize on behalf of humanity, or for not meeting Fenris sooner. Instead he’d given Fenris a gift to cherish. For the first time, he’d found a true first in sex with Azzan. Never had he had sex of any kind in the woods, against a tree. That was Azzan’s and Azzan’s alone, and it always would be.
He’d smiled at the idea. It made Azzan’s surprised reaction from before nice when it could have been painful. “I’m not such an expert in sex as you think.”
Azzan’s lips quirked into a half-smile. Back on that fourth night, the light had still been higher. Orana had gone to sleep only about half an hour before they’d rushed for the trees. “You are to me,” Hawke said. Thanks to that bright blaze, he’d been able to see the way Azzan’s eyes sparkled at him. “You’re amazing.”
Fenris flushed. The tone of Hawke’s voice made it clear that the skills he possessed thanks to his past had little to nothing to do with why he was ‘amazing.’ “I am a fool.”
“No, you’re not.” Azzan’s voice had been firm. It always was when he was trying to stop Fenris from insulting himself. Annoying, considering how poorly Hawke often thought of himself.
“I am.” He glared warningly when Hawke made to contradict him again. “All this time, I have tried to give you pleasure, to help you find what you enjoy.” Hawke had blushed beet red and looked away. Fenris felt a similar stain on his own cheeks and cleared his throat. “But I have never…” No, he would not speak of what he’d been taught, of how he’d learned to memorize what Danarius wanted from his movements and sighs and fingers. How he’d learned to never ask, but instead to do, and do correctly the first time, or else. He did not want Hawke to know about that. The man was already an expert at hesitating in bed without imagining even more reasons to do so. “I have tried to lead you into showing me when I could have simply asked.”
Silence, for a few moments. Then a snort. “I could have simply told you, you know.” Hawke fiddled with his armor. Plucked at his pants. “But I was afraid.”
Afraid of making Fenris think of Danarius. Of bringing up bad memories. Of becoming someone Fenris associated with those of his past. Fenris sighed gustily. “We are both fools, then.”
Hawke smiled softly. “I guess so. Fools in love.”
Fenris covered his face and groaned.
Several minutes passed between them. Fenris had started feeling sleepy; with his lust sated and the fire dying down, he was strongly aware of Hawke’s warmth next to him and the darkness of the night surrounding them. The crickets had set up their cacophony long ago, until it had turned into a sort of melody. The night was chilly enough for him to shiver beneath the leather of his armor, but if he leaned against Azzan, then it melded easily into the feel of the man’s aura, and he could relax into it.
“My greatest sin,” Azzan whispered, and the man was so still, so quiet, so careful, that Fenris knew he thought Fenris had fallen asleep, “is wanting to be inside you.”
Fenris had simply lay against Azzan’s shoulder, not certain what to think. He could feel the tension in the shoulder beneath his head. Finally, he spoke. It made Azzan jump. “Why would that be a sin?”
A rumble billowed up through the body beneath his head. Azzan had nearly shouted in surprise. He smirked as he opened his eyes. Azzan looked down at him. “What?” the man asked. Playing dumb. Fenris just raised a brow. Azzan flinched and looked away again. It made Fenris pay enough attention that he sat up.
“Hawke?”
Azzan covered his mouth. “It’s not like… I don’t want…” The man scowled, obviously unhappy with the direction his attempts at explanations would head. Fenris grabbed Hawke’s hand and lowered it. Azzan met his gaze, took a deep breath, and said. “When you’re above me, in me. I feel safer than I’ve ever felt.”
The high praise left Fenris breathless.
“I want to give that to you. I want to shelter you, to – to have you know you’re safe. With me. Always. Your – your body, sure, but also…” Hawke grimaced. “When I’m with you, when we’re together–”
“When we are making love,” Fenris said quietly.
“Yes.” Hawke’s breath gusted out. “When we’re making love, when you’re above me, looking at me – I feel like if the world exploded, I would wake up to find you cradling my heart in your hands. Keeping it safe.” Fenris didn’t know how to respond. “I want that, too. For you. I want you to – but I can’t.” Fenris jerked. Hawke looked down at his lap, breaking eye contact. “That’s not what it would mean for you.” Hawke’s hand in his shook. “I know it. I hate it. I hate that man for it. I want to bring him back just so I can kill him again. I want to claw at him until…”
Azzan closed his eyes, halting the spew of violence. It was more hatred than Fenris had seen in Hawke for anyone. Usually his rage at least calmed once the person was gone. Fenris shouldn’t have been so warmed to know Hawke detested Danarius so much, but he was. The man who Fenris despised, Hawke despised, as well. For his sake.
“I want that, as well.”
Azzan quirked a grin. “You already got to claw his throat out. It’s my turn.”
It surprised a chuckle out of him. “You misunderstand.” When Azzan finally matched his gaze again, he continued. “I want to feel you like that. Inside me. Surrounding me.” Azzan flushed, but those eyes told Fenris the truth. Hunger, and want. “I admit that it will be difficult, but I see no reason why we cannot achieve it.”
Azzan had burst into a wide grin. He’d nearly bounced where he sat. “Really?”
Fenris had rolled his eyes. “Of course.”
Something that private – another first for Fenris, as he’d never spoken in such a way about sex before; every other time in his life, it had been about taking another’s orders on what to do and not how to fulfill one another equally – had opened the floodgates. They’d spent the next night talking about Hawke’s spirit. It had been Fenris who had begun the discussion. He’d stared into the fire, still blazing brightly, an unspoken hint that they both wished to continue the new rituals to their nights, and forced himself to, for the first time (another first!), speak on his own sexual desires. “If we are to acknowledge our desires to one another, I must admit that I… enjoy feeling your magic when you come.”
Azzan, who had been drinking from their canteen, had made one very loud gulping sound, lurched where he’d sat, and hacked. Fenris quickly reached over and patted his back as he coughed. Orana woke up. They’d spent a very long period of time getting Hawke to calm down, letting Orana check to ensure he was all right, and then waiting tensely for the young woman to go back to sleep so they could continue the discussion. Aegis, who had been sleeping soundly just earlier, now watched them with a smug grin. Azzan glared at the hound for several moments before giving up and turning to him. “What?”
“You always cut it off,” Fenris said, as if they hadn’t been interrupted and weren’t being listened to by an intelligent dog, “but I feel it. Your aura. You even actively heal me sometimes, when you aren’t really thinking about it.” Azzan had paled. Paled. Fenris wanted to throw his hands in the air. “Your magic comforts me. I desire the sensation.”
Azzan’s mouth gaped.
“It’s too late, anyway,” Fenris said, and snorted. “Sometimes, as we travel, I feel your aura and get – well. At least my body knows to prioritize properly in battle.”
Azzan choked, this time on air.
“I let it touch you?” Azzan whispered a full minute later. The man covered his mouth again – a habit Fenris was starting to recognize and trying to make him break. With others, he may be allowed to hide, but not with him. Not anymore. “I never mean to. It’s out of my control. I never wanted…”
“Did you not hear me say I desire it?”
Azzan sent him a look. “Even though I’m not controlling my spirit properly?”
Fenris shifted on the dry earth. “It is for that reason that I came to enjoy it.” At the disbelieving look Azzan sent him, he continued. “If it is not under your control, then it is instinct. I have felt the ‘instinct’ of countless mages. Only you instinctively heal, sometimes exhausting your mana in your desire to give. How can I not enjoy that feeling? The knowledge that you put me first without thought.”
He’d been surprised to see, not happiness, but pensiveness that had led Hawke to curling his arms around his knees like a child. The man had rested his head on his knees and stared out into the darkness beyond the fire. “I can’t help but fear it sometimes,” he’d said. The words had made Fenris jerk. Hawke had seen; the smile he’d given had not been happy, either. “I never wanted to tell you, because…”
Because he’d thought it would hasten Fenris’ departure, perhaps even his hatred. Fenris’ fists clenched. Hawke hadn’t been wrong to fear it, which only made Fenris angrier. He should have given proper support. Hawke had never hesitated to do so for him. “Tell me now.”
Azzan had. They’d barely remembered to sleep, they’d gotten so involved in the conversation. He learned about Azzan’s struggles when he’d first decided to make the deal, how he’d put Faith through the wringer because of his concerns about being too gullible, too hopeful, too optimistic. He learned about Hawke keeping Faith at a distance, to the point where Faith couldn’t properly help him, until he’d finally decided to dive into the relationship fully. That had been after the Arishok, Fenris remembered, and the issues that had arisen from that battle. He learned how close it had come, how vulnerable Azzan had been once Faith and him had separated.
Mostly, Azzan told him of a time when Faith had actually chosen to numb his emotions, to separate him from them in order to keep him safe from his own despair. “I made Faith make a pact to never do it again,” Azzan said, still not meeting Fenris’ gaze, instead staring into the glowing remains of the dying fire. Fenris looked to it as well, in time to watch a single spark flicker off into the air. The fire dimmed still more right before his eyes. “It made me wonder if I’d made a horrible mistake in trusting Faith so much. But we’re together now. Like Anders.” Azzan touched his chest. “If I lost Faith now…”
Fenris grimaced. The lives of the two were bound together. If one died, so would the other. “I know I only helped exacerbate your fears. Allow me to alleviate them somewhat.” Azzan quirked a brow at him, but he tilted his head, listening. “You are a healer, Hawke. It has taken me far too long to recognize just how ingrained that is within you. It is your instinct. Though I do not pretend to understand this… spirit… within you, I understand that much.” He’d scooted closer as the very last embers of the fire flickered out. Thrown into full darkness, his limited eyesight scanned the shadowy form beside him and took its hand. “I have known the you that is connected to this spirit, and I trust that you. You chose well.”
His words had been the last that night; Hawke had settled into his arms, and from there they had slept. Now was their sixth night, and again, they were instinctively moving toward yet another conversation. Fenris thrummed with energy despite the week’s hours spent speaking instead of sleeping. They were used to long days of travel; Hawke had always been traipsing up and down Kirkwall’s hillsides. They would not be as weary as Orana. Yet there was something odd in Hawke’s gaze as he looked upon Fenris now. Not trepidation, exactly. But those sad brows, those pressed lips. Even in the darkness, Fenris could place Hawke’s look of regret.
“I don’t want to live like this.”
Fenris was surprised more by his reaction than by anything else. His heart skipped a beat. This night, yet another night before the fire, with his chosen family beside him, he realized how much he had to lose. He’d had this feeling just six days earlier, but in a more physical sense. For the first time, he found himself wondering what it would be like to have Hawke turn away from him and leave. The thought seemed almost absurd; Hawke had never turned his back on him. Perhaps that was why he only thought of it now, hitting him so squarely he felt choked of air. Hawke had become his home. He didn’t like the thought of who he might become if he was left alone again.
“How do you mean?” he asked, and watched Azzan start waving his hands as if to encompass their makeshift camp, little more than the fire and the blankets and their packs, sitting to the side of his and Azzan’s blankets, ready to be grabbed in a moment if they needed to run. So far, they’d had little more than a couple of skirmishes to their names, mostly against bandits, but also against one small contingent of templars. Those sorts of battles, Fenris had thought even then, would define the rest of their lives.
“Running. No home. No safety.” Hawke’s gaze was on Orana, but Fenris thought he was included in Hawke’s concerns, as well. Because he always was. Of course Hawke was not leaving him. Of course. Thank goodness. “No reason to go anywhere or do anything.”
Drifting. Fenris had faced the same dilemma once. Hawke had told him to search for a meaning, whatever that meaning might be. But that advice wouldn’t work here. Hawke had a meaning. The freedom of mages. Now it was happening, and he was being hunted. In order to save the other mages of Kirkwall, Hawke needed to continue moving, to keep the templars’ gazes upon him for as long as possible.
“You will have purpose again,” Fenris assured him. It was the best he could give. “I understand your frustration, but this is temporary.” He hoped. He didn’t think so. “This battle will consume the world. But that does not mean it will last forever.” Again, he hoped. As had become normal, he leaned against Hawke, and Hawke against him. “We will find our home again.”
He knew without looking that Hawke would be smiling at the ‘we.’ “Until then?” Hawke whispered.
Fenris looked to Orana. She’d wanted so badly to not be left behind. She'd been willing to come with them despite refusing to so much as leave the building before. Still, the desire to be with Hawke had left her out in the cold, huddled under blankets beneath the sky. No shelter, no home. It was no way to live. Fenris knew that very well. “We will find a place.”
Hawke was silent. They both knew the chances of that happening.
“What do you want?” Hawke asked.
It was a loaded question. Hawke had a bad habit of putting others’ wants head and shoulders above his own. Fenris answered carefully. “I want a purpose, as well.”
Loving Hawke was something that would happen anywhere, at any time. It was no more a purpose than breathing. He thought about it. Opened his mouth. Closed it. He felt the weight of Hawke’s stare and reminded himself once again that he had sworn to never hide his thoughts. He’d promised himself when he’d run from Danarius. He would no longer act subservient to anyone, for anything. So he spoke. “When your brother had been captured. Do you remember?”
A foolish question, yet Hawke didn’t call him on it. He never did. “Yes.”
“The woman. Grace.” He thought back to her; she’d had the confident grace he knew all too well. It had outshone her physical features, which would have been stunning if it hadn’t been for the righteous indignation she wore like a second skin. “When we fought her, and she used her blood magic on me – there is no need to flinch, Hawke,” he said, trying not to sound aggravated. “I am not going to break at it.”
Hawke’s body was tense against him. “I can be unhappy about it,” Hawke said. Fenris sighed.
“For a moment during the battle, yes. It had felt familiar. But the sensation had left me angry, not afraid.” Hawke seemed to contemplate this. “It had felt right, battling her. I hadn’t faced a blood mage since battling Danarius. It had felt… good.”
More contemplation. He let Hawke ruminate on it. Fenris didn’t know what it meant, either, after all. Just that, when thinking about a purpose, that moment had felt right. In a way he couldn’t describe. Perhaps it was unfair, to mention cutting down mages in the same conversation as the idea of finding his purpose, but there it was.
“Perhaps we’ve been focusing on my own path for too long.”
Fenris snorted. “I never even acknowledged your path, Hawke. I hardly think we have dwelt upon it.”
Azzan chuckled. “That’s rather pathetic, then.” Fenris closed his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the pun. “Guess you’re a bit antipathetic toward my humor, huh?”
“Hawke.”
Azzan chuckled. “Fine, fine.” Fenris got to listen to Hawke take a few easy breaths before saying, “Ever since I came back from the Deep Roads, I’ve focused on helping mages get rights. I’d gained wealth and privilege; it was my duty, I thought, to use it properly.”
Maker. No wonder Fenris loved this idiot.
“But whatever the result of this disaster, the one thing I’m certain of is that I can’t be a part of it.”
That made Fenris lean off of Hawke and look up at him. The man was gorgeous. His hair was still partly pulled back, the locks for once still neatly within their hairtie, since they hadn’t gotten into a fight that day. It left his cheekbones on easy display, the last glows of firelight throwing the man’s eternal stubble into stark contrast with the golden tan of his skin. The metal of his specialized armor glowed orange in the last of the fire’s embers, shining up enough to show the edges of that midnight hair as it swept along the tops of Hawke’s shoulders. Fenris had expected to see tension in them, and in that back. He didn’t. Hawke seemed to have calmed somewhat. He’d reached some decision. “Why not?” Fenris asked.
“I led the start of the rebellion,” he said simply. At Fenris’ frown, he said, “it started horribly, Fenris. Meredith would have massacred them all, yes, but Anders…” Azzan grimaced. It was still painful for him; Anders had been a dear friend, someone Hawke had admired and cared for. The betrayal had been sudden and sharp, and Hawke had yet to recover from it. If he ever would. “So many innocent people died because of him. If I led, it would be considered an act of violence by mages against the world. We would all be hunted down and slaughtered for it. There would be no rebellion, no reform. Only death.”
Fenris thought about it. It was true. As much as neither of them liked it, mages had to look like martyrs now. They were; even Fenris, distrustful of mages as he was, knew they were victims in all this madness. For now. Countless mages would see themselves as righteous martyrs, and they would act with all the violence of those who believed they were right and the world was wrong. Just like Anders. But for now, mages needed the chance to prove themselves the subjected, not the usurpers.
Hawke might choose to involve himself later, but by then, the movement would be too large, and his appearance too late. If he got involved, he would merely make everything a pro-Champion, anti-Champion debate. So no, perhaps not even then. Hawke had begun this, but if he chose to lead? If he became, as Anders proclaimed him, the leader the mages had been waiting for?
Fenris shifted, uneasy. He didn’t like the idea of what it all would become. It sounded too much like an Exalted March.
Thankfully, it appeared Azzan had come to the same conclusion. “So what do you propose?” He wondered if Hawke was about to suggest they search down those mages who would cause harm and didn’t know if he wanted to do so. He didn’t know of any way they could do so, and if there was one, surely it would be one the templars also knew. Wouldn’t they then be in danger of running across the very people they were attempting to avoid?
Hawke wrapped one arm around him. Rubbed his cheek into Fenris’ hair like a cat. “Not me,” Hawke murmured. “You.” Fenris breathed in deeply of Hawke’s scent. The man always seemed to smell of both fall and spring, pumpkin spice and apples. Likely due to his spirit. “What would be the one cause you would wish to fight for?”
Once again, Fenris found himself stunned into surprised silence. Not because of the question – really, he should have known – or even because the very idea of standing for a cause was new to him, though it was. What surprised him was how quickly he thought of something he wished to fight for. It came easily. Because of his association with Hawke, who seemed to take on every single cause in the entirety of Kirkwall? Or because of the story he and Hawke had read together, as he’d learned to understand the squiggles people made on parchment? Or was it perhaps because he truly desired it, in some bottom-most recesses of his heart that he’d barely begun to explore?
Whatever the case, he knew his answer. He looked up, searching for any sign of hesitation, trepidation, fear. Instead Hawke looked as he usually did – ready to give Fenris the world. “I want to be free,” he murmured. Azzan opened his mouth. Fenris reached up one gauntleted hand, careful with the spiked tips, and covered those beautiful lips. “Not just here and now. Everywhere. I want the word slaves to fall into antiquity. I want those like Grace to find no haven on this earth. If anyone is to live their lives hunted and afraid, I want it to be people like her.”
His fingers slid from Azzan’s lips. Hawke reached up and played with Fenris’ bangs, showing, for a short moment, the dots of lyrium embedded in his forehead. Something deep touched those eyes, something unreadable that made those fingers clench around a lock of his hair before gently smoothing it out. “Then we’ll go,” Azzan said, as if it was the easiest decision in the world.
Go. To Tevinter. To fight.
The idea brought with it equal parts elation and terror. But the terror felt good. Like facing Danarius. Like winning. Though he didn’t know if they could. They were talking about starting a war against what was once the most powerful nation in Thedas. Just the two of them. He looked over to the two forms nearly cuddling together on the other side of the dying fire. The two of them, a dog and a young ex-slave whose skills included cooking and playing the lyre. (A lyre which had been left behind.) It was madness.
He looked at Hawke. “It’s suicide.”
“No.” Hawke smiled. “I don’t think so.”
It was. Yet Fenris couldn’t find a single reason to not. Where else had they to go? The world would be on the lookout for Hawke now. Any sign of the Champion, and he would be carted off to who knew where to suffer who knew what. Would he be locked away? Imprisoned? Made tranquil?
And what of the war? It would spread. Like a disease, the events of Kirkwall would filter out into the rest of the world. Even if Hawke was no longer wanted by the templars, he would be sought out by the mages. Either to be killed for his part in the rebellion, or to be recruited to lead them in their efforts, whatever those may be.
There was no such thing as a safe haven for them anymore. No home. No future. No prospects.
Why not find something to make them feel like they were taking control of their own futures? Why not choose a path they could be proud of?
One they would walk together.
Fenris grinned. He knew it was a smile full of teeth, nearly primal. Like a wolf. “I suppose you were right about stranger places.”
Hawke laughed. It woke the mabari before it could do more than begin to drift to sleep. “I told you so.”
Inamorato.
The voice called to him from a haze of green. He turned, only to feel the coarse fiber of the mat beneath his skin. He looked around. He was standing. Standing, yet he distinctly felt the lumpy pillow beneath his head. Just a few hours before, he’d finished handing out orders to his people and had gone to sleep.
Suddenly he knew that was what he was. Asleep.
His fists clenched. Panic seized him. He hadn’t yet known a mage to be able to forcibly pull him into the Fade, but clearly that was what had happened. The green surrounding him was bright and thick, like a sort of fog. He took a single step and found himself, suddenly, in what looked like a very tiny clearing. He looked around again, startled. The place did not have the feel of the area he’d entered when chasing after Feynriel. It felt… soothing. Which made little sense until he saw the creature before him and felt, for the shortest instance, something like a summer breeze.
There was no sound here. No air. The small field ended in nothing but white. When he took another step into the meadow, the edges of it shifted yet again, becoming something more like the open wall of a chantry. Before him stood an enormous statue of Andraste, its hands out in a show of supplication.
The creature before him edged closer. He tensed. It stood at the height of a tall woman, its robes perhaps feminine in form. But its fingers were a smidge too long, its bearing a smidge too otherworldly. And its eyes were green.
Inamorato.
The word sounded familiar. He backed away. The chantry disappeared, though the statue remained. Only the edges of the meadow filled his vision. The creature stopped. For their dreams had been devoured by a demon that prowled the Fade as a wolf hunts a herd of deer. Taking first the weakest and frailest of hopes, and when there was nothing left, destroying the bright and bold by subtlety and ambush and cruel arts.
“Stay back, demon,” he hissed. He prepared to take another step back.
Help Healbird.
His foot touched the ground behind him. His eyes opened.
He woke up.
Back when they’d first arrived on the outskirts of Tevinter’s borders, Azzan had dressed himself up as a rich nobleman, with Fenris and Orana as his two servants. For Orana, the change had been natural. For Fenris, it had itched. As for Azzan – one would have thought someone had shoved glass under his nails. But it had gotten them inside, gotten them to a real bed for the first time in weeks, and had eventually allowed them the opportunity to take Tevinter in.
Those first few days, Fenris had looked over his shoulder at every turn, ready for someone to pop out and exclaim that they had found him, Danarius’ long-lost slave, his markings a glaring beacon for all to see. After a time, he’d learned that people paid little mind to elves, even less so here than in Kirkwall, and had managed to look more the guard and less the hunted.
They’d created a network. Fenris had been shocked to learn that Red Jenny had operatives here, and through Charade, Hawke had managed to meet them. Through them, they’d found runaway slaves, merchants helping to hide the slaves in their homes and in small buildings, secreting them through the night. They’d met a young man, elven, who had told them the secrets of the routes, the nobles who turned a willingly blind eye and those who actively hunted the slaves, bloodlust on their minds.
It had been Azzan who had gathered the information, Azzan who had made friends with all and sundry. And then, once they’d found enough to get started, it had been Azzan who had turned to him, kissed his ear, and whispered, “they’re all yours.”
Since then, he and Hawke had worked overtime to create their own safe havens within the country and its many cities, and to group together trustworthy souls to help those slaves escape. They set up camps in nearly abandoned towns, including this one, only a few hours from Vol Dorma, so deep into enemy territory they would be better off heading to the Nocan Sea and swimming for Par Vollen than trying to escape through the countryside. Not that they would. They were too deep into Fenris’ cause now. Four years too deep.
Now was the first time, however, that the days within the country’s borders seemed to stretch into something ready to snap. Several weeks before, Azzan had left him. They’d both noticed a sudden absence of Grey Wardens. Letters upon letters came flooding in from their communications officers informing them of the sudden absence, the abandoned posts and forts and garrisons. Too many feared the Grey Wardens teaming up with the Imperial Archon, or perhaps hunting down the slaves as they made their way to their town, grabbing them up and forcing them into service. “Ridiculous,” Azzan had said. “They have the Right of Conscription.”
Still, their sudden absence was worrying. Was it a Blight? A call to arms? A change in leadership? “Or,” Azzan postulated, his lips in a thin, grim line, “does it have to do with that hole in the sky and the new Inquisition?”
All questions neither of them could answer. Whatever the case, the magisters in Tevinter were on the move, as well, and suddenly it had become imperative that they learn what was going on. Fenris had asked if they should send someone to the Inquisition, but Hawke had shook his head. “Varric is already there,” he’d said, not for the first time. Varric, the one out of all of Hawke’s friends who had remained steadfast through everything, who had kept in touch with him, helped Hawke learn about spy networks, and even lent his own men to their fledgling cause, had been taken in by the Inquisition’s leaders and questioned. The last thing either Fenris or Azzan wanted was Azzan’s head on a pike, and considering the small, cryptic messages Varric sent through his spy network, that was what they could expect.
“I’ll go search for Stroud,” Hawke had said those many nights ago as they lay in one of their many safehouses. Stroud, the Warden who had saved Carver, who likely traveled with Hawke’s brother still. The Warden Hawke had contacted years ago, when they’d first run, to see if the man knew anything about red lyrium. This particular night of this particular conversation had been just outside of Solas, the major city furthest south. They had slowly made their way there, trailing after a few bands of slaves making their ways to the border. They’d waylaid over a dozen slaver troops trying to catch the groups.
Fenris turned to Azzan, sliding their bodies together with the ease of years of practice. “I can’t leave at the moment,” Fenris said, again not for the first time. Only this time, he paused. His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, you will go?”
Azzan smiled the smile that said he knew they would fight, and he knew he would win. “You’re right. You can’t leave now. You have a new group to train, several slaves to help get across the border, and Magister Tentum’s caravan to hit. You know it has to be me.”
Alone. They’d never been alone in this, not for a minute. Even when they’d had to part, for information gathering or to lure enemies away or even to act as if Azzan was buying the slaves or being escorted or whatever – they had never left one another alone on a mission. “Hawke, no.”
Azzan had so many habits with Fenris, and almost all of them involved touching. This was one Fenris had learned through years of both of them heading into battles they may not return from. Azzan leaned his head on Fenris’ shoulder and kissed his pulse point. Years ago, that very position had kept them both alive when it had seemed they would both fall. “Hawke yes.”
He had wanted to scream, to snarl. He had wanted to argue. For the first time since he’d chosen to take this path, he wanted to rage at his responsibilities. Instead he held the back of Hawke’s head, felt those silken strands beneath the smooth length of his fingers, and shivered. “You will come back to me.”
Victory assured, Hawke rolled onto him, until he was half covering Fenris, and started mouthing more strongly at Fenris’ neck. As always, he felt Hawke’s mana react to the lyrium within him, feeding the man power. Fenris leaned his neck back, offering more. Hawke would be gone for who knew how long. His fingers clenched into the skin of Hawke’s scalp at the thought of it. If Hawke was going to leave, he would be doing so with as much strength as Fenris could give him.
“Always,” Hawke had promised.
The word rang in his mind as he stood amongst his commanders, each working through their own jobs in what had become his ragtag group of warriors. They stood within the preparation room, many walking back and forth between tables and maps and papers filled with information – those who could read – and back. Most were men and women he and Hawke had freed themselves. Many traveled with them, hurrying back and forth along Tevinter’s regions. Orana stood beside him, able to read the words on the letter he’d just received as easily now as he.
“Sir?”
The woman before him was shorter by far than the average female elf, a few inches below five feet tall. Her clothing was that of a slave still; all the better for her to go unnoticed in the city. It had been there that she had found one of Varric’s men scouting around, trying to ask after the rebel army without making it clear he searched for them.
He stared at the paper in his hand and wished Cailyn had never found the man.
“Sir?” Cailyn asked again. She craned her neck to try to see his face.
“Leave me be,” he said, his voice raw, and left them all.
His feet marked the path out through the building and across the cobblestones, back to their home in this tiny town. His. His home now. The door barely got the chance to close behind him before he crashed to his knees. Aegis walked up to him, the mabari’s happy panting slowly growing quiet.
Elf, the letter began, proof that Varric may have been a good writer but still hadn’t mastered the art of a nickname, I’m sure ̶M̶a̶r̶s̶h̶m̶a̶l̶l̶o̶w̶ Hawke told you that he’d met with the Inquisition after it started a search for Stroud.
Yes, Hawke had informed him when the Inquisition had started sniffing around Stroud themselves. He’d decided to meet with them, on Varric’s suggestion.
The paper crumpled in his fist. It had been a mistake to trust such an organization for even a second.
We found the Grey Wardens. You and Hawke were right to be worried. They went full bonkers. Meredith-level bonkers. Started recruiting themselves for demons at the behest of a magister.
Just another group of idiots catering to the powerful, trying to find an easy way out. Just another magister trying… trying to take everything from him.
We went to stop them. Things got crazy. They always did. Hawke didn’t make it.
I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry, Elf.
His nails scratched against the hard stone floor as he curled in on himself. Hawke’s favor flashed, bright red, against his open skin. He stared at it until it took over his vision. Until all he saw was red, and then a blur, and then nothing but tears.
He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t find the breath. The world had no air left in it.
The fall into that yawning black pit inside his rib cage felt like choking lead even before he remembered the dream. Inamorato, he’d been called. He remembered now, finally, where he’d heard it before. Over and over again, from deep within his mind, whenever he’d slept within Hawke’s arms and found himself dreaming of Danarius, or of the fog warriors, or of his endless nights on the run. Whenever he’d faced a nightmare, a soft voice had called out to him. Every time, he would wake from the dream before it went too far. That far away voice had called him inamorato. Just as Azzan’s voice had just once before, in a battle where he’d called upon his spirit to save the lives of Fenris and Aegis. A word derived from the Tevinter tongue. A person’s male lover.
‘Help Healbird,’ that voice had begged. And he’d run from it.
Faith had tried to warn him.
He didn’t sleep that day, or the next. Orana, of all people, started taking care of things for him, leading the commanders away as they came to him, making sure he ate, even if it was by rote. He could see the way her own fingers shook, the way her shoulders quaked as she walked. “I hope,” Fenris said once, and found his voice scratchy and broken by tears that had run out long ago, “you know that you are my family, as well.”
Orana had merely bent down and kissed his cheek, more easily affectionate with another elf than with a human. “I know,” she’d whispered, and continued on. It was a strength he didn’t know how to possess.
He drifted. He went to the preparation room only once, his gaze failing to take in the words on the pages before him, blurring out the map until it looked like nothing more than squiggles and lines. For an instant, it reminded him harshly of the time before Hawke had begun to teach him. It had sent him into a panic. He didn’t want to return to such a time. He didn’t want his life with Hawke to disappear so easily. He would rather the pain in his chest never leave than lose his memories of Hawke, even one.
It was on the third night that he fell into an exhausted sleep, not on his bed – he couldn’t stand the sight of it – but in his chair, staring like a child at the food Orana had made him but unable to will himself to eat.
The green returned. Almost, he was thankful for it. He didn’t want to think he was the type to fall into the clutches of some demon the instant things got hard, but he knew better. If a demon promised him the chance to see Azzan again, he would take it. Even if Azzan would roll in his grave in concern for him.
Azzan’s grave. It was a new, terrifying, mind-bending thought. Where was it?
Inamorato.
He startled. Once again, he could feel the chair beneath and behind him, the hard wood pressing into his spine. He could still smell the food, the potatoes and small meats, even as they grew cold on his plate. Before him, the world turned bright, brighter. Slowly, the green shaped itself into a tiny meadow. Unlike before, this time he stumbled forward, barely believing what he was seeing.
The strange chantry opened up to him again, the statue’s hands out, palms up, as if seeking alms. He didn’t know why he thought it looked to be begging. Perhaps because he was. “Tell me you’re alive. That he’s alive. Please. I’ll do anything.”
The creature stood before him, just as it had before. Its unnaturally long fingers reached out to him. This time, he hurried forward. For their dreams had been devoured by a demon that prowled the Fade as a wolf hunts a herd of deer. Taking first the weakest and frailest of hopes, and when there was nothing left, destroying the bright and bold by subtlety and ambush and cruel arts.
“I don’t understand,” he said, scowling. When Hawke’s spirit of faith had taken over his body, Hawke had spoken in such riddles. Hawke had told him that the spirit kept itself to the holy texts. Fenris hadn’t been prepared to try to decipher the spirit’s meanings. He’d never thought he would need to. Now he cursed himself. He should have tried harder. Been more prepared. “Where is he? What is happening? If – if you are real, and not merely a trick of the Fade, then you must have a way of proving it to me.”
The spirit tilted its head, its arm still outstretched. Beckoning him closer. Warning bells rang out in his mind. This would not be wise.
He stepped forward.
“If you would live, and live without fear, you must fight.”
The words shocked him. They’d resonated with him the very first time he’d read them, back when he’d lived in the old mansion and Hawke had come to him, teaching him to read. He remembered the nearly giddy feeling in his chest as he read. Even now, as he stood against Tevinter with the people he freed, he looked to that book over and over again, taking strength from the memory of Shartan the way Hawke took strength from his memory of Andraste.
During that fight, the one where Hawke had given the spirit command of his body, it had spoken those very words to Hawke’s hound.
“Are you really Faith? Hawke’s Faith?”
He stopped just before the creature, uncertain whether it had been wise to go to it. Even less certain when it reached out for him. He tensed, yet did not fight, did not back away. Those long, long fingers touched briefly upon his skin. Upon his lyrium.
…?
The summer breeze rose around them, natural as the morning. He felt that same strange feeling of being fed on, as his lyrium rose and activated, flooding his body with its power. The creature, instead of continuing to feast, pulled away. The sudden loss of Hawke’s familiar aura made him shiver, that hungry maw inside him opening wide again.
“Let us take up the blades of our enemies and carve a place for ourselves in this world!”
He shook his head. Frowned. Hawke and Faith were one. If Hawke died, then Faith died, and vice versa. That aura – Fenris doubted any demon could ever replicate it. There was something too pure about it. For an instant, he could have sworn he had felt Hawke’s presence beside him, reaching out.
Or perhaps he was too filled with hope. Either way. He didn’t care.
“You want me to fight,” he said. “Fight someone. To keep Hawke alive.” His hands shook. If there was even the slightest chance that Hawke yet lived, he had to take it. “How? Hawke was with the Inquisition. There are far more of them than there are of me. Even if I brought my whole army south…”
“I will go alone and see what army comes.”
“You want me to face an army alone?” Fenris asked. Those alarm bells were sounding more and more insistent by the second.
“If you hate the legion, then I am your friend.”
He opened his mouth to demand a better answer when finally, he recalled that point in Shartan’s story. He’d gone to meet with Andraste’s army. Fenris looked at the spirit before him like it was mad. “You want me to meet the Inquisition?!”
Help Healbird.
The words muted him. In the end, that was what mattered. Hawke was alive, wherever he was. He needed rescuing. Nothing would stop him.
“I will find him,” Fenris swore. He grabbed the creature’s hand. The aura returned almost immediately, along with the feel of Hawke’s presence. The heavy, aching maw in the middle of his chest filled so suddenly it locked up his throat. He felt the burn of tears at the back of his eyes. “I swear to you, I will find you both. So keep him alive until then.”
The creature blinked at him from beneath its robe. Its eyes were as bright a green as the Fade itself. His Light shall be our banner, and we shall bear it through the gates of that city and deliver it to our brothers and sisters awaiting their freedom within those walls.
“Just keep him alive,” Fenris said, not bothering to try to understand. The most important message had been sent and received.
“You shouldn’t go alone,” Cailyn said, even as she double-checked his armor for him. It had been a while since he’d worn it; he’d become known for his markings, something he’d borne with more and more pride as the bounty for him grew higher and higher. He’d been surprised, back then, at how good it had felt. Hawke had only smiled at his revelations; unlike Fenris, Hawke hadn’t seemed surprised at all. Of the two of them, Hawke had known how it felt to fight for something he believed in. It had become something Fenris understood, as well, but only over time.
Now, years later, he was covering himself in full armor for the first time. Covering the lines of lyrium that branded him, not as a pet of Danarius’, but as the leader of the slave rebellion. He looked at his hand, at the lyrium lining the palm up through the fingers. He clenched it into a fist. “Better alone than to take all of you with me, leaving those in need here defenseless.” He looked to her. “Caellum will be left in charge, but it will be on you and the others to support him.”
Her check complete, she backed away, meeting his gaze. “What about…?” She looked over. He was certain she was staring at Orana. He could feel the young woman’s gaze on his back.
“I have already spoken with her,” he said. He didn’t look back. All of this would be hard enough without thinking of how he was leaving the young woman he now thought of as a sister behind. “She understands. She and Hawke’s mabari will remain here. Take leave wherever you must. Hawke and I will catch up with you.”
Because he would not be returning without Hawke.
Cailyn nodded. As far as she knew, Hawke was merely in trouble and needed to be saved. Only Orana knew the truth – that, according to Varric, Hawke was supposed to be dead. It was better that way. Less people Fenris would have to argue with, and less of a chance Fenris would have to hear the words.
He moved ahead of the company. Many people stood before him, waiting for him. One brought him a horse. A rare steal, and a dear gift. He thanked them, then turned. “Do not think this is some sign of the end,” he said, and saw many people flinch guiltily. He chose not to look at them. “Our battle here is about more than me. I may be leaving for a while, but my cause is here. As is yours.” He grabbed the saddle and heaved himself up. “I leave because none of mine get left behind. I will return for the same.”
He looked out, his gaze far beyond the walls of their meager village, past even Vol Dorma. All along, his eyes had been on the prize: Minrathous. It was there his gaze settled, though he could not see it from where he stood. In his mind, he remembered every street he’d ever walked. Up there, magisters and archons sat on their thrones, drinking their ale, whipping their slaves and sucking on their blood like vampires. Up there, those people cursed his name, his face, his markings. He had become well known enough to have slavers hunt through every city and port for him, each trying to take his head. Soon enough, he would have their faces twisted, not in anger, but in fear.
He looked back. No one asked him why Hawke was worth it. No one had to. When Hawke wasn’t on his own mission to rescue slaves or battle slavers, he was by Fenris’ side. They were nearly a single entity within these peoples’ minds.
Fenris set off. Many rallied behind him as he went, calling his name and begging him to return soon. It was more than he ever would have dreamed four years ago. More than he’d ever thought he’d needed. Back then, there had only been the four of them – him, Hawke, Orana, and the mabari. Now, there were more than he could count.
But there was only one he needed. One who meant more than a promise or a cause. One whom he didn’t ever want to face living without.
He wouldn’t. He would drag Hawke back. Without him, anywhere in the world would simply be a town, a city, a bed. He didn’t need any of those. He’d had those, and he’d left them all behind. All he needed was his home.
And he was getting it back.