Author's Note: This story takes place three years after the final battle in Dragon Age: 2. For the sake of simplicity, this is a default Hawke: black hair, blue eyes, pale skin, name of Marian. It is mentioned that her hair has gotten longer, which I think is a reasonable expectation after three years on the run from Mages and Templars alike.

Warnings: There is no actual smut, but this chapter takes place while Hawke and Fenris are lying naked in bed. This is an incredibly complex and serious Hawke with a myriad of complex emotions and motivations that boil down to, at simplest, a mage afraid of her own powers. And while this chapter doesn't have it, the next one will- it's a frame story, meaning that the game storyline will be revealed in flashbacks (just like the game). I intend to fill in more of the blank spaces than to sit there reliving and rewriting every word the characters say on-screen.

Disclaimer: Right now, I'm not on the staff of writers that BioWare hired for Dragon Age. Give me a year or two and that might change. For now, of course, I don't own these characters and I don't profit off of them in a monetary sense.

"Eventually we all had to leave the Champion's side… except Fenris, of course."

-Varric

I.

Fenris rolls to his side, lean muscles glowing with the faint light of his tattoos, staring into her eyes with a satiated, half-lidded expression. Marian Hawke— Champion of Kirkwall, wanted apostate, and sought after by the Chantry, Templars, and former Circles of Magi alike—has to give the man credit for looking at her face rather than her bare chest. Then again, she can tell by his intent gaze that he has something pressing to ask her. Something she doubts she wants to answer.

He trails the calloused tips of his slender elf fingertips over her stomach, stroking from the bottom of her ribs to just beneath her navel, back and forth without straying too far in either direction. It never ceases to amaze her that in three years since the Mage Revolt began, he has become almost addicted to physical contact—not just for sex, but for the gentle intimacy a simple touch provides. She finds his hand at the small of her back when they step through doors, his fingers weaving through hers as they walk together, or his shoulder pressing against hers when they find that rare cart to ride in.

Marian melts into the odd warmth of his green eyes, lying back with her shoulders cradled in his other arm. The soothing motions lull her and she smiles at him with soft lips, no teeth.

"Why did you do it?" he murmurs. Like a whip, the words snap that peace away. Of course he got her comfortable and warm, too worn out and too satisfied from their lovemaking to resist him.

She knows full well what he means, but she asks nonetheless, "Do what?"

"Hawke," he says, using her last name with that tone of his—the way he said it years ago as they wandered Kirkwall in the dead of night killing bandits, a single sharp syllable that traps her. His palm flattens against her belly, rough edges against soft skin, and he turns so that he is almost over her, looming with only his shoulders and shadow to keep her in place.

Marian sighs. After a few years away from Kirkwall, she stopped thinking of herself as Hawke. Of course she still answers to it. Always. Her entire adult life, she's been known as Hawke to friends and even family. Her father used to tell her as a child that it was because she embodied their name so well: 'like a soaring predator, noble and graceful and that much deadlier because of it.'

"Why has it taken you so long to ask?" she says. She knows how evasive her reply is and can see the flash in Fenris' eyes—not irritation, but frustration. Concern and anxiety.

He grunts. "You know me well enough," he answers, the hand leaving her stomach to cup her cheek. The backs of his knuckles graze along her cheekbone and she turns toward his touch: he has the cool skin all elves seem to have laced with that humming heat of lyrium just beneath.

She closes her eyes, just for a moment. "Why did I turn on my own kind? How could I help the Templars with their Rite of Annulment?" she says, echoing questions she has heard from all the others over the years— the question that died on Anders' lips as she plunged the bladed edge of her staff through his chest. Her eyes open to see his face still there, the fine bones under the smooth tan she never tires of looking at, and the faint frown that knits his dark brows together as he watches her.

Fenris nods, a short jerk of his chin toward his collarbones. She reaches up and traces one, the delicate arch at his throat that extends in a line toward his shoulder. A line of lyrium crosses his skin just above the clavicle, the thrum of magic singing at her touch. His eyes close; both can feel how that simple brush of fingers draws the Fade close, how the air around their naked bodies warms with a rush of magical energy. Just as the subconscious spell weaves through them, he grasps her wrist and pulls her hand away. Green eyes open and his fingers tighten around her fragile bones. Before the pressure can hurt her, he presses his lips to the pulse there and she relaxes into his hold.

"You know how I feel about blood magic," she whispers.

Fenris shifts again, relinquishing his intimidating posture, releasing her wrist to reach across her and pull her onto her side, facing him. Her bare legs tangle with his. Once it had been the fear she might wake up alone, but now the gesture has grown to be instinct, one he matches without hesitation.

He stares at her and she knows that he awaits her answer, knows that he knows she has more to say on the matter. With a reluctant sigh, she continues, "I used it, once." Fenris blinks, withdrawing his chest from hers for a moment. Guilty, she presses on, "I didn't mean to. It just… happened."

She takes a breath, remembering. "Bethany and I knew the same spells. Perhaps I was a bit stronger, being the oldest and all, but my spells should not have been able to affect that ogre if hers didn't. She cast flames at him and he resisted them." She shivers. In that moment, she knew fear. Real fear, imminent death. "When that—that beast picked her up and beat her to death, I saw her blood flying and something came over me. I can't describe it. I saw every drop of my sister's blood and it was as though I saw every moment of our lives draining away, flung to the ground."

The elf leans close again, the lean planes of his chest pressing against her breasts. His arms wind around her back, fingers twisting in the hair that falls loose to her shoulders.

Bolstered by his tenderness, Marian continues. "I did not mean to do it. I didn't even realize what I was doing," she says. "I felt power flowing into me and I thought it was fury, grief, and fear. I felt the power of her death fill me and I unleashed it. I tore that thing in half. Literally. Carver told me after, in the ship, that I looked different. That her blood flew at me and covered my face and hands and that it glowed as I killed the ogre."

Fenris stares at her with sorrow in his green eyes, moving one hand from her hair to caress her cheek again. "I never knew," he says, his low voice quiet, little more than a whisper. Still, she can see the wary flicker in his gaze.

"Once I realized what it was, I was terrified. I worked for Athenril almost four months without casting a single spell. It became… dangerous. Carver taught me to use a dagger, just a small blade, but I never had much aptitude. And when I tried to stop using magic, the dreams came." Marian stops speaking and shudders, recalling the demons that plagued her every night.

He watches her without speaking, but his arms tighten around her. One of his hands slides to the back of her head, tucking her face against his neck. The warmth of his tattoos hums against her skin and she closes her eyes, comforted by his embrace.

"I have always know where my hatred of magic comes from," he whispers, after several minutes lying like that. She opens her eyes and raises her face to look at him, seeing his steady gaze on her face. "I accepted yours, saw it as strength. But I have never sought to understand it."

"I know what it feels like to have something inside of you, something that lives whether you will it to or not," she whispers. "I cannot say whether or not I hate magic—I cannot hate something that is such a part of me and who I am. But I fear it. I know the danger of it, and I fear it. I never want to become one of those mages like the apostates in Kirkwall. I see every day how easy it would be, and I would sooner die."

Fenris stares into her face for a long moment. "You are stronger than that," he says, his voice and gaze fierce. He hugs her, his grip so tight she wonders for a moment if her bones will break. "You have strength that few mages have, and the power to defeat those weaker than you, no matter the evil means they seek."

"Am I?" she murmurs against his shoulder, her troubled gaze staring at the scuffed wall of their room in the inn. "Am I all that you believe me to be?"

His long form shifts, rolling to pin her beneath him. One of his hands braces against the headboard and she reaches up, fingers curling around the hard muscles of his forearm and the lyrium brands woven throughout. "I would not be here if I doubted you," he answers, bending to trail his lips up her neck. Hot breath against her earlobe sends shivers tingling through every cell of her. "But I am happy to demonstrate my loyalty if you doubt me."

She smiles as he leans back to stare at her, his free hand drawing her hips against his. "I don't doubt your loyalty any more," she answers, wrapping her arms around his neck and drawing him close. Her back arches, her eyes close and their chests press close again. She can feel the tips of his white hair brushing her face and opens her eyes, eager to drink in the sight of him. "But your demonstrations are always welcome."

Fenris pulls back, however, rather than closer. Shadows underscore his cheekbones and lips and nose, emphasizing the carved flawlessness of his features. "But you doubted me once," he murmurs, sadness filling the brilliant green of his gaze.

Marian takes a breath, forcing her mind to focus on his words rather than the nearness of his body. She can feel his want, pressed hard and close, and more than the physical manifestation, she can sense it. Their closeness perhaps, or maybe the fact that his tattoos somehow connect with her magical abilities, has led them to an almost-psychic bond. While she cannot read his thoughts, not in any precise fashion, both can feel the other's emotions. Particularly the strong ones— like desire.

With a serious expression, she looks at him, her arms still wound around his neck, fingers twisting and digging through his soft hair. "You know that I did," she answers.

He sighs; it is not a conversation they enjoy or seek to have. Those three lonely years apart were among the worst for either of them. The elf has a stronger distaste for remembering that time than she does, and she feels his guilt rising in place of his manhood.

"Every time I saw it in your eyes," he says, touching her cheek and settling his weight so that most is on his side while his body remains over hers, "I felt fear as I had never known before. I would look at you and all I could do was to pray that you saw how much I feared losing you, how much I dreaded the thought that you doubted me or hated me. As much as I told myself that it was for the best, I could not help but to regret every moment I spent away from you."

She tips her face upward and brushes her lips against his, just a faint touch before she withdraws and stares at him. "I never hated you, much as I wished I could," she responds. "And every time I doubted you, you would look at me and I saw that I was a fool to doubt. It was as if you knew," a soft smile crosses her lips and she shakes her head against the pillow of his hand, "Though it sounds as if you did."

"Of course I did," he murmurs.