The earthy taste of a smooth wine and the floral fragrance of roses linger in my senses from the fabricated luxuries of my dreams. I roll my tongue a few times against the roof of my mouth, unsure if I would prefer to savor or rid myself of the flavor. The cocoon of sheets and arms wrapped around my waist–my own constricted around my pillow–beckon me deeper, demand I abandon my quest and return to my place in the Fade.
'Tis an unsettling thought.
Then, the arm across my hips slithers back with ruthless speed, and a set of fingers steal their way between my shoulder blades with vicious accuracy.
My eyes split open into the dark at the heat on my back and the swooping sensation in my gut. As though my mind had told my body I was falling–not turning–face first into a pillow like I had.
I grunt with the slightest trace of betrayal, but exhaustion weighs too heavily on my body to retaliate. In fact, my pillowcase smells like lavender and vanilla, and 'tis lulling in the late summer heat.
Hawke's fingertips are gentler this time when they scratch at my side.
"Please, Fenris," whines my beautiful, equally drained partner, in what must have been something close to desperation as it has not been an hour since she were last on her feet.
My body aches to surrender to its own wishes, but when I strain my ears, I detect the angry bleats of our nightly assailant, and my pity possesses a stronger willpower. So, I flex my legs to make the blood flow and emerge from my cocoon with a grumble in my throat.
"For you, anything," I murmur, rubbing at the tiny flakes in the corners of my eyes.
Hawke hums a satisfied noise of gratitude and immediately rolls into the place I abandon, a small smile pulling across her lips.
I stumble my way across the uneven wooden floor of the room we've settled in. This small room we do not quite call home, but a hidden place, a refuge for our family. The strangeness of being on the run again seeps into my bones, but stranger yet is the realization this time I do so out of devotion and not simple survival.
Hawke's greying mabari lies faithfully before the door, ears twitching towards the troubled grumbles and 'heh's' from the opposite corner. The bassinet on the floor is little more than a wide, padded crate, swathed with numerous blankets and anything Hawke or I could find to make it more livable.
Alas, one of it's occupants is a demanding, vocal creature. Not yet three weeks of age, my daughter has proven herself feisty and independent. Born second, but the first to find her voice, her timely cries have taken initiative for both herself and her brother.
Newborn puffiness still reddens their round cheeks, but distinct features have begun to appear in the scrunched curve of her nose and the subtle pout on his lips. Vega has seemingly grasped some, almost involuntary control of her extended limbs. Though she cannot lift her head for longer than a few seconds at time, she swivels it back and forth with soft, long, dry cries.
"Displeased with our arrangements, are we?" I coo.
I bend to first check on my undisturbed son, running a finger along the bottom of his bare foot. When he twitches and opens his mouth to suckle the air, the clench in my chest lessens. He has been so silent in comparison to his sister, I often confuse his gentleness for trouble.
Yet, when I scoop Vega's small, solid body into my arms, when I feel her forehead against my neck, I can detect the dry heat of fever instantly.
Dread pools its icy claws into my pounding heart. I hold her tighter to my chest, afraid the sudden weakness in my arms may give way. Through the pounding pulse in my ears, I somehow manage to maneuver my way back to my bedside.
"Hawke," I hiss, voice breaking against my will. When she does nothing but hum, I shake her shoulder. "Marian!"
Marian turns onto her back, blinking away vague remnants of sleep. She runs a hand through her long hair, and if it were not for mewling of my ill, infant daughter, I would be struck numb by her beauty. "Fenris? What's the matter?"
"Bellamy is fine, but Vega is ill! Feel her forehead, Marian. She's sick. She needs healing!" I can hear the wobbly strain in my rising pitch, feel it upsetting Vega further, yet there is no cure to this panic rising in me.
Except … .
Marian leans forward, dropping the sheet from her chest to reach where I perch on the edge. The flinch inwards is involuntary, curling Vega deeper into my chest like she may be taken from me. Regret pools inside me at the way my partner freezes, hand in mid-air.
The apology is already slipping from my lips when Hawke grins. "I adore how willing you are to protect our children–even if it means using my body as a human shield–but did you not just say, 'Feel her forehead, Marian. She needs healing.'?"
"I'm sorry," I insist, though it means little with the affectionate way Hawke squeezes my arm.
Her nimble fingers slide their way across our daughter's clammy forehead, amber eyes unreadable beyond the sun shining through them. With a quick wave of her hand, the heavens set fire and she holds the stars between her fingers. Powder blue, dim and soothing like the low-hanging lights of a hundred lightning bugs.
The energy of the room shifts. The overwhelming heat of the day dissipates. The world slows and the tension in my own shoulders ebb away.
Vega's cries settle into whimpers, from whimpers they shift to sighs, and from sighs to tender, alert silence. With wide, yellow-brown eyes, she tilts her head back to find her mother who makes a face and smiles widely at her. Vega responds with little more than a delighted, sleepy, "Ah!"
"Ah! That's right! Daddy did so well not breaking down the apothecary's door at two in the morning, didn't he?" she teases in a singsong voice, tickling under Vega's chin. "And we aren't going to get Bellamy sicky-poo, either now, are we? That would be so icky for Mommy and Daddy: two grumpy babies."
I snort, and Hawke turns on me with pursed, twitching lips, head cocked to the side, and a skeptically raised eyebrow. I halfway expect an annoyed jibe. Instead, the heel of her palm intimately finds the groove of my jaw, where the scarred pad of her thumb massages my cheek and her fingernails rubs the fine hairs at the back of my neck.
"It's just a fever, Fenris," Hawke whispers. "It will go away."
I find myself sinking into her touch as I have time and time again.
Beneath the callouses of handling staffs and years of farm work, the gentleness is a comfort so unlike any I have ever experienced. She utterly lacks the aggressive sting of my master's unforgiving hand, foregoes the violence of Hadriana's wrath, provides relief where the hands of other mages burn or lust for blood.
My lips brush the inside of her hand before she returns my kiss with her grip over my heart.
Hawke's hand is welcome and wanted, and I could not survive without it.
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