Nightfall makes Fenris restless.
He haunts the echoing mansion like a ghost, picking his way, barefoot and catlike, through the debris and the dusty cobwebs that hang like curtains.
When he's reassured that everything is as it should be, he fetches wine from the cellar, and drinks until he passes out, and tries not to think about the dreams that await him.
Fenris never dreams of things he wants. He doesn't know what he wants. His need to see Danarius dead consumes him, and wishing for anything beyond that is a luxury he doesn't allow himself.
He dreams, instead, of the things he knows. The lyrium singing under his skin, the way his sword feels in his hands as it grates against bone, and the warm splash of blood against his face. The unnatural, unclean, sensation of thrusting his fist through the ribcage of another living being, feeling the hot flesh part around it as he closes his hand around the beating heart.
Sometimes he dreams of pain.
The hot metal and cold blood smell of the Fade fills the room, as agony surges out through the tips of Danarius's fingers, tearing into him.
It crackles like fire and ice along the Lyrium markings beneath his skin, scores itself into his veins, shreds the ragged endings of hisnerves. It is raw and red and black, and in it's grip, he loses control of his body, muscles convulsing, his back arching impossibly. His bladder empties.
He hears the sounds he makes from a distance, and cannot believe it is him.
For a few seconds, or minutes, or hours, he is a fragile spark of consciousness, a tiny flickering light adrift in a limitless ocean of darkness, and then he loses himself completely.
It lasts forever, and when it's over he lays there, dazed and unable to move, his cheeks wet and saliva hanging in threads from the corners of his mouth.
"Hush, my pet."
Danarius strokes his slave's silvery hair, tenderly. His eyes are both hot and cold at the same time.
"When will you learn not to displease me, little wolf?" he says. "You know I don't like having to hurt you." The Magister's voice is soft, and almost, but not quite, apologetic.
At first, the slave can't remember how to speak. The processes needed to move lips and tongue and vocal cords are too complex. When he finally manages to make a sound, his voice is a forlorn whisper, the voice of a ghost.
"I'm sorry, Master," he says.
He feels hollowed out, deadened, dazed.
When Danarius fucks him, he doesn't feel it.
It's like it happens to someone else, a stranger, a million miles away.
~0~
"Does anyone need healing?"
Nights out in Kirkwall always seemed to end up like this, these days - with bloodshed, and bodies littering the streets. At least it was just a gang of thugs this time, and not demons or bloodmages.
Hawke loots the corpses, searching them for clues as to who sent them, and emptying their pockets of coin at the same time.
Fenris leans back against a pillar, breathing heavily, his sword heavy in his hands. As his heartbeat settles, he gradually becomes aware of Anders watching him through narrowed eyes.
"Fenris, you're hurt," the healer observes.
"No." Fenris snarls, his voice low and dangerous, as if by denying it vehemently enough he can make it true.
"You're bleeding. Let me…"
Anders takes a step towards him, and the elf lifts his head to meet his gaze. Eyes like cracked green glass, brittle with unease and distrust. His voice is steady though, as he warns the healer off.
"Do not touch me, mage."
The thought of the abomination's filthy hands on his skin makes him want to vomit.
"Do we really have to go through this little performance every time you get a bloody scratch?" Anders sighs impatiently, reaching back with bloodied fingers to retie the hair that has fallen loose from his ponytail . "Fine. Maybe you'll let Hawke put a bandage on it at least."
"It is not necessary. I heal quickly. The Lyrium…"
"Fenris, Anders knows his stuff." Hawke insists. "If he says you need a bandage, you need a bandage." And because it's him, the warrior gives in.
He sits quietly while Hawke wipes the blood from the shallow wound on the elf's arm and bandages him quickly, his touch light and impersonal. He understands on some level that Fenris doesn't like physical contact.
His hands are big and calloused and astonishingly gentle. Fenris realises that he doesn't mind them as much as he expected. The Lyrium in his skin reacts to the proximity of magic, makes him shiver slightly, but it's not an unpleasant feeling.
"There, that wasn't too terrible, was it? "Hawke smiles up at him, and the warrior notices for the first time the way the lines at the corner of his brown eyes wrinkle softly.
"Thank you," he says, and he smiles back, tentatively, as if he's not quite sure how it's done.
~0~
Fenris never dreams of the things he wants, because he doesn't know what he wants. But sometimes, after that, he dreams of Hawke.
Desire bleeds into him through the tips of Hawke's fingers. It snakes along the Lyrium markings beneath his skin, winds itself through his veins and the frayed endings of his nerves. It is raw and red and black, and he loses himself in it.
The mage presses his face into the pillow and forces his legs apart roughly with his big, calloused, hands.
"Hush, my pet, my little wolf.."
Hawke's voice is soft. He strokes the elf's silvery hair, almost, but not quite, tenderly.
Fenris cries out as Hawke enters him.
He hears the sounds he makes from a distance, and cannot believe it is him.
He feels himself flicker, on the edge of a limitless ocean of darkness.
"Hawke, no..." he whispers, in the dream, and his voice sounds like the voice of a ghost.
"This is not what I want," he says. "I want..."
But he doesn't know what he wants, and when he wakes, his cheeks are wet.
~0~
The night after Fenris kills Hadriana, he kisses Hawke.
He doesn't mean to. He's confused. He doesn't know what he means to do, as he slams the mage violently back against the wall.
His markings flare, blue-white, fierce and uncanny and cold, and then fade again as his lips find Hawke's.
Hawke's mouth is soft and warm and real. The feel of it shocks him.
When Hawke kisses him back, turning them so that this time it's his back that's pushed into the wall, Fenris feels himself respond instinctively. His mouth opens, hungry for Hawke's tongue. His cock stirs, thickening uncomfortably against the confines of his tight leather leggings, and he presses himself helplessly against the other man's body, suddenly desperate for the physical contact he has avoided for so long.
If he has felt anything like this before, he doesn't remember it.
He remembers nothing before the ritual that carved the Lyrium into his skin. The pain stripped away everything he was before. It disintegrated him. All that is left is what Danarius has made of him - a slave, a ghost, a living weapon with hair the colour of moonlight, and if he has any feelings, other than hate, he hides them even from himself. But now, with the mage's lips crushing his, and his hands frantically exploring the other man's body, it's like something fractures inside him, and spills, and suddenly he's aware of everything all at once.
He feels under attack, assailed by emotions he's long since forgotten the words for, and can no longer tell apart, and it's... too much.
Panic-stricken, he pulls out from Hawke's embrace, and turns away before he can see the hurt in the mage's eyes.
Wanting is a luxury he has always known he can't afford.
"I'm sorry" he says, as he walks away.
He hears himself from a distance, and cannot believe it is him.
~0~
It's awkward, for a while. They dance around each other, cautiously polite, each avoiding the other's gaze. But Hawke needs Fenris, and Fenris stays because vengeance and hatred aren't enough to keep him warm and fed, and because he has nothing else.
He's there the first time Hawke and Anders walk into The Hanged Man hand in hand, their faces flushed and their eyes full of each other.
Over the weeks he sees them grow closer, and he tries not to feel anything when Hawke leans in close to whisper in the healer's ear, or when Anders kneels to retie the scruffy bandage that holds his boot together and Hawke's hand drops to gently brush his fingertips across his lover's lips.
Fenris watches them hungrily, taking in every glance, every fleeting touch. He doesn't know whether he's testing himself, or punishing himself, or just trying to understand.
~0~
Nightfall makes him restless.
He haunts the echoing mansion like a ghost, picking his way, barefoot and catlike, through the debris and the dusty cobwebs that hang like curtains.
When he's reassured that everything is as it should be, he fetches wine from the cellar, and drinks until he passes out, and tries not to think about the dreams that await him.
Sometimes, he dreams of things he wants, because he knows what he wants now.
He dreams of Hawke touching him the way he touches the abomination - as if it hurts him not to touch.
Hawke strokes the elf's silvery hair, tenderly. He smiles, and the lines at the corner of his eyes wrinkle.
His fingertips are gentle, his breath soft and warm and real against the warrior's cheek, as he leans in close to whisper in his ear.
"Hush, my love. You know I'll never hurt you."
If Fenris has felt anything like this before, he doesn't remember it.
"I love you," he says, and his voice is a forlorn whisper, the voice of a ghost, but he knows it is his.
Fenris dreams of the things he wants, and when he wakes his face is wet, because love is still a luxury he knows he can't afford.