"I can't," he says, and leaves her lying on the bed, unable to stop the tears from rolling down her cheeks. Last night had been everything she had wanted, yet the morning light had brought regretful green eyes and heartbreak.
He is the second of her friends to say this, to make her feel this way. She feels so stupid, blindly believing they cared for her. It seems at that moment that everybody in Thedas is only interested in their own lives.
With him, it was meant to be special. The first time for them both, as far as memory allowed. He had been wondrous; the feel of his body against hers, his soft dry lips on her skin, the way he felt as he nervously pushed inside her. He had radiated heat and passion, lyrium lines shimmering in the dusky half-light. There had been no pain, only joy. Until the morning.
"Fenris," she whispers his name into the pillow as if doing so could bring him back to her, bind her shattered dreams back together.
She doesn't speak to him for weeks.
It's Varric who notices first, raising his eyebrows at Hawke's rapid departure from the Hanged Man when Fenris arrives for their game of Diamondback. He only gets as far as, "What -" when Fenris growls at him, eyes flashing with menace.
"Do not," is all he says, voice hoarse and rough. Varric decides he likes his heart within his chest, and closes his mouth.
They circle around each other for months afterwards. If he is more aware of her in battle, more likely to be by her side, then perhaps it is a coincidence. If her touch lingers a little too long on his body when she heals him, perhaps that is also.
They never speak of that night. At first it felt too painful, now it feels as if too much time has passed. They have both slowly twined together once more; undoubtedly more awkward than before, but no less synchronised in combat, no less civil in companionship.
Their eyes meet often: over cards in the Hanged Man, over the remains of their enemies, over the pages of a book as she patiently explains the shape of letters, the sounds of syllables. She knows that there are many words unspoken, many promises between them yet to be filled. He is not hers, not fully, but she is his and she will wait.
She had been so sure. It had been too beautiful a night to forget, too wonderful to let drift away from her in the dark of the night where she lay alone and dreamed. Dreamed of her lover's return, his hand against her cheek, his lips on hers. The words she longed to hear in his voice. Forgive me. I love you.
All the while, she waits. One year, two. The yearning looks linger, but she remains hungry for his touch, his devotion. With the passing months, sun turning to snow, her belief in their love begins to weaken. She is quiet and frail when Anders comes to her, and she acquiesces to his request without question.
Sela petrae. An exotic name for an unspeakable object. She wonders aloud what she is doing roaming the sewers with her friend, digging through faeces.
"You have made worse decisions, I'm sure," Anders says.
She picks a sliver of muck out from underneath her fingernail, grimacing. "I can't think what."
Anders scowls. "That elf of yours, for one thing. He seems less of a man to me than a wild dog."
"He isn't my elf," she says, a little too quickly.
"Really?" Anders raises an eyebrow.
"Really," she sighs, sadly. "And he's not a wild dog. You just don't know him."
"Hmph." Anders turns away from her and continues sifting through the filth of the city. "Aha," he pulls out what looks like a cracked black rock, "I think this is all I need. Let's go and get cleaned up."
She sinks into her large metal bathtub, full to the brim with foaming soapy hot water that Orana had heated for her. Maker, it's a relief to get the smell of the sewers off her skin. Her eyes begin to drift closed as her head lolls, exhaustion slowly settling over her body as she soaks.
"Hawke."
She sits up suddenly, eyes flying open at the sight of the mage standing in the doorway.
"Anders! What are you doing in here?" She tries desperately to cover herself with her hands and the bubbles in the water. "I said to wait downstairs."
He crosses the room in two strides and crouches beside the tub.
"I've never forgotten, you know," he says, his voice low and huskier than she has ever heard it.
She closes her eyes.
It had been five years ago, so long that she never thinks about it now, not after everything that has happened since. The long looks she had shared with Anders, the breathless way she had told him how handsome he was, how much she wanted him. The way he had kissed her, frenzied and needful, before pushing her away so forcefully that she had fallen to the floor, her robes tearing.
"I can't do this."
She had sat there in the dirt, bruised and shocked, and watched him walk away from her. Three days later, they had met Fenris – and suddenly her rejection had felt somehow less important, as if destiny had been at work.
Or so she had thought.
She opens her eyes and he is still there, gazing at her intensely, waiting for her to respond.
"Why are you telling me this?" she asks, frowning.
"There's not a day goes by that I don't regret what I did. As soon as you saw that elf, I knew…"
She swallowed hard. It had been that obvious, then.
"I'm sorry, Anders." And she is. Sorry for the mess she has made of everything, these last years.
There is an awkward silence. She is painfully aware that she is naked under the water, her arms folded across her chest, knees drawn tight together. He sits looking at her, jaw tight, a muscle twitching in his cheek. As she watches him, she sees something change in him; his posture, his eyes.
"No, I'm sorry, Hawke," he says, fingers on buckles. "I can't bear this any longer."
"Anders?" She is wide-eyed now, disbelief sweeping through her as she watches him unfasten his robes, shrugging them off his shoulders to tangle around his knees.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Hawke," he says, standing and stripping off his linens to reveal his pale body, slim-waisted, golden hair speckling his chest and trailing in a line from his navel.
He pauses, fingers on the waistband of his smalls. "Tell me to stop," he says, half-smiling.
She looks into his bright copper eyes, sees them burn with his determination to have her. It's been so long, too long since she has felt another's touch. She is so tired of waiting. She opens her mouth, closes it, shakes her head.
It's all he needs. He slides his smalls down his legs and stands before her briefly, gloriously proud in his nakedness, before he climbs into the tub behind her, pulling her back between his thighs to rest against his chest.
His arms wrap around her, one holding her firmly around her waist, the other exploring her body indolently, tracing a pattern across her torso, cupping one breast and then the other.
His fingertips glide effortlessly across her wet skin, teasing her nipples into hard peaks as she begins to writhe against him. She feels his shaft pressing against her lower back and hears him moan as she slides against it.
Then his fingers are between her legs, making her whine and arch her back at the unfamiliar sensation. This is only the second time she has been touched here by fingers other than her own, and she had forgotten the effect on her body. Unlike Fenris, he strokes her confidently and expertly, sharp bolts of pleasure shooting through her body.
"Oh, Hawke," he says brokenly, before she feels his hands on her waist, feels herself being lifted half-out of the water, the cold air pebbling her damp skin. She shifts her hips to help him as he positions her over his twitching cock.
He lowers her on to his shaft and pushes inside her with one swift thrust of his hips, groaning her name as she tightens around him. His fingers are digging roughly into her sides, sharp enough to bruise, as he begins to move her body up and down his length. He is not gentle and the movements are hard, forceful; his breath grating against her back as he plunges into her.
She gasps, breathless with the sudden feeling of fullness, of the friction his body is creating with hers, her soft wetness against his solid manhood. She is loose-limbed, surrendering control of everything, even her own body; he pounds into her desperately, his hips snapping beneath her as he guides her movements to his erratic rhythm.
"Touch yourself," he commands her, his voice jagged with desire.
Her hands feel enormous, her mind fogged and hazy with the tsunami of emotions blazing through her mind. She presses her fingertip against her nub and hisses as her body responds almost violently. Whimpering, she rubs against herself as his thrusts become even harder, almost brutal as he nears his peak. She gets there first: crying out as her orgasm crashes through her body, waves of pleasure rippling and sparking over her skin as her magic reacts with his. The sensation is electrifying and brings Anders to his own powerful climax with a roar, spilling himself deep inside her as he clutches her tightly against him.
She lays back against his chest in the cooling water, feeling him soften and slip out of her as his fingers play with her damp hair. She feels his warm breath and his lips press against her forehead, hears him whisper words she had wanted to hear in a different baritone. Tears spring into her eyes and her stomach clenches with regret and shame.
She kisses him and asks him to stay.
"Do not bare your heart to me, mage, unless you would have me rip it out."
The pain in Fenris' expression is unbearable. She feels her breath stop in her throat as the meaning of those words sinks in, each one a dagger to her wounded heart.
Oh Maker, what have I done?
Not for the first time, she wishes she could turn back the clock. She knows nothing will ever be the same again.
Months later the city burns around her, flames reflecting in the crimson rivulets trickling between the stones of the streets. Her heart breaks all over again as she drops her dagger to the ground, blade shimmering scarlet over silver.
She looks helplessly into the olive eyes of the man she has loved for the past six years. He turns away, shoulders hunched.
Everything is ruined. She has never felt so alone.