Author's Note: I had a lot of trouble with this one - I started with the idea of mixed messages in mind, and ended up somewhere completely different. I think I'm finally satisfied, so I hope you enjoy. Most of these one shots are inspired by a larger piece I've been working on that follows the game. It may never be fit for publication, but I mention it because I refer to some things that happen in it - it's always bothered me a bit that in the game you go straight from vague flirting to sex, so I've added some sort of 'in-between' encounters that I refer to in this story. It shouldn't be difficult to understand - I mention it only so the reader won't be too thrown off when they come up.
Thank you for reading and thank you to EVERYONE who's reviewed any of my stories - it's been such a pleasure to see the reviews! I'll stop blathering now - please enjoy the story.
Nadir
The last time I saw her, she was a bloody, ruined mess. It was all we could do to keep her alive long enough to get her home. I carried her from the battle, swearing at her, ordering her not to die, Aveline at my side, pouring potions down her throat while Merrill fled through the cellar to find Anders. Most days she seems so untouchable, invulnerable, as if the force of her personality alone could turn a blade. Yet she is human after all, flesh and bone that gives way before the bite of steel. Champion of Kirkwall, survivor of the Deep Roads, defeater of the Arishok, nearly cut down by a bandit's blade because she was too brave, too proud, or too stupid to stand on the sidelines as any mage in their right mind would do.
I don't know what the abomination did to save her. I don't care. He threw us all out, and it was hours before he emerged to tell us she would live. He looked half-dead himself when he finally opened the door. Aveline was there to catch him when he passed out, to drag him to a chair and fuss over him until he was strong enough to go home.
Reassured that Hawke would survive, we left her in the care of her servants and went to find our own beds. But I have slept badly, and when I can't bear it anymore, I go to seek her. I expect only to speak with Bodan, but he shows me into the next room at once.
She is sitting in a chair before the fire, staring into the flames. I can see her pulse in her throat, the rise and fall of her breath. She is whole and alive.
"Hawke," I sigh, feeling the tension go out of my body.
She turns her head slightly. "Fenris." My name on her lips is barely a word, just the slightest shaping of air as she exhales. "Why are you here?" she asks, without looking at me.
"I suppose I just wanted to see for myself that you lived," I say. "You did...not look well, when I saw you last."
She turns her face away. "I'll be all right."
"I wish you would not take such chances, Hawke." Even I can't quite identify the emotion in my words. I put my hand on her shoulder, but she shrugs it off and stands up. She starts to brush past me, but I catch her arms as she passes, making her look at me. I'm surprised to see the anger in her eyes. She plants her hands on my breastplate and pushes me violently away.
"Don't you dare!" she hisses. "Don't you touch me!" Tears have flooded her eyes, her teeth are bared and she is snarling at me like a wounded animal."Why are you here?" she demands. "Don't come in here and act like you care."
"I care," I snap back at her, white hot anger flaring inside me. "More than you could know." I don't know until the words hit my ears that I've slipped into my own language.
Whether she understood me or not, her eyes are cold. "You can't have it both ways, Fenris. You made your choice. Stop doing this to me." Her voice breaks and the tears are falling now. I'm ashamed of myself at once.
"Of course," I say, backing away, bowing my head in apology. "You're right. Forgive me."
She turns away from me and hugs herself, embarrassed, no doubt, that her control has slipped. She has been kind to me, I realize, tried to let me think that she understands why I had to leave. But she is hurt and angry and I have just ripped open wounds far deeper than the ones she sustained yesterday. It's the first time she's ever let me see just how much I have hurt her.
"Hawke," I say, and my voice is raw with emotion. "I'll leave you be. But never think I would be indifferent if something happened to you. You are...still my friend."
"I know," she says, her voice barely a whisper.
There is so much I want to say. I want to explain, beg her forgiveness.
But I deserve neither her understanding nor her forgiveness, and I will not be so selfish as to demand it.
I have taken too much from her already.
As I walk home, my chest aches with hate. I hate myself, for what I have done to her. I hate these markings, for the way they have defined my life. I hate the man who put them there, for everything he's taken from me. I am struck with the sudden, burning desire to go to Minrathous and end this. It would mean my death, I know, and for an instant I think I don't care.
But I do care. My life has been too hard-won to give it up so easily. Even if I've lost Hawke, I have ties here now. I'm not ready to call Kirkwall home by any means, but I realize, it would hurt to lose what I have here.
Even in the darkest days of my slavery I held on to the hope that things could get better, that life was still worth living. How can I give that up now, when I am free? I have done so much, felt so much, that I thought was impossible. I've built a name for myself. Earned respect. Made friends. Made coin (and lost it). Made mistakes. Made love. Disappointed people. Broken a good and noble heart - not to mention my own.
When I get home I go upstairs and look out of my window at the tiny sliver of city and sky visible. I think of that night, the night she made me whole and destroyed me all at once. I remember her touch, the taste of her kiss. The memory is intense, sharp, and I close my eyes for a moment and feel the length of her body pressed against mine, the brush of her fingers on my cheek, the parting of her lips against mine as she gasps.
I remember it as well as I remember the rush of hot blood flowing over my arms yesterday, the vacant look in her eyes, the ragged, barely-there sound of her breath.
I left her because I was afraid, because I was in pain, but what did it gain me? It was too late to walk away long before that night. Too late, from the first time I let myself touch her, the first time I reached out my shaking hand and locked it with hers.
No, it was too late long before that. I was lost even before she bent over the book between us and pressed my lips for the first time. I pulled away from her, threw her out of my house, but already a part of me ached to accept what she offered, to believe that she was everything she seemed to be, that she was different - that I could be different.
It must have been difficult, to constantly have her touch rejected. Today is the first time I have tasted that particular pain, the first time I have voluntarily touched another person and had my hand shrugged away. Hawke is always touching people, moving through our little group, offering a pat on the shoulder, a squeeze of the arm, a slap on the back. Many times over the years, she's started to reach for me before she remembers and draws her hand back. It used to annoy me, and then one day I realized I had come to appreciate it, this little gesture that signified both kind intentions and personal consideration.
Once again I have paid kindness with cruelty, affection with betrayal. I turn away from the window, go back downstairs, and draw my sword. One, two, I move through the steps and swings of a sword drill I have repeated many times. I end on the other side of the room. Repositioning my feet, I begin again. The pattern is easy, familiar, but requires focus, and conscious thought falls further away with each repetition. This is what I am good at. This is what I am good for. Sharp edges and hard steel - not soft touches and kind words. With a blade in my hands I am never awkward, never unsure. My purpose is clear and unambiguous, my skill unquestionable.
Absolutes. The comfort of slaves and children.
I swing into a faster, more complicated sequence, determined to silence my traitorous thoughts, and it works until I end a repetition and turn to find Hawke just inside the door, waiting quietly for me to finish.
If Danarius himself had been standing there, I wouldn't have been more surprised.
"I came to apologize," she says, with something that is not quite a smile.
"There is no need," I say, sheathing my blade. I feel an ache in my arms as I do so, which makes me aware that my whole body is sore and I am soaked in sweat. I have lost track of time along with everything else. Hawke looks away and I feel a sudden spike of anger that she will not meet my eyes. It is unlike her and I hate to see her this way. It is ludicrous for her to seek my forgiveness in any case. "Why did you come here?" I ask shortly, and her chin lifts.
"You're angry," she says, and this is the Hawke I know, her entire stance a challenge, daring me to deny it.
"So are you," I say instead, and there we stand, facing off as if we are to do battle.
Then her eyes slide away again it's as though her spirit drains out of her. "I don't want to be, Fenris," she sighs, and I don't like it, I don't like to see her broken like this and know that I'm the one who did it to her. "I try not to be."
"What do you want from me, Hawke?" I demand, gesturing sharply. "Nothing has changed. I don't know that it ever will. I cannot stand here and tell you it will get better. If you wish me to stay away from you, that is your right and I will not challenge it, but if that is what you want, then why seek me out? Hate me if you must, but do not-" I stop, closing my eyes. This is not what I want to say to her.
"Nothing has changed," I repeat heavily, turning away from her. I don't hear her move, lost in my thoughts, but suddenly her hand is on my arm, the lightest of touches, bringing a mixture of pleasure and pain that I have felt in some form or another every day for almost two years now.
"Nothing has changed," she says. "But some day it has to, Fenris. You can't stay this way forever. And-neither can I. Something has to change."
It sounds like a promise and a warning all at once. Her hand is gone, along with the warmth of her body at my back and the tickle of her breath on my neck. Her boots crunch a broken tile, and then the door clicks and the only person who has ever cared for me, the only person I have ever loved, is gone.
One of the most sincere curses I have ever uttered rips from my lips as I grab the nearest object and fling it across the room. I don't even notice what it is or whether it breaks and I stalk up the stairs.
I pace for a moment, my limbs heavy from my exercise below. I hate that my life still turns on the whims of that accursed man. I deceive myself with this illusion of freedom, when in reality, he still has all the power. He is still in control.
I have been stagnating since that night, waiting for something to happen. I cannot get back what we had, and yet I cannot move forward either, not while shadows still fill me with fear. I can't bear this any longer, yet I don't know what I can do to break this stalemate. Even this mansion has come to feel like a taunt. I thought I took it from him, but lately I have begun to wonder if he simply allows me to possess it. Why has he not come for me all this time? Why does he not come here and end this? My life remains centered on him, and yet to him I am only a nuisance, something to be dealt with when he finds the time amongst his other games of power.
I stop, staring at the floor in the center of the room. He does not come here because he knows I have the advantage. He sent Hadriana here to test me, perhaps, and now that she is dead he knows I have powerful allies, that I cannot be taken without great cost and at least some degree of personal risk.
And so he lays a trap for me, and waits patiently for me to take the bait. My hand goes to my mouth as I think of this, of my probably-imaginary sister. The thought has plagued me in the years since Hadriana's death, cropping up to nettle me at random every so often. Always I have dismissed it as a certain trap, but now my feet start moving again, more slowly, thoughtfully.
This sister, if she exists, is the only one who can tell me of my past. She is the only being in this world besides Danarius himself who can give me the answers I seek. If I did seek her - if she is real, if I could find her - perhaps I could finally begin to assemble this puzzle that is my fractured life. I determined long ago that to go to Karinas myself would be suicidal, that the only sane course would be to somehow locate her through hirelings or agents, and persuade her to come here to Kirkwall.
Always I have dismissed the idea, convinced this is all an elaborate lie Danarius has concocted to get me to lower my guard, take a foolish chance and open myself to his attack. I cannot go to Karinas, and by inviting my former master to Kirkwall, I put not only myself in danger, but my companions. More than once I have woken in a cold sweat, dreaming of Hawke in Danarius' hands. Such a talented mage would be a great prize for him, a replacement for Hadriana beyond his wildest dreams. A fully trained, mature mage, stripped of her memories and kept in bondage with no will beyond his own, no ambition besides that which he set before her - it is a frightening thought on any level, and when I think of it being Hawke, my stomach roils.
No, I will not involve her in this. If there are chances to be taken in this search, I will take them myself.
I stop my pacing again. Is that it, then? Have I just decided to pursue this mad quest?
Grudgingly, I admit to myself that I have no other option, if this stalemate is to be broken. If it brings Danarius down on me, then so be it. I will face him and be done with it. "There comes a time when you must stop running," I told Hawke boldly on the day we met, "When you must turn and face the tiger." I believed I would win death or freedom that very night. Yet even then I was terrified of facing my old master, speaking more out of bravado than bravery. It was a bitter disappointment at the time, to stand there alive and victorious, and still not free.
I don't know that I truly cared back then whether it was death or freedom I received, so long as I could end this mad chase. But there was no end, and now the years have made me a craven hypocrite, my mansion a crumbling cage that I dare not leave.
Enough. I will walk into Danarius' trap, if that is what this is. I will do as I said I would all those years ago - if he will not come to me, then I must go to him. I shall be the wolf he named me for, and it will be he that must watch his back.
My restless feet move across the floor again. This is the most dangerous kind of game, a true test of wits, courage, and skill. If I am not fast enough, strong enough, smart enough, if I do not act at the right moment, if I hesitate too long or strike too soon, I will be lost, and Danarius will win. These sorts of drawn out, complicated plots are his forte, and I, the simple-minded, impulsive, emotional slave, am at a distinct disadvantage. He has everything on his side. He has money, power, experience, and I have-
I have Hawke.
The thought comes unbidden, and weak as I am, I take comfort in it. I have just sworn to myself I will not involve her in this, and yet, she is the one advantage I have over Danarius - an unknown, unpredictable element over which he has no control. Even if his spies have told him of her, he will underestimate her. To him, she is a barbarian, and in any case, no one can really comprehend Hawke without meeting her. If she will stand with me, perhaps I have a chance.
It is the only scrap of hope I have found to cling to in years. I cross over to the basin in the corner, and splash water up over my face, washing away the sweat and grime of my workout as plans start to tumble in my mind. I have kept in touch with Anso. He has contacts in the Imperium. I will start with him.
I will keep Hawke out of this for as long as I can, and then - if I need her - I will ask this one last favor of her. Perhaps when all this is settled - perhaps things will be different. Perhaps something will change.