Forgotten

We are all possessed by fear and secrets. We must seek confidence in the solace of another's embrace and learn to forget the pain, forget the scars, and forget the past. Fenris x F!Hawke.

A prequel of sorts, this piece will consist of three one-shots, each occurring during particular canon plot points. It may contain spoilers, canon and also non-canon endeavours and history. Very little actual dialogue from the game will be used, only employed to reference individual events that lead to the one-shot's beginning, end, or as a part of its content. As a whole, the work shall address a changing intimate relationship with the elf Fenris and a reserved female mage Hawke during their reign in Kirkwall.

Author: Illusionary Ennui

Disclaimer: If it's not in the games, codex entries, or the wiki, it's mine. All else, hail to Bioware. Also, I don't own the lovely song Please Don't Go by Barcelona, which inspired much of this particular installment. Also, some of you might recognize the method of the favour - I do not claim the origin of it, but I've noticed the popularity of it since starting to write it and I feel a bit guilty, but I will not change it.

Chapter Rating: M

Chapter Warnings: Angst, Drama, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, and more NSFW pleasure...

Beta: Lywinis

Edited: 07.16.2012 - Rewriting, editing...

Forget the Pain

Not all said and done,
Gamble it not in silence
We chance the burden

Worry clouded her thoughts as the silk of her house clothes settled over her form, now purged of the blood mage's remains. Still her hands shook, the vicious light in those peridot eyes haunting. It was not fear for herself that sent the trembling shocks to raze her nerves and make her muscles twitch. Like waking from a nightmare, the sheer notion of such uncontrolled fury threatened to swallow her whole. She knew that it should not... that it could not continue – for his sake, if not her own.

Leaning on the bedpost, Hawke's forehead cooled against the polished wood, the opulent curtains brushing against her hot cheeks.

Man echoes the sum of his unclaimed fears and his loftiest dreams - no one deserved such pain as that done unto him. Even she agreed with the animosity of his past which compelled him to escape. Yet, he dwelled and drowned in it. Offering more than her friendship, what else could remain to assuage his fractured soul?

Even as a mage, one of the very objects of his contempt, he accepted her temperament and decisions, almost thoughtful in his gestures. His respect and veiled concern rang in her ears and heart. In her company, he seemed to no longer view her curse as a wary source of contempt, but as a glimmer of something removed from the darkness of his unsavoury experiences – her and her alone. Anders might argue that her tainted methods failed to convey the heart of his rebellion, but she expected that those unable or unwilling to control their nature might fare better within the asylum of the Circle – though its apparent corruption often proved otherwise. If nothing else, they were shielded, protected from the scorn of the outside world and also from the demons within.

Equivalent exchange was hardly equal when the balance of weakness and strength often shifted, a endless struggle.

Regardless, with the risks understood, she knew her choice should she fall prey to darker whims and the hard-earned praise from the elf's amiable voice filled her with faint hope.

Yet, the remedy for the tension between them that seared into her mind was naive: make it forgotten. All she wanted was for him to be happy, if only for a little while. Could she give him that, at the very least?

Oh, Maker... what to do?

Time wore in relative silence until later that evening when Bodhan, ever the loyal manservant, knocked on the thick doorframe. At her nod of approval, he donned a knowing smile upon his face. Behind him, Sandal beamed, his blue-eyes wide, more in regard to his own thoughts than another prospect.

"Messere? My boy and I shall be retiring for the evening," the older dwarf said, jovial in his speech. "Might you be needing anything else before we take our leave?"

With a brief shake of her head, she bade him a fond farewell and a congenial hope for pleasant rest. Sandal waved her goodbye in return and took off down the stairs, the snuffling snores of Thane, her Mabari, covering his heavy footsteps across the landing. Alone again, Hawke let a small smile touch her lips, but it faded within seconds, her thoughts making to plague her once more.

To her surprise, Bodhan paused at the door and spoke one last time.

"Oh, there's a young elven gentleman pacing the foyer. I expected that you might want to talk with him. Hasn't said a word himself, but I'm quite sure he'd like to see you, milady."

"You don't need to leave, Fenris."

The comfort of her words shattered over his rashness, her back bruising with the force of his response. A stilted whine of shock hissed between her gritted teeth even as she bit back a more hollow sound. Desperate for reprieve, she sought his features for an explanation. There, she found him, the pale radiance of his lyrium brands beginning to fade, staring up at her with regret lingering in his gaze.

Please don't go.

Wounded as he beheld the expression marring her countenance, Fenris stilled himself in quiet consternation, ashamed. Shown naught but compassion, offered a sympathetic ear and willing hand to his troubles: to these he responded not in kind. Steel-sheathed fingers released their hold as his apology, brought by shame and perhaps something more, formed at the tip of his tongue only to be stolen from his lips. There, her mouth was so warm, so gentle against his. It brimmed with pity and shrouded longing. She accepted his unwarranted wrath and presented him with its equal vigour.

For once, the pain receded and he felt intoxicated in its passing.

"Stay, Fenris. Spend this night with me."

The words tumbled forth, unrestrained; nothing could have stopped them.

Her pleading words do not quite register at first; they were alien in his ears, as unknown and cryptic as a mystic's dream. Somewhere through the haze, however, his subconscious divined their meaning and usurped a stalwart rule born from years of submission, of slavery. Broken free of those chains, Fenris fitted her small, delicate hand in his, the very one that had crushed that bitch's heart. His sure, steady strides led her up the wide staircase and beyond the threshold of the landing. Unhindered, they passed through entryway into her lavish bedchamber, into her sanctuary. No path of return to be left open, the heavy door clicked into place behind him.

When he paused to catch his breath, Fenris leaned against it and pulled the mage into his embrace. No coherent thoughts directed his actions when wanton instinct designed his deeds. He wished that he could feel her skin against him, mesmerised by the notion of the softness of her ample breasts as she made to meld him with the grain. The very thought of them, squashed hard against his ridged breastplate, thrilled him as did her unexpected strength. He joined her display, delved into her mouth at every opportunity. All the while, his hands found intrigue with the curves of her half-cocked hips and the rounded flesh of her swaying rear.

Captive passion loosed, his affections became dictated by rushing fervour rather than logic. The warrior's body knew this dance, despite his assertion that his memory remained without the experience save for as a mere observer. A silent curse speared him, the one bit of remembrance bring forth something better left forgotten.

... Limbs awry, piteous moans poison the air. Danarius casts him furtive glances as the magister rapes the willing and the unwilling, few and many. He is less of a voyeur, but rather intimidation for those poor souls who must resign themselves into submission. Yet, no man intact is unaffected by the harsh, jagged movements, the straining cries of release. Too many times, too many nights, he aches and the discomfort only mounts in the wake of the blood mage's instability. Amidst the fog of discomfort, Hadriana's spiteful hands seek him, and he drowns in his hate -

Fenris bit his tongue to rid himself of the bitter taste of his master and his tormentor, the urge of his righteous contempt sent him reeling. Stinging pain ripped along the lines of lyrium which drove him into more imprudence.

To drown out that memory, he wanted a new one, one to sweep about the ugliness. He wanted to take it for himself, the pleasure of another, and the thought blinded him.

One metal-shod hand slid toward the hem of her robes to where the steel scraped pliant flesh. It gripped a shapely leg and hitched to his waist to feel her hips grate and press his growing hardness to its counterpart. A soft moan slipped past her quivering lips, his name riding the sigh as her head tilted back. Encouraged, the elven warrior trailed gracious kisses down the curve of her jaw to pepper the exposed column of her throat. Gauntlets dug into the soft tissue of her thighs, the clawed-tips drawing blood. Her sharp gasp fell on deaf ears, the former slave lost to her.

"Fenris –"

"Beautiful."

That single was tinged by his husky tone, stressed with peaking avarice. From the primal recesses as his tongue laved her pulse, another thought reared: Mine.

The one word, such a simple description, rippled through her and ended all thought, drained the mage of the vestiges of her will. She stilled, frozen in place. Uncertain of the course, her sudden coldness baffled him, even more so when she pushed him away. Still possessed of his earlier vehemence, he threw her back into the door, her edged gasp an unpleasant cry. With his thoughts yet burning with need, his taut, straining body pinned her at arms' length, the tips of his gauntlets sinking deep into the oak.

Dark eyes refused to meet his scorching gaze, averting to the stonework tiling and ornate rugs. Teeth grinding, ire coloured his valued words; however, the emergent passion never lessened. Denying the consequences, an answer was demanded as his throat constricted with trepidation.

"Is this not what you want?" he asked as he pressed his forehead to hers, his emerald eyes squeezed shut. In the silence between them, he collected the budding memories: her scent of orange blossoms, the nervous twitch of her swollen lips, her heavy-lidded gaze. How many nights had he thought of this? Of her dulcet voice? Of her gentle touch?

Every little motion gave way to exaggeration, palatable in recklessness. Unknowing or not, she tempted him and burned herself into his wayward mind. Would he be a fool to not partake of this kindness from one such as her?

"I said that you are unlike any woman I have ever met, that with you, it might be different. Command me to go, and I shall. Yet, I can't help but wonder: could we truly be something... something more?"

No more games, he promised. Her friendship would never be enough for him, not now. Bewildered by her insecurity, he again found hesitation in those shadowed eyes.

Meeker than a cloistered sister, her voice was but a shallow whisper, barely articulate over the raging blood rushing in her ears: she desires nothing more than to give him something to take pleasure in, to be the one to wash him of his pain and forget its memory. Her intention was not to hurt, only to heal. Her sentiments sounded rehearsed and overwrought, but they are no less true. Though Hawke craved her own contentment, wretched with guilt for thinking of herself, she in truth cared more of his.

Neither knew how to be loved, only how to be used – his sovereign melancholy mirrored her own desolation.

Fenris drew away, his features a stoic, impenetrable partition between their realities. Abandoned for confusion, her heart sank like a stone in her breast. Once again, Hawke cast her gaze to the floor when the maiden blush crossed her fevered cheeks. Dear Maker, what had she done?

"Please don't go!"

Passion robbed her of reason and decency as a helpless, outreaching hand hung in the air.

The resounding thud of his cuirass, removed from him and placed now atop her writing desk, recaptured her attention, brought her back from her thoughts of loss. Glancing back at her, he brandished a lusty smirk.

"Tonight, I am yours."

It was abrupt, his acceptance. Having expected outright rejection, unjustified anticipation never considered this outcome.

Desire. Regret. Pain. Wave upon building wave crushed.

When he reached for her, she shied away until her spine hit the door again. Unspoken, panic roared into the forefront of her thoughts – too many secrets she wanted to bury, needed to hide. He halted before her and his hands steadied him on the rough wood to either side of her figure – his tongue wetted his parched lips in apprehension and concern. Cold steel alit along her tear-stained cheek and Fenris leaned forward to place a kiss to her frown only to catch just the corner of her mouth as he watched her turn aside.

Hawke shook her head, causing the long, soft tresses to sweep across her countenance. His hand then taken into hers, she guided him to the armoire by her bedside. In his periphery, the expanse of the four-poster seemed wide and inviting, a nest of down and weave. Arousal. Confusion. Left to linger there, hardly a metre from the great bed, a fleeting sensation of desertion settled beneath the remains of his armour, his mask. Yet, Fenris held her in his intensifying stare as from the open wardrobe she withdrew a long silken scarf of rouge.

No sane man could fathom the depths of her purpose. She was the fire burning beneath his skin, the icy dread in his heart. She was the zephyr howling in the halls of memory, the earth receding from his errant feet. As fickle as a child and as resolute as the unending tides. Nature, undefined.

Mine.

"This hatred is a damning poison. It strips you of what it means to be alive, whole. I want you to believe in something other than suffering, Fenris. Rather than rely on what your eyes have seen, what they can see, I want you to heed your heart's desires and feel me, not the pain."

One must gather it all and box it away, far from the light. Blanket it in the shades of broken night.

It was a half-truth that squirmed with the taste of bitterness in her mouth. Selfish reasons devoured an uneasy mind – Hawke, wary of the throbbing heat, wanted him to the point of ache, to let him plunder and claim. Yet, the sheer thought of his gaze on her, studious of her vulnerability, terrified her – her secrets were her own, wounds that she could not heal without diminishing her aims for another.

Something for another evening, perhaps? Would there even be another night for that matter? Waiting was an agony all its own.

While taken aback by her cordial speech, Fenris fanned the licentious flames roiling in his belly. Need became his definition. Obsessed, unwilling to lose this rare opportunity, he forced himself conceded without further query. Though he was no longer a slave, he would always submit to this one woman. Whatever her reasoning, whatever her wish, he would consent if only to share in her desires – no one had ever done so much for him or even cared to do so. Fenris discerned from his variegated emotions that he could not and would not let her go. More than want, this was need.

Mine.

His silvered crown tilted in genuflection, accepting her conditions without question.

Though he flinched at first, expecting worse as a man escaped from slavery would be want to do, the opaque red fabric instead obscured Hawke from his view. It felt absurdly soft over his closing eyes, the silk wrinkled across his nose. Gently stroking his cheek, she adjusted the cloth to her heart's satisfaction, careful to make certain that the knot was just loose enough. Anonymous at last when her own eyes slid shut, something broke inside her. Tension then stretched and snapped rigid.

By granting her this goodwill, she held more of his sparing trust than any other could boast. Anything he wanted, whatever he asked – Hawke vowed to give him that and more.

For now, she mused, she would give him pleasure: the freedom to be known by another, to be loved.

Fenris's humbling smirk honoured her without measure when her thumb caressed the tendrils of lyrium on his chin, the brand awakened by her touch to tease with unfelt vibration of its power. Her tender kiss tingled with the taste of fervent ardour and magic, a sweet tang akin to the flavour of the air in a forest after a summer's rain. Tears, their salt on the petal-soft skin, could not dissuade him. Pining lips parted and his tongue sought hers, his pleasure taken from the warmth of the fingertips which rested on his cheek.

Clumsy, unsure hands wandered up her sides with tentative contact, testing. Enveloped in his arms, Hawke's apprehension eased by slow degrees. Every second brought to them closer, deeper into the other's comfort. She allowed him to explore unrestricted as he bestowed hard kisses to her neck, as licked her pulse and nipped along the column of her throat. Seeming possessed of his own designs for the night, he moved quickly, so hungry for whatever he could find within her embrace. Her collarbone and shoulders soon shared the delight until her house robes slipped from their perch. His lips prickled flesh in their wake while his touch awakened the mage's hidden fervour, heat coiling in tightening muscles of her belly. Yet, she kept it in check - for her sake and his own, the effect of her magic on the lyrium unknown.

All the while, she traced the swirls of lyrium curling on his arms, praying that tonight she might alleviate the hated memory that birthed them rather than fuel the disdain. She would not allow him to be alone this night; she would give him more than mere words, to give pleasure rather than just have it taken.

Drifting down his arms, corded by his warrior's training, Hawke took up one of his gauntlets. Delicate in her task, she pulled the light metal from his hands, placing a brief kiss to his palm where her lips lingered to brush his wrist. The lyrium tingled at the contact, her magic strained within her control, but whatever pain there was paled in comparison to the fluttering awe he felt in his stomach. His other hand received the same and Hawke's tongue licked at the quickening pulse. Impatience not of her own dragged later her from her task when Fenris kissed her again, steel-free fingers threaded into her hair with the need to taste her once more.

Heedless of the distraction, she then made swift work of his belt. For her efforts, a low, rasping groan slipped past the thinned line of his lips when by accident she brushed against the evidence of his arousal. Hawke was suddenly more than grateful that he could not see her vibrant flush in the darkness, her mask gone in favour of the encounter, another secret left nameless in the moment.

As she addressed the toggles of his tunic, he was mesmerised yet again, even though a blind observer to the display. The hide parted and Fenris shrugged out of its confines to let it heap onto the floor.

All that remained were stretched leggings to cover his modesty.

There was no hope of return, no wish otherwise.

Tentative palms pushed him back toward her bedside and the elf's legs buckled when they hit the mattress. At Hawke's insistence, Fenris seated himself on its edge. Embolden by the advantage left open, one elusive hand tore at the belt of her robes before both slipped over the heated ski. Even while she kicked off her boots, his touch never left her. When the fabric then fell from her shoulders, he imagined her naked before him, etched her shapely figure into his mind for him to see in memory for all time. Pleased, Fenris leaned forward to kiss her sternum and tugged her hips towards him.

Broken from his grasp, the grand bed dipped when she crawled onto the coverlet beside him. He followed like a lost child, filled with yearning, as steadied on his hands and knees. One hand touched her leg and it sent brilliant jolt of desire down his spine. Inch by inch, Fenris moved until he hauled himself atop of her and between her thighs as if she had invited him there all along. Beneath his sinuous frame, Hawke lay submissive and quivered, his equal in hesitation.

Aware of the woman's shallow breaths, Fenris sought to assuage the mounting fears which matched his own. Though he chanced her disfavour, the warrior tested the limits of her acceptance, goading her with the worship of his calloused hands, drying lips, and talented tongue. Spellbound by every sensation, he made of a study of the contours of the mage's form, the rise and fall of each supple curve. He was both enthralled and inebriated by her - she demanded nothing of him and gave him absolute liberty for the simple price of his sight, to allow her to hide. His piqued curiosity paled in light of the greater sensation of her flesh - the taste, the smell, the feel of the sweat-slick skin. There was nothing he did not touch of his new dominion – it was a freedom that could not be aptly described. For the power over her, he reciprocated pleasure, but that alone was not enough.

Pressed down upon her, his voice rough with need, Fenris pleaded for her to touch him, to feel him as he did her in return. The former slave required her soothing strokes not unlike a man parched in the desert sun. Desirous to oblige, they managed to shift positions, the silken covers of her bed cool against his back when he sank amongst the down pillows beneath her. Above him, Hawke waited for a moment to absorb the vapours of her own provocation as the hard muscles beneath her rippled. She trailed her fingertips down his torso and admired the well-defined physique, although wary to avoid the brands twining down his sides - best not let them feel her magick's touch just yet, but it proved more difficult the longer she strayed near them. Instead, she traced the pattern about its outermost edges and even then the lyrium drew her like a magnet she fought to deny. She would never hurt him intentionally, but if by accident? No, she dared not to take that chance.

Though wanting to shy away again, she flirted with the waistband of his leggings and the coy mage stopped in respect.

"Fenris?"

A small nod was all he could manage, the impression of her fingers too close to him, so unreal. He clung to her gentleness when she tugged at the flexible hide and he lifted his hips to aid their progress. Relieved of that last bit of clothing, Fenris shivered in his nakedness, vulnerable in such a state. His mind's eye saw the woman gazing down at him from his feet, hopeful that lust clouded those dark orbs. His foot twitched when a lone finger, her magic restrained, then touched the start of one gnarled line.

He felt her follow it along his legs and the mage worked her way back up to him. Everywhere she sketch a copy of it as she bestowed kisses to each scar and heated expanse, accepting. Grown more daring, Hawke later tempted the warrior with a quick flick of her tongue to one intricate swirl by one nipple and his pleased groan heralded his approval. Straddling his thighs, she bent to whisper sweet words to his lips, commendations for his strength, his handsome form.

Somewhere in the depths of his consciousness, he shamed himself by comparing the encounter to the unpleasant nights when Hadriana abused him, tore him down, wickedly digging her fingers into his brands and giving him tortuous pain while she denied him release and the pleasure of her warmth – these things Hawke did not do. Tonight was special, unique because he desired it, because he desired her. Fenris craved the woman who aided him, comforted him.

A deepening kiss distracted him when diligent fingers slipped down him once more and encircled his aching length.

"Hawke!"

No, not that. Anything but that. A memory of Hadriana burned across his blinded sight, the covetous bitch praising and demeaning him, all the while stroking him to the peak to leave him to writhe in sour agony. His head thrashed against the pillow in effort to banish the repulsive recollection. It was unfair to Hawke and he knew that something had to be done.

Unable to weather the mage's ministrations, he hooked a leg around one of hers and flipped Hawke back down onto the mattress, once more asserting dominance for sanity's sake. Reason deserted, he roamed her figure with renewed zeal, his kisses and nips becoming more and more impassioned in an effort to bury that sordid past with something greater. Attentive hands revelled in the docile flesh, craven as he ripped the bindings from her chest. His larger spans ran from her ribs to caress the heaving bosoms, his motions still rather awkward in the blackness. Even so, his fingers found the tightening peaks, his snowy tresses tickling the red-tinged skin of her chest as his tongue laved the pebbled tips.

Hawke's quickened breaths and sharp gasps incited him into further action. Rough palms later slid between trembling thighs, levered them apart as he settled at their apex. Her keening cry caused him to smirk as long, lyrium-burned fingers teased her sex, slipping past her folds.

Fenris could not marshal himself much longer, her enticing pants sounding delightful in his sharp ears. Nothing stopped him as he glided up her body, pressed down on her, and guided his hard, aching length to the heat of her core. In a moment of weakness, he begged her to remove the blindfold, yearning to see her face in ecstasy. However reluctant she might have been, her nervous fingers untied the cloth from his eyes.

A devoted smile wrote itself onto his countenance before it twisted into a line of query as she tied the strip of fabric to his wrist. He looked to her for explanation, but she offered not all of the truth. It was a secret unto herself. Something for another time, perhaps.

"A memory for a memory, 'tis a gift for the man who takes mine."

Her fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. From there, she caressed his cheek before she pressed her quivering lips to his.

"Tonight, I am yours." She parroted his words from the beginning, her voice tinged with her unseemly excitement - she was his, then and always.

Awestruck and ravenous, he fingers fisted into her hair. There he grabbed the knotted locks and dragged her up to meet his pale emerald gaze. His mouth conveyed his veneration and hard-won gratitude when he drowned her in a fiery kiss where their tongues sparred like starving serpents. His calloused hands then grasped for her, pulled her closer even as his hips ground into hers. One of her hands alighted on his chest as if feel his erratic heartbeat while the other snaked under his arm and held him even closer. Shapely thighs then squeezed about him and Hawke urged him forward, apprehension overtaken by delirious longing.

"Please, Fenris."

He needed no other encouragement. Spurred, blinded by lust and primal instinct, he hilted himself. She cried out at the invasion and he winced. Once sheathed, they both tensed as their heavy breaths hung in the air, mere fledglings to these devastating sensations. She as inexperienced as he, each in their own way, they struggled to find a feasible rhythm.

The loss of her innocence, the mark of her maidenhood, did not daunt the mage compared to the way her unchecked magic unravelled to appease her elven lover. Loosed, tiny jolts of pleasure electrified along his scorned lyrium-lines - the night was his alone and he arched at her touch, her magic a strange catalyst to their satisfaction. She did not take from their power but only rang their natural tone like one seeking the perfect pitch - he would never admit to anyone, save her perhaps, that her magic, in that moment, was one of the Maker's greatest creations, a union unlike he could ever fathom.

Moments passed until they began to harmonise, physically, each labouring to bring the other to climax. Her arms encircled him, clung to him and drew him deeper as her nails raked thin furrows down his back. Faster and harder, Fenris sank into her essence and poured every fear, every passion into his frantic drive. Her back slammed back against the headboard, their movements working them into a newer angle. Despite the pain, the soreness, her legs wrapped around him and bare heels dug into his thighs. Surrounded by flesh and magic, he found himself engulfed by her, body and spirit. His pride swelled when she cried out his name, her soprano raw with orgasm as from within she convulsed and gripped him tight in undulation. She stiffened in his arms to ride the overwhelming sensations, thrown over the edge into the haze of release. Undeterred and not yet sated, he clutched again at her hair and yanked her head back to bury his face in the crook of her neck. Against her skin, he muffled his guttural groan as he mounted the final shaky steps to his precipice. A few more well-thought thrusts brought him to completion, his hot seed bursting forth deep inside her.

Bright memories fill him:

An unruly child, a sister...

A tired-looking woman weeping... his mother?

Danarius's insufferable leer falls on him...

Excruciating pain rips through him...

So lost to release and the flood of recollection, he failed to realise that he had bitten her when the pain took hold of him again. It scorched like creationist flames that had ignited the lyrium to brand it into his skin. Each forgotten memory haunted him, danced behind even closed eyes. The blood reminded him of ever mistake and regret began flooding back. To anchor back against the tide, he drew away and every move would have become instinct until he saw the blood welling on the pale skin of Hawke's throat. Penitent for his folly, Fenris licked the wound and focused on his conceit for such a mark sunk into the juncture of her neck and shoulder, a declaration of his claim.

Mine.

Not Mine.

The line between them wavered.

That night wore on and, indolent but satisfied, they shared no other words. They lay together, he still inside her, for some time before she kissed him to make her gratitude and well-wishes known by the doting contact. With a sigh, his remorse well-hidden, the elf disentangled from her somnolent form and removed himself from her warmth. A tender caress convinced him not to leave that very moment, despite the impulse which screamed for him to run from the vanishing memories. Curled around her, Fenris let his arm drape over her, the gesture tainted by possessiveness. A part of him knew she was no possession, but that did not stop him from wanting what he believe he never could have. His hand clasped to her chest by her fingers, he was reminded by how soft she beneath his fingertips, of how easily he could have broken her if he so chose. Still, a fleeting thought gripped the warrior, one that made him harden in remembrance of the closeness, in the shadow of ecstasy, and the other part of him wanted nothing more than to take her again.

In favour of her rest, he quelled the hunger and soon begged for the oblivion of sleep, an escape, but his dreams revealed the unwanted truth: he had gained and lost something far greater in the throes of passion than belief argued to nullify the mage's noble intentions. If only she could understand the depths of his sorrow and his hate; she could only imagine. Forgetting the pain would have been easier than forgetting the past.

"Forgive me."

Tears threatened to rend her asunder when Hawke watched her first love disappear from her company. The notion that he would never to return pierced her future - she had never thought he would just walk away. Rushing to the window, the curtains throw aside in hast, she cast her gaze onto the street below to see him storm away. Behind the glass, the tears flowed in rivulets down her ruddy cheeks and her heart shattered beneath her soundless cries.

Even in this, she knew she was a failure.

Fenris found himself outside the Chantry, motionless before the doors for what seemed like hours. Behind him, bright sunlight over Kirkwall's horizon threatened to hail the faithful for the morning lauds. His fists, clenched until his palms bled, at length reached up to open the door. To his surprise, and also his dismay, it creaked open before he could change his mind.

"Fenris?"

With his auburn hair sleep-tossed and brilliant blue eyes squinting the pale glow, the Prince of Starkhaven tilted his head in concern. It took him but a moment to recognise the hurt in the elf's expression and he ushered the broken soul inside. Together, they sat in perfect silence, Fenris's sight fixed on the bit of silk bound to his wrist, until the Chantry's bells commenced to echo within the vast chamber.

Voices began to dot the stillness and one of the sisters called out to the royal brother. The prince looked away to offer her an acknowledging smile and a raised hand of apology - he would not abandon his friend for a mere greeting. Satisfied with her response, Sebastian then turned back towards his companion only to find him gone, the barely audible squeak of the side entrance hidden among the rising din.

Confession is good for the soul, but some wounds will always cause pain.

Night had just began to fall, the red-washed sun sunk beyond the cityscape, when a disconsolate young woman visited the exiled prince. Without a word, she sank into his arms and the she sobbed, broke just the same...

End Part I

Author's Note: Lywinis said it was all right if I took a break from Blessing for a bit. With that in mind, I'm embarking a new adventure with my first DAII love, the broody elf himself: Fenris. I hope you enjoy its insanity.

Thank you, Lywinis, dear, for beta-ing more of my nonsense. Also, I'd like to thank her for feeding my habits and inspiring me - it's funny that we've come to the agreement that Sebastian and Fenris should be good friends. Oh, and Sebastian is just a friend this round, sorry, my dears.