Title: Stolen
Characters: Fenris, m!Hawke
Rating: M
Summary: Response to a prompt fill for the PoT community. Fenris reflects on his romantic encounter with Hawke.
My breath almost gone, I slam shut the front door of my mansion. Gasping, my eyes scan the entrance hall wildly, searching for hidden danger. Old habits are hard to break. Huge, dusty furniture looms around me, scattered debris littering the hall. A stray thought: why have I never cleaned up this place, this empty shell I call a home? My breath is ragged; I have run the short distance from Hawke's estate at a full, blinding speed. But this is not the reason my heart slams against my ribs, shuddering in its cage of bones. I did not flee my enemy, those Tevinter bastards that seek only to recapture their deadly toy. It is Hawke I seek to escape, those blue eyes as deep as the ocean. Even as I close my eyes to erase the memory, they are still there, burning with longing. Oh, what have I done to deserve that?
I shake my head to clear it, and my hand restlessly brushes back shockingly white hair. Even this familiar habit, did I always do this when I felt frustrated? I can't remember. I can never remember, no matter how much my minds strains and gropes for something, anything from before. It is simply gone, my previous life.
Slowly, I climb the stairs, one clawed finger scraping a trail through the dust on the banister. A cobweb brushes against my cheek, and I flick it away impatiently. Perhaps I refuse to clean simply because my home is a reflection of my mind. Rooms full of dusty cobwebs and neglect, walls adorned with paintings of unknown people and forgotten places. A fitting abode for a former slave, a suitable mind for an elf with no past, is it not?
The fireplace is cold and dark, and I hasten to light the wood within. If only I could illuminate the dark passages of my mind so easily! I crouch before the dancing flames, letting the heat warm my skin. I stretch out my arms to the fire, my eyes glancing over the hated white lines of lyrium. Only a few hours earlier, those lines had flashed intensely blue as I shoved Hawke against the wall. I can still recall the vividness of my fury when he grabbed my arm, such audacity! He knew what it did to me, when someone dared touch my skin. Yet, he had reached for me anyway, to stop me from leaving.
I close my eyes, the memory of his face etched on the back of my eyelids. He had shown no fear, no apology at crossing that forbidden line. As the lyrium in my skin flared bright, he had simply returned my gaze with frightening intensity. And that was what stopped me from releasing my power, from killing the man who had shown me only kindness. Even I, stunted in the understanding of emotions as I am, could see the feeling in the depths of those blue eyes.
Ah, Hawke, you unraveled the very fiber of my being with that single look. For the first time in my short truncated memory, someone wanted me-not for my power but for being myself. How could I not respond to that? Always, I have been so careful, so calculated in my every move. But in that moment, I threw caution aside and simply reacted as my body wished. Even now, hours later, I can still feel his lips on mine, his mouth giving way to my seeking tongue.
My hands clench in agony. The tips of my gauntlets dig hard into my palms, gouging bloody holes in my flesh. All these past years I had spent wishing for some slip of a memory, and now I longed only to forget this night. Abruptly, I stand and move to the chest in the corner, where I have stashed the bottles I discovered in the cellar. I pull out a dusty bottle, full of blood-red wine, aged to expensive perfection. No cheap liquor here, in the Hightown mansion of some disappeared Tevinter merchant. Or had it been Danarius who had stocked the cellar after claiming this estate for his own? I chuckle darkly as I wonder what Danarius would think of one of his slaves drinking wine meant for nobility.
I spear the cork with the tip of my gauntlet, and it pops out obligingly. No glass needed for me; I press the bottle directly to my lips and let the cool liquid burn down my throat. The flavor is light and sweet, and I am reminded reluctantly of another flavor. That taste was somewhat salty but no less sweet, and even more intoxicating than this wine. Even now, my tongue remembers licking that delightful fluid from Hawke, as he thrust himself even deeper into my mouth.
Enough! Gritting my teeth, I carry the wine over to the wooden table and slouch in the battle-scarred chair. I tip the bottle back and drink long desperate gulps of the liquor, desiring only to push away the memory of this night. But Hawke is stubborn; even in my mind he can't stop his persistent need to make things right. I have never met anyone quite like him, and even though we disagree on some things, I cannot walk away from this man who refuses to treat me like a slave.
I know nothing of this desire I seek: freedom. It is merely an idea that dangles in front of my mind, taunting me with its promises. I am still essentially a babe, born fully-grown amidst the deepest pits of hell, surrounded by pain that defies description. I have no memory of my childhood, my family, my life before the lyrium was branded into my body. I am told that I was a slave in that time before, just as I became after my awful rebirth. Did I belong to Danarius also in that forgotten past? I do not know, and it doesn't matter. I became his weapon, and he owned me.
How swiftly I learned the penalty of disobedience. These same lines on my skin that grant me power could also dispense punishment of the most excruciating kind. With a mere gesture, Danarius could reduce me to a mass of writhing agony, lyrium burning sinuous trails of fire into my skin. Only twice did I dare to defy my master, the first time being when he ordered me to drive my sword through another servant who had displeased him. I learned then, with bitterness, that my own body would betray me at his command. The second time came when weeks later, he displayed me, his prize possession, to his fellow magister friends. When one of them commented that such a beautiful weapon could be put to more than one use, he gave me over to them for their amusement. That memory is very dark indeed, the pain of my resistance no less than the pain they bestowed upon me during that long night.
Is it truly unexpected then that I expect every touch on my skin to bring pain? Yet tonight, I learned a different touch, the touch of redemption. When I close my eyes, I realize that I don't want to push away this memory after all. My memories are so few and so dark, should I not struggle to retain those that are precious? Everything has been stolen from me: my family, my memories, my life, my will. There is nothing I can claim to be mine, not even my own body. But this, this memory I will keep as my own. It is the bright star in my eternal night.
And so, I sit here in this uncomfortable chair and relive each moment. I remember the feel of Hawke's hardened skin beneath my fingers, after we had shed our clothes. I can remember how his fingers buried themselves in my hair, as he pulled my mouth to his, his tongue caressing my lips until I yielded to him. I remember the care with which he stroked those dangerous lines on my skin, his eyes watching me carefully to see if he was causing me pain. Never had I been touched with such tenderness! I felt how a god must feel, being worshipped with such fervor.
We tasted each other, each taking the other into his mouth, sharing a pleasure I had barely even known existed. I can still recall the feel of his smooth hardness in my mouth while he sucked at my own length, teasing me into a frenzy. And Maker... the exquisite ecstasy I felt as he penetrated deeply inside of me; it was nothing like what the magisters did to me. The sheer sensation of fullness, of Hawke's desire for me, awakened feelings I never knew I had. He took nothing from me that he did not give back in abundance. Even as he neared his own completion, he caressed my hardness, stroking it gently until I exploded with a cry ripped from my very soul. Only then, did he allow his own release, and how sweetly do I remember the sound of my name as he filled me with his essence.
Even those precious moments pale next to the memory of how he held me afterwards. I rested my head on his chest and listened to the soothing rhythm of his heart as he drifted into sleep. I felt like I was finally home, like I belonged here. But that peace was short-lived, and the darkness returned with a vengeance that drove me to leave his bed. Even in Hawke's arms, I could not forget who I am and who he is. What is lust and desire compared to the clarity of reality? Life is not a dream where anything is possible. I am an elf, a former slave, a being that has been changed into something warped and deadly. What place do I have with Hawke, a man whose destiny seems linked to the very foundation of Kirkwall?
And so, I tried to sneak away like a common thief. But Hawke heard me and woke, and I remember the bewilderment in his eyes as I tried to explain myself to him. He doesn't understand; he comes from a different world than I do. I had to force myself to leave in the end, though he wished me to stay. Someday, he will realize that what we shared this night simply cannot be. Until then, I must be the strong one, the one to erect a barrier between our hearts.
I slump in this miserable chair in this decaying room and stare into the dying embers of the fire. Ah, how I once longed for this, a place away from the Imperium and Danarius. But now that I have it, I feel no more free than I did when I was a slave. All has been stolen from me, and all that remain are my skills. I will give those to Hawke for as long as he has need of me. I hope it will be enough. As I toss the empty bottle into the fireplace, it shatters into a thousand tiny pieces, a fitting mirror of my heart.