Topography: "spoken dialogue," "flashback dialogue," 'thoughts,' emphasis, _ narrative shift

A/N: Thanks to everyone who read 'Eighteen Sunsets' and especially to those who reviewed. Feedback is what keeps the inspiration flowing, so this fic is dedicated to you. This can be read on its own, but it kind of builds on the events of 'Eighteen Sunsets' so go read that first (shameless self-pimpage, I know). Thanks to everyone who read 'Eighteen Sunsets' and especially to those who reviewed. Feedback is what keeps the inspiration flowing, so this fic is dedicated to you.

~ Three Steps Forward ~

Thought fell by the wayside as instinct dug in its claws and held fast. The controlled ravishment of moments earlier made way for rapid staccato surges, driving him deep and hard into the clutching heat of the body beneath him. The coiled knot at the base of his spine snapped free as the pleasure peaked, unleashing a wave of shuddering bliss along his nerves. It pooled in his groin, rushing outward, easing the slide of his flesh along the throbbing walls of the channel that gripped him. He was breathing hard, face pressed to the crook of a shoulder, drunk on a scent that sang of expensive leather and dry red wine, of sparring at sunrise, long conversations after dark, and a thousand flashes of silver and green.

He managed another handful of thrusts before stilling, spent and shaking. The man beneath had yet to find that brink, but he was close. Strong, slim fingers curled in the unbound black tangle of his hair and tugged. "Wreath…!"

Not, 'Hawke.' The sound of his given name, groaned in that deep, breathless rumble wrung a final spasm from his shaft, raising gooseflesh on his skin. Ardent as his lover was, the elf was not given to voicing his desires, communicating instead in a language of tones, and touches, and motions that charmed Kirkwall's Champion to no end.

Fenris moved beneath him, writhing with his need. A swordsman's grip bit into his shoulder; fisted in his hair as that graceful body arched. Intimate muscles clenched around him and he shuddered, gasping at the rippling pressure, hot and slick on his overstimulated flesh. Fenris was rigid as a blade and hot as unquenched steel where he pressed against Hawke's belly, but there was room enough. He could easily reach down, take hold and claim the release he so eloquently yearned for, but…

Hawke enjoyed control. And his lover, liked to please.

He was thoroughly aware that most outsiders looking in would scorn it as a remnant of Danarius' conditioning and probably condemn him as a monster for 'taking advantage.' It was a facile way of thinking, though, as Fenris himself had pointed out.

"…and what of it? What does it matter if I served Danarius in that capacity as well? You take no issue when I use the skills he inflicted on me to press our advantage in battle. Why should it concern you if I do the same here?"

Pragmatic. Maker knew, the man was nothing if not that.

Their first partaking of each other had transpired on a whim, spurred by an overflow of lust and adrenaline, worry and want that had been boiling for months, if not years. There'd been no chance for forethought or guile. Just finding something on hand to ease the joining had been an answered prayer in itself. Fenris had been, not pliant per se, but he'd followed Hawke's lead. Much as he did in battle, in fact. Responding moment by moment, aligning to the rise and flux of events with a focus more innate than learned.

A few weeks into their rekindled courtship, however, some aspects of the elf's (not inconsiderable) flair for catering to another man's pleasure had become impossible to discount, and Hawke…had been out of his depth.

They'd never spoken of it before, but it wasn't a matter of not knowing – of course he had. Fenris wasn't privy to the exact year of his birth, but he was younger than Hawke and not much older than Carver. Hawke had estimated his age at around twenty-two when they met, and by then, Fenris had been running for three years already. A youth – a child, even? – slender-limbed and fair-faced as he was…It was hardly the choice of a man whose interest vested solely in his own protection.

So yes, Hawke had known. But hearing it confirmed still landed like a blow.

"It is not the same thing!"

"Is it not? If it serves our mutual ends?"

"By the Breath, Wolf, you cannot—You honestly expect me to believe that you can…that you want that?!"

That, had been the wrong thing to say. The swordsman's fuse, never long to begin with, disintegrated in a green-eyed flash of indignation. His hands fisted on the mattress and for a second, Hawke sat braced for a punch. It never came. Though, it would've been preferable to watching his lover rise from the bed and start to dress.

Hawke was on his feet in an instant, uncaring of his nudity as he moved to block the door. "You're mad if you think I'm sitting idle while you walk out on me again!" was his heated reply to the quizzical glower he got in response.

Fenris huffed, but he stopped fussing with his lacings. "First of all, I'm merely returning to the mansion. Secondly—" He grimaced, then sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache. "If what you just said reflects your true opinion of me, I fail to see why you would wish me to stay."

It was Hawke's turn to sigh. Nervous habit had him reaching up and raking melee-callused fingers through his hair, snagging the strands. He carried a staff as well now. Anders insisted; said it was crucial that Kirkwall see its Champion as 'a mage,' but he'd been a sword-slinger all his life, and old passions died hard. "You know how I feel, Wolf. Never question that, I just…I need you to help me understand."

For a moment, Fenris seemed to vacillate. Then, frowning as if screwing up his courage, he shucked his trousers and sank down on the bed. The shedding of clothes was a show of good faith; a promise that he wouldn't run, and a block of lead dissolved from Hawke's chest as he moved to sit beside him.

"You accused me of deception." Fenris was staring at a spot between his knees, but he looked up then, eyes wide and earnest as he peered into Hawke's, "…of mongering lies when I claim to want you above me, inside me; to prefer your urging over taking the lead. To what end?" he questioned, head shaking in confusion."What is there to gain from such pretence? All it would accomplish, is to clap myself in irons of my own weakness and delusion. If I longed to suffer beneath my master's heel, I had ample opportunity to return. I'm no gluttonous martyr, Hawke. That, would be the Abomination you consort with, and I'll thank you not to confuse me with him. And if not that, then—" Fenris paused; swallowed thickly. His full lips drew into a grim line as he glanced away."The alternative, is that you think me depraved for refusing to foreswear this part of myself. And it is mine, Wreath. Make no mistake. I fought it long and hard enough. If it were truly an infection of his making, I would have purged it from my soul."

Silence hung between them as Hawke considered what was said. Clearly, his lover had given this some thought. "I'm sorry," and he was. "It isn't that I doubt you, or that I could ever think ill of your desire. But I've seen the hatred you bear toward…that bastard." Hawke was loathe to bring the Maleficar's name into their sacred space, even as his spectre hovered overhead. "And when you do for me as you did…before, I fear that, sooner or later, a day will come when you will look upon me and see him, and the thought of that—it's…" He trailed off, head bowed, shaking a denial of his own.

Firmly gentle fingers cupped his jaw as Fenris turned his head and kissed him. Soft and slow. Tasting deep, as if to erase the bitter tang of the words with the languid sweeps of his tongue. As Hawke kissed back, it occurred to him that such a sweetly easy show of this man's affection would never have been felt by the magister, and there was solace in the thought.

It ended with a tender stroke across his cheek. And then, with Hawke's human hand clasped in both the elf's, Fenris drew a breath, and set about explaining:

Danarius' cruelty hadn't been a product of indifference. If anything, it flowed from his discernment. The most valued of his chattel were selected, not so much for what could be instilled in them, as for what was already there – inherent traits, to either nurture or exploit. The magister possessed his slaves in the manner demons did their hosts. He strove to know their motives, their temptations, their shameful wants and secret fears. And once he did, he moulded them like clay.

"…So you see, Wreath, if I carved out every thought, every impulse, every part of me he ever touched – there'd be nothing left."

Fenris had to find a way to make his past his own or lose his mind. And holding on, meant facing the facts. As a slave, displeasing meant death. To live, was to oblige. His body belonged to his master and whether as a tool or a toy, it was a thing to be used, in all its facets. Sex was one more function he could perform to increase his utility and what he freely offered, required no force to take. Prostrating his unclothed form on a bed was no greater intimacy or imposition than inserting his breakable flesh between the mage and his foes, if somewhat less likely to be fatal. He'd served and he'd lived, which ultimately granted him the chance to fight and prevail.

What'd happened behind closed doors was not a part of his history he publicised, but he would make no apologies for it either.

Danarius' taking of him, had been a matter of survival; offering himself to Hawke, was an indulgence in life. Even if the basic mechanics aligned, the fawning of a fearful slave and the seduction of a faithful lover were vastly different acts. Contrary as night and day. As black and white. Magister and apostate. There was no risk of confusion.

"…but, these are hardly simple things to speak of," Fenris had conceded with an awkward shrug. Self-conscious, perhaps, but not shamed. "I…believed it was understood."

It wasn't, not before, but it should have been. What Hawke admired most about the elf, and had since the very beginning, was his dogged refusal to cast himself as a victim. Fenris was beautiful, but it was that strength that left the mage in awe.

Still trembling from his own release, he took care to pull out and braced his weight on his forearms, snaking down the lissom body underneath him. Fenris drew his knees up, legs sprawled wide and as Hawke settled in-between, he took a moment to appreciate the view. His lover's sac was high, drawn tight against his body; his staff throbbed, glistening at the crown. A little lower, the elf's orifice bore evidence of use, gaping slightly open, swollen from the friction of their joining, rimmed in the pearlescence of his seed. A groan bled from Hawke's throat at the stab of virile lust the sight evoked, rivalled only by the fierce compulsion to protect.

In answer, a moan billowed down from above, inflexion timed to the roll of narrow hips. There was a pause as Fenris caught his breath, then, "Wreathhh!" drawn out in a hiss. Urgent now, poised on the brink between plea and demand.

Grinning, Hawke shook his hair back from his face, licked his lips, and reached out. He had no basis for comparison (aside from Isabela's wild tales, which were best taken with a bag of salt) but he suspected that his lover was well endowed for an elf.

His mouth had barley sealed around the head when Fenris bucked, forcing the bulk of his length down Hawke's throat. Straining his jaw as it was, it felt larger than it looked, larger than it felt in his hand even. His eyes welled up, but they'd done this before and he held himself still, swallowing rapidly to prevent his oesophagus from rebelling. There was no need to see the leer to know that it was there. Fenris liked to be led, true enough, but sometimes, he liked to make Hawke work for his compliance. The thrust was a challenge of sorts – a friendly reminder that this was a man and a warrior who reclined in his bed – and that any semblance of dominance he asserted ought never to be taken granted.

Playing his part, Hawke locked a forearm across the quilted belly. Two fingers of his free hand slipped easily inside the loosened, seeded hole, wrist up and beckoned to the secret node within. A mindless garble of Tevene erupted from above and the mage's eyes crinkled with his own would-be smirk as he opened wide, and went down.

Fenris was panting, writhing in his hold as his orgasm loomed. And that, was when Hawke felt it: a touch on the back of his head, barely alighting before wrenching away.

Seemingly inconsequential.

Easily dismissed. But Hawke knew his lover well.

A pang of angry sorrow lanced his chest and he redoubled his efforts, taking as much as he could.

Despite familiarity with hardship (or perhaps, because of it) Fenris was a sensual creature. It was his guilty admiration of the black, Orlaisian silk-lined leather that'd moved Hawke's mother – Maker keep her – to buy the coat the elf still favoured. Fenris liked the spicy scent of soap imported from Navarra. He was partial to Antivan wine, and Hawke had seen his furtive wonder at the parties that he 'dragged' him to as 'consort to the Champion.' The man was fond of sex as well. Of that, there was no doubt. As much as he elected to defer, Fenris did so on his terms and his acquiescence was anything but passive. In fact, of the two of them, the elf was the more adventurous by far…which made the moments' hesitation all the more revealing. Ghosts howled in those little cues. Tiny tell-tales here and there that unveiled a grisly picture when he allowed himself to look.

The few words Hawke had deigned to exchange with Danarius had included an assurance that there was one thing he would regret about his imminent demise, and that was that the chance to kill him would never be available again. He'd meant it when he said it, but even then, he hadn't realised the full measure of truth the words contained.

"…No! I do not want to 'talk about it'! All I want, is for you to keep your blighted hands off my blighted neck when we rut! Why is this so difficult for you to grasp?!"

Fenris had been in his lap, back to chest, slender throat arched as his head canted back on Hawke's shoulder. It was meant to be a gentle stroke, but he might as well have been holding a dagger.

He'd sat there staring, wanting with all his might to make reparation, yet the fear of making it worse proved utterly paralysing. Fenris stood before him, arms crossed as he stared right back – and blessedly found something soothing on his face that his faltering apologies had failed to convey. The elf sighed then, mumbling something under his breath in Tevene. He'd slumped down on the bed, shoulders rounded and with platinum hair obscuring his visage, he placed a tentative hand on Hawke's forearm. "It wasn't," another sigh, then a shrug, "It wasn't…always terrible, you know?"

Such was Fenris' attempt at reassurance – of himself as much as Hawke. He felt embarrassed for what he would consider a 'momentary weakness' and he despised being pitied. By downplaying what he'd endured, his life under the magister didn't venture so far beyond his ability to cope with and Hawke didn't have to feel sorry for him. 'Really, Wreath, it wasn't all that bad. Why, sometimes when he forced himself on me, I didn't fear for my life at all.'

Hawke could even imagine Danarius stooping to tend to his most 'cherished' slave's arousal on occasion. It would ensure that the ground beneath Fenris' feet remained as quicksand. Ever shifting, ever treacherous, with only his master to cling to. His one lifeline, a sick mockery of hope: serve, obey, submit, conform – and when I rape you again, I might not be inclined to strangle you to death.

Hawke had to swallow quickly as his stomach clenched. He hadn't meant to stiffen his spine, but it couldn't be helped, and of course, Fenris had felt it. The elf's back straightened at once. Again, he studied Hawke's face, albeit guardedly this time, wary of judgment.

"I'm glad he's dead," was all Hawke trusted himself to say.

Fenris' gaze grew thoughtful for a moment. Then he huffed, clearly exasperated with the exchange as he shoved at Hawke's shoulder, urging him to lie back before planting his head on his chest with near enough force to crack ribs. It was dark in the room, candles long since doused, when Hawke heard the ragged admission, "Me too."

He'd certainly come to learn a great deal about Danarius.

More than he'd ever wanted to know, frankly. The man had been a monster to be sure, but more chilling by far, were the glimmers of humanity that endured until the end.

Ambition. Likely that was the one vice the late magister had always borne with him.

Hawke was willing to wager, however, that there'd been a time, before the man succumbed to the defilement of demons and his own base nature, when he hadn't been entirely corrupt. It was by seeing that, that he'd finally come to sympathise with his lover's mistrust of any mage with aspirations beyond their station, no matter how benign the façade. And once he'd troubled himself to look, the evidence abounded.

Hawke's entrepreneurial pedigree might not have been on par with the likes of say, Varric, but he was a businessman in own right. He knew about the thousand tiny gambles involved in the bid for profit. Which jobs to take, which to let go, which payments to chase and which losses to cut. When Athenril gave him a cold smile as she accounted for a single ruined crate by appropriating 'only' half of his (already paltry) share of the takings, he'd known that it was just as she said: business.

Danarius' pursuit of Fenris, however, had been passionately and obsessively personal.

It was never about the blighted markings – or at least, not in the way that Fenris was led to believe. Hawke had no idea how much lyrium it took to imbue a man with the sort of power his lover commanded. What he did know, was that scores of bounty hunters, chasing a high-risk mark across countless leagues of unwelcoming foreign terrain, deployed recurrently over the span a decade, did not come cheap either. And of course, there was the encounter with the Maleficar himself.

For all the slimy, slithery evil Danarius exuded, there'd been something almost naïve about his brief exchange with his former 'bodyguard.' He'd seemed genuinely taken aback by the vehement hostility. Slighted even. As though he'd truly believed that once Fenris saw him, there and in person, he would forget about all this 'freedom nonsense' and come running into the open arms of his master, properly contrite.

The naked confusion Hawke had seen on the magister's face, in that final instant before Fenris tore through his arteries, had relegated him to a Chantry pew for the better part of an hour, silently reviewing his own catalogue of wrongs and the faces of those affected. Even if amends were impossible, if anyone – Maker forbid – ever looked at him with that much raw, unbridled hate in their eyes, if nothing else, at the very least, he would know where he'd erred.

What was perhaps more grotesquely tragic of than anything else, however, was the proof that lingered in Fenris' markings. A work of undeniable evil, and yet...

There was precision there too. Intricacy.

Whoever had drawn the designs had done so with care, serving not only function, but aesthetics. Hawke would never confess it aloud, but when he looked upon those curving white lines, what he saw, was a labour of love.

Andraste be his witness, if he'd ever harboured even the tiniest, most miniscule flicker of curiosity about the lures of blood and demon fuelled magic, that single realisation had snuffed it at the wick. Magic was a thing of impulse, of will and want made real and 'love,' a pretty word used to mark the greatest of such forces. If anything could take what he felt for his green-eyed Wolf and twist it; breaking, and bending, and shifting until it became the fuel of men like Quentin and Danarius—Hawke would rather be dead than made Tranquil, but he'd rather be Tranquil than warped into that.

Give, not take.

Not rule, but serve.

"…that which is best in me, not that which is most base."

No cleric would ever bless the union of a human and an elf, both men, and one a life-long apostate. Yet, in his heart, the vow was already made.

Fenris arched as he came and Hawke held fast, subduing the spasmodic jerking of his hips as he drank him down.

With both their passion spent, he climbed up the bed and settled in to watch as his lover drifted down from his climatic high. The elf was flushed, chest heaving, lips blood-swollen and tinged a darker shade to match. He looked strong, young, vibrant and utterly at ease. Enchanted as the moment was, even the ivory web of scarring – ever stark upon his olive skin – held a trace of the benign.

Lashes fluttered, borne on an indolent sigh, and then eyes like emeralds peered into Hawke's. A lyrium-infused hand touched his face, exploring the contours of his features, stubble-roughened despite that morning's shave. Hawke covered the hand with his and turned his head to kiss the palm.

"I love you," he murmured, brushing platinum stands back from a sweat moistened brow.

Fenris' smile was almost shy, but his gaze didn't waver as he quietly rephrased, "I am yours."

End A/N: Since the question came up, I just want to clarify that, yes, this is based on an actual play-through. So yes, my mage was seriously rocking rogue armour and a broadsword through the whole thing. And yes, it was awesome! If anyone is curious about the mods used, let me know, and I'll send on the links.