Title: How it Ends
Rating: T
Summary: Hawke is the Viscount, and Fenris is insecure. Male Hawke/Fenris
A/N: Thanks for reading. Review please.
How it Ends
The night was cold, but wasn't it always now? There wasn't a breath of warmth around, not a semblance of those heated summer days in Kirkwall when the sun would bake the earth until it cracked. Snow swallowed everything whole, burying the green of the plants and the deep brown of the trees. Flakes like ashes landed on his pink face, melting and running down like dripping tears. He was panting, injured. His hand was pressing hard against his the skin above his ribs. One was broken. The blood had long ago scabbed and dried into a messy, gored glue that kept his frozen fingers from being extracted. He had to lean against the house with his face pressed against the stone for a moment, staying to the shadows.
Fire and candles flickered inside. Voices rose up, a night of sweet wine and spinning dances and stimulating conversation. The guards outside were at ease, perhaps a little more than they should have been. They didn't see Fenris at least, gritting his pointed teeth in pain as he stumbled a few more steps toward the back. Halfway there, he had to stop again and slam his back hard into the stone, staring up. His breath came out in sharp gasps, quieted only with practice. Puffs of smoke rushed from between his lips, and he felt a few drops of sweat drip down toward his eyes.
Raucous laughter erupted inside the house. The music picked up, and Fenris forced himself to continue. He wasn't sure that he would make it up the trellis into the house without damaging something or falling flat on his back. He wasn't even sure if he could lift his arm that high or if the tremble of his limbs would prevent him from climbing one-handed. If by some miracle he made it into the house, how would he creep toward Hawke's bedroom without being noticed? Did Hawke keep medical supplies in his room? Fenris didn't know, and he was gasping for air when he reached the trellis, the pain like wildfire along his ribs.
How did it come to this, he wondered with some sadness. Once it was Hawke that would stumble out of the darkness with a gaping wound and laugh with exhilaration as Fenris threaded the needle and listened to every word. Some great fight with overwhelming odds and Hawke came out on top! A thrill-seeker if ever there was one. It was part of why he was a mercenary. Now it was Fenris that snuck off into the night alone to be wounded, but it was his own darkness that made him leave, not the promise of adrenaline or coin.
For years now he'd lived in Hawke's mansion, the Viscount's secret elven lover—though everyone seemed to know, so he wasn't sure how much a secret it was by this point. A dirty thing that people understood but didn't acknowledge, sometimes to the point that Hawke would receive marriage proposals and sexual propositions. As he became more popular with the people, quiet evenings at home turned into glorious parties with glinting, metal silverware and delicate rose petals and delicious food for the guests. Hawke didn't like them anymore than Fenris did, but at least Fenris could sneak away and not be missed.
The moon was out that night, haunted by a few sparse clouds. Fenris tried to focus on that. A tunnel was forming around his vision, everything turning a hazy gray. He could hear the clink of silverware and glasses behind the brick wall. Whoever was playing the lyre tonight was very good. The melody was strong and flowed like liquid in its intensity. No a single mistake. Practiced fingers. Expensive. Fenris tilted his chin up toward the sky and rested his skull against the unforgiving wall.
Stay awake. Stay awake.
He repeated the words in his head over and over, but it soon became a jumble of meaningless syllables that he could no longer decipher. Beneath him, his legs quaked and shook with his own weight. At least he wasn't bleeding anymore, though his fingers were cemented painfully to the wound. His lungs struggled to breathe in the frigid air. Passing out here could mean hypothermia. Death. The gash was not a mortal wound, but it could be if not taken care of soon.
There was clapping inside and more laughter. Slowly, Fenris slid to the ground as the last bit of strength ebbed from his limbs. He couldn't feel his fingers or toes, and he suddenly missed the heat of Seheron terribly. Languidly, he reached up and undid the clasp of the leather sheath on his back, allowing his weapon to clatter to the cobblestones. Without the weight, his chest felt lighter. He focused on breathing, keeping his eyes on the stars. No one was coming for him, but he didn't have the strength to find help. That, too, was sliding away.
He coughed and groaned at the pain it caused. The cold was even pushing that sensation away, numbing him totally and completely. The tunnel was growing larger and folding even the closest of objects into its foggy embrace. Here, at least, there was no pain. No cold. No love or revenge. Just emptiness.
Fenris curled his fingers and swallowed throatily. Smacking his palm on the ground, he started to hoist himself up even as his wound was pulled. Somehow he must have broken the seal around his fingers because warm blood trickled down over his flat belly. He wouldn't be found by Hawke in the morning, a frozen corpse. He gathered his strength and managed to stand, pushing back the pain. The trellis was only a few feet away, and he had climbed one-handed before. He could do it again.
He tripped once, because for some reason he couldn't control his feet. His hand hooked onto a window sill to keep himself from spilling to the ground, though, and he limped toward the trellis. It was cold when he reached it, resting his forehead against the thin wooden crisscrossing bars. Dead flowers that were alive in summer hung with broken stems and withered leaves. The first time he tried to set his foot on the bottom, it missed totally. The haze was totally consuming his vision. Fenris needed to calm down, so he sank his pointed, elven teeth into the back of his hand. Warm, metallic blood welled in his mouth. The pain and taste in his mouth pushed back the walls of the tunnel.
Turning his head, he spit the vermillion liquid on the ground and focused on the trellis. Curling his fingers through the holes, he hooked his foot into the bottom and hauled himself up. Fire exploded in his side, and he gritted his teeth in pain, pressing even harder with his free hand and holding on. There wasn't that much blood loss. Why was he feeling so dizzy?
After what seemed like hours, Fenris finally hauled himself up the wall and near the window. The glass was cold to the touch, stealing what was left of the warmth in his hands even through the gloves. As he fumbled with the catch on the window, trying to recall how Isabela had done it countless times, his breath created a mist that blurred his view. Everyone was downstairs. Hawke didn't like the guests near his or his mother's bedrooms, so the party was always centered on the first floor and the wine cellar that Bodahn had fixed up considerably since he left.
His panting breath fogged up the glass so much that he didn't see Orana rush over with a small hand over her mouth and unlock it from the inside. He nearly fell over backwards as it flew open and a tantalizing wave of heat and sweet perfume washed over him. Once he caught his hand on the inside of the sill, he blinked at the servant.
"Master Fenris! You're bleeding!" she gasped, ushering him inside. He stumbled through the small opening and leaned heavily against the wall as she snapped it shut. "Oh, I will fetch Master Hawke!" As she turned her back, he caught her shoulder, mistakenly bloodying her sleeve.
"No, Orana," he rasped, clenching his teeth in pain. "Just get me water and a rag. I'll take care of it."
Looking at him in concern, she bit her lip. "But Master Hawke—"
He squeezed her shoulder. "Please."
Hawke was her master, not Fenris. Being his lover meant that some of that power passed onto him, and she listened to him when he requested things. Her slave mind-set, however, made keeping secrets from her master a big red flag. She would expect to be beaten when he found out, even though Hawke had never laid so much as one harmful finger on her ever. The fear was there, and it probably would be forever.
"I—," she deliberated, dreadfully torn. "Yes, Master Fenris." She bowed and clapped a hand over her bloodied sleeve, heading toward the stairs where the lights of the fire cast shadows on the wall.
The smell of delicious food and flavorful wine drifted up, along with the scent of perfume and crushed flowers. Yellow lilies and chrysanthemums were posed in lovely vases set on every available surface, the usual bouquet of red roses sitting in front of Leandra's room. Laughter and clinking goblets rang in his head. Women chattered incessantly with their friends, and the men made crude jokes. Fenris tried not to get blood on the wall as he used his hand to steady himself and stumble into Hawke's room.
It would be smarter to fetch Hawke and let him check to make sure none of Fenris's major organs were punctured. The tremors in his hands the dizziness would mean that sewing up the wound would be problematic. He was also in quite a lot of pain. He wasn't sure he wouldn't pass out before he could clean and properly bandage the gash.
He collapsed at the foot of the bed, grunting as his back slammed against the wooden frame. Very carefully, he unbuckled his carapace, stripped out of his shirt, and tossed his sword away from him. It was still caked with blood, glittering as though dripping with rubies. The congealed mess at his side stung terribly as he pulled his hand free, jellied blood under his nails and clinging to the palm of his hand. The second he peeled his fingers away, warmth trickled down over his side, threatening to stain the rug. He groaned in pain, arching his back a little.
Orana was quick at fulfilling orders, and she slipped into the room with silent footsteps, setting a bowl of warm water at his side with a rag floating in it. She also held out her petite hand which had both a spool of black string and a very sharp, bent suture. Fenris grabbed it and asked her to light the fire. She jumped up to grab the flint Hawke kept on the top of his armoire and went to do just that as Fenris swished the needle in the warm water and set it down.
Reaching for the rag proved more painful than it probably should have been. Once it was in his hand, he slopped the water over his abdomen and watched the crimson drain into the water bowl. Orana came to kneel very close to him as he worked, fluttering worriedly around. He would have asked her to help, but she was completely hopeless when it came to stitching up wounds. Her frail hands shook nearly violently, and her stitching was wide and lop-sided. It was better he do it himself.
Once he could see his skin through the mask of dried blood, he let Orana thread the suture and then took it from her hands. He was shaking almost as bad as she was, from pain and pure weakness, but he managed to make one stitch at a time without falter. The small burning sensation was nothing compared to how much the initial pop of flesh had been when that mercenary stabbed him. Orana went and fetched clean water for him twice by the time he was halfway, and she actually had to take over for him when he was nearly finished. She used fresh water to dab at his face and wash his neck.
Since Bodahn left, the girl was the only servant in the house. Fenris supposed she must have helped Hawke on several occasions with his wounds, because she was better at it than she had been the last time he checked. Still, she was sweating and had tears in her bulbous eyes. His constant touching the bowl had spread blood all over it, and it smeared on her fingers and the front of her pretty dress. They were both covered with it at the end, when Fenris wearily leaned his head against the foot of the bed and took in shallow, pained breaths.
"Sh—should I fetch Master Hawke now?" she whispered, washing his collarbone. She hadn't left again to clean the water, so it red with his cells. Going outside without changing her clothes would alert them all to the invalid sitting in Hawke's room. Especially Hawke, because he missed nothing.
"No," he swallowed. "My clothes, Orana. And bandages."
Bracing himself on the bed as she scurried around the room for Hawke's bandage kit, Fenris managed to stand up. The stitches pulled, but it didn't hurt too badly anymore. Orana scrambled to uncork a bottle of burning medicine and dumped it onto a rag, spreading it generously over the wound. He hissed but didn't comment as she began taping the bandages over his ribs, winding the cloth all the way around his torso and securing it in place.
She presented him with black pants, apologizing because she couldn't find a shirt. Kicking off his boots and removing the intricate buckles of his leggings and gauntlets wasn't easy. Orana didn't know a thing about helping a man out of his armor, not even Hawke's. Eventually he was stripped down to his small clothes as she helped him with his trousers.
"Let me wash your hands," she whispered, dipping into the water and cleaning his bloodied fingers. She had a smear of it on her cheek, just under her eye. Her own hands were dyed a pale pink from helping him. He wanted nothing more than a hot bath, but submerging the wound would hurt far too much and would introduce water into his blood system.
He swayed where he stood as she gathered everything and began sorting it into dirty piles. "Master Fenris," she steadied him with a hand on his shoulder, tentative with her touch. "Are you all right?"
"Help me get into bed," he told her. She nodded at once and drew his arm across her shoulders, her own arm sliding around his lower waist to avoid agitating the injury. He limped to the bed, more exhausted than he had felt in years.
Fenris was never injured. Unlike Hawke, who collected scars as if they were trophies, he tended to avoid and duck and roll out of the way. He was smaller than his human counterpart and couldn't take nearly as many hits. Besides, it was his policy that being harmed was never good. Even a small scratch could be from a dagger laced with poison. He had enough ugly markings marring his body, and the scars that cut through his lyrium lines hurt.
Orana pulled the blankets up to his belly and left them there, hands suspended mid-air as if she didn't know what to do with them. Finally, they returned to her side as Fenris closed his eyes. "Is there anything else, Master?" she murmured softly.
"Don't let Hawke see your clothes," he answered with a sigh, the ache in his ribs turning dull and unimportant as fatigue called to him.
"All right," she answered uncertainly. He was asleep before she could gather all the supplies and exit.
When he woke up, it was from a rather violent dream that made him sit up in shock. The movement stretched his healing skin, and he gasped, gritting his teeth. A cool hand patted his back while another offered water to him. He blinked at Orana, who smiled apologetically at him.
Fenris took the cup, and she moved away to reveal Hawke. He was sitting casually in his red chair, dragged for some reason over to the fireplace, the fire long dead in the hearth. A dagger twirled dangerously in his hand, sharpened and glinting clean as it cut through the air. His emerald eyes were set right on Fenris's face, an eyebrow raised.
"You must think I'm the biggest fool in all of Thedas if you thought this would escape my notice," the human catches the dagger and points it at him. "And no, Orana didn't tell me. Not intentionally, anyway."
Swallowing the cool water and relishing the relief it brought to his dry throat, Fenris frowned. "Then how did you find out?"
"Orana's bedroom is downstairs, Fenris," Hawke drawls. "Did you really think that I wouldn't notice she was drowned in blood?"
"No, I did not," he huffed, handing the servant girl the cup and gently touching his wound. Black and blue bruises were scattered across his torso, a very distinctive one right on his hip that was turning a sort of greenish yellow already. It was where a shield had caught him and thrown him back quite a few feet. He remembered that blow with a wince.
"Orana, go downstairs and eat breakfast," Hawke ordered her, keeping his eyes on Fenris. "You must be hungry."
"Of course, Master," she bowed, swiftly leaving and taking the cup with her. He was essentially removing the child from the room so the parents could argue.
Once she was gone, Hawke stood up and began twirling the dagger again. It was an old habit of his, a way to let everyone know he was agitated even when his cool mask was in place. "Second time this month," he enunciated slowly, coming to stand at the side of the bed.
"Yes, I remember," Fenris snarled.
"Mind your temper," Hawke said wearily, laying the dagger on top of his armoire. "I'm not here to scold you. Just here to make sure you're still alive."
He pulled the heavy blankets away from the elf's belly. The bandage was wet with his own blood, the stitches probably pulled at some point in the night. Hawke's deft hands prodded along his ribs, careful not to put too much pressure. Bethany had taught him much about medicine, and it helped him here. Fenris sat up and swung his legs over the bed, reluctantly allowing Hawke to remove the bloodied bandage. The cloth had to be peeled painfully away from the wound, but it wasn't quite as red and swollen anymore.
"You should have let me look at this last night," Hawke lamented. "It's deep. You may have nicked something. Maker, what were you thinking?" Fenris bit his tongue to hold down a scathing reply.
"We'll have to bandage it again," said Hawke as he ducked down and pulled his first aid kit from beneath the bed. The wooden box creaked open as he set it on the bed and extracted the supplies. "As long as you didn't cut anything important, you should be fine." The same burning liquid as last night was applied again with a great deal of gentleness over the inflamed tissue as he cleaned off the blood. Hawke made him stand up as he wound the bandages tight around his torso, much tighter than Orana had.
When he was finished, Hawke set him down on the bed and packed away the supplies. "Bodahn made breakfast. Orana didn't want to wake you. You should eat something." Hawke leaned down and kissed him on the cheek, fingers ghosting over his collarbone and lingering for a second. Then he slid the first aid kit under the bed.
"You aren't going to lecture me?" the elf ventured quietly, staring at his hands in his lap.
"Wouldn't it be pointless?" Hawke frowned at him. "You should have fetched me last night. Those nobles can go to the Void when you're hurt, but it's over now. You're injured, and you need to take it easy."
"I'm not some fragile doll, Hawke," Fenris bit out. "I know my own limitations."
"Will you stop trying to fight with me?" the Champion growled. "I'm not taking the bait. Knock it off."
With a sigh, Fenris put his head into his hands. "You're right. I apologize."
"What's wrong with you?" Hawke kneeled down, putting his hands on Fenris's bony knees. "You're not usually so careless, but this month…you're worrying me to death, do you know that?"
"I'm sorry," he apologized again, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.
"You're a mercenary, and I get that," Hawke brushed the markings on his chin with a thumb. "I am, too, on occasion. Just…please take care of yourself. I don't know what I would do without you." The lightest of kisses was pressed against his lips, and Hawke stood up.
For once in his life, the Champion floundered. He crossed his arms. "Do you…need help getting dressed?"
"No," Fenris answered immediately. "If it is all right with you, I would like to stay in bed today." The bruises were radiating pure hurt, and a constant stinging sensation was spreading across his ribs. Standing up seemed a chore; pulling on even a simple shirt was out of the question. Lifting his arms would be agony. It wasn't as if he hadn't been shirtless in Hawke's bed a hundred times before.
Hawke looked at him affectionately. "Of course. I'll bring you something from downstairs." Before Fenris could offer a word of protest or say that he certainly was not hungry so early in the morning, the Viscount was out the door. Fenris slumped back against the pillows and hissed when it earned him a particularly painful ache in his side.
He perked up when he heard a faint argument on the stairs. Hawke's low murmur could be heard, too faint for him to distinguish the words being said. Orana's meek reply followed. Then the footsteps took off and disappeared as the distance grew. The servant appeared a moment later with fresh sheets in her paper arms.
She frowned and glanced demurely away as he waited for her to speak. "I'm sorry, Master Fenris. I tried."
It took a moment for Fenris to realize she was referring to his request that she hide his mess from Hawke for as long as she possibly could. "You did what you could," he said in reply. Hawke no doubt cornered and chased her down until she told him what had happened. The more he thought about it, the more he remembered just how filthy she was when she left.
"Would it—" she bit her lower lip as it trembled. "May I change the sheets? I'm afraid you've bled on them."
Glancing behind him, he saw the stains seeping even further into the mattress, black and flaky with age. Orana set the sheets on the bed and offered her arm, and he gratefully used it to stand up. She helped him sit in Hawke's chair, careful not to jostle him. For all that she claimed to be useless, Fenris was finding she had more talents than she let on.
"Aren't you supposed to be eating?" he asked as she yanked the ruined sheets off the bed. The muscles in her shoulders tensed up, and she glanced over her shoulder.
"I was not aware that it was an order, Ser," she nearly whispered.
"Just a friendly request, I think."
As she spread the new sheet and tucked in the corners with deft fingers and almost instinctual precision, she stared only at the bed. "Master Fenris is sick, and it would not be right for him to sleep on filthy blankets." The words seemed rehearsed as she said them, and Fenris thought they might be exactly what she told Hawke on the stairs.
Only a few moments later, the entire bed was made, a corner pulled out just for him to slide under. Scrunching the dirty sheets into a ball, she dropped them on the floor and offered her arm to him. Fenris let her help him wordlessly, ignoring her fingers as they disrupted the lyrium under his skin. It was always harder when strangers touched him. Orana virtually tucked him into bed, bowing once before collecting the mess and slipping away.
Fenris put a hand to his ribs, feeling his pulse through the bandages and in his fingers much more acutely than normal. His last injury had been a fluke, a crude mistake on his part. He'd walked into a trap hidden in some trees and sliced through the muscles and tendons of his wrist. If not for Hawke's careful attentions, he might have lost the hand's functionality. Some part of his mind whispered that it was the stiffness left behind that got him injured the night previous. He ignored it.
While Hawke played Viscount in Kirkwall and fought a war against the mages with battle strategies and wicked schemes, Fenris stood guard and watched. And while he partied with the nobles that insisted he be seen at least once a week doing something social, Fenris crept out of the window and completed tasks for meager amounts of coin so he wouldn't have to listen to the cooing women or stuttering men that came to Hawke's house to court him. It kept him from viciously tearing out their hearts.
Hawke kicked open the door with his foot, a tray specifically made for him by Bodahn when he was an invalid after the Arishok attack in his hand. He set it down on the bed while taking a place on the edge himself, the legs of the tray on either side of Fenris's slim waist. On the plate was toast with butter and some sort of orange jam and two eggs. A fork was wrapped in a thin napkin and placed next to a glass of water. Hawke pulled a single purple flower from his mouth and plopped it down into a tiny grey vase on the tray.
He smiled. "I tried to get a dozen roses, but you know how it is…"
The elf regarded the food before him, but his stomach was unsettled by the pints of blood he'd swallowed the night before. He did take the glass of water, though. "Should you not be at the office?" he asked tentatively.
"Not today," Hawke said. "They won't miss me." He touched the bottom of the glass in Fenris's hand, lifting it just slightly with his finger. The elf drank it.
"What have you done?" Fenris asked just a little suspiciously.
"Nothing." Those eyes widened in innocence. "Don't worry yourself over it."
A hand rested on his thigh, squeezing through the red quilt draped over his legs. Fenris picked up one of the pieces of toast and nibbled at the end thoughtfully. Hawke went to the office every day.
The human sighed. "Are you going to frown at me like that until I tell you?"
Fenris was not aware that he was frowning at all, but he began in earnest to answer. If his accidental facial expressions were going to make Hawke open up about why he was breaking five years of tradition, that was just fine with him.
"Margaret has been stalking me in the office," he admitted a little shamefully. Fenris felt an immediate flush of anger and jealousy flow through him at the mention of her name. Margaret was an Orlesian noblewoman with less sense than a bronto at full charge. She was also an incredibly tawdry, incredibly whiny woman vying for the Viscount's attentions.
"Has she?" he replied through gritted teeth, carefully setting down his toast before it became a crushed mess between his fingers.
"Unfortunately."
"And have you given any thought to her proposition?" he couldn't help the anger that crept into his tone.
Hawke blinked at him. "Are you serious? Of all the women in Thedas I could leave you for, you think I would leave for her? Did you get smacked on the head, too?"
"You have yet to tell her no," Fenris pointed out a little defensively.
"Because it would be hopeless, not because I'm entertaining thoughts of putting up with her," Hawke growled in exasperation. "Maker, is...that…I can't believe you sometimes." The admission came with a huff of annoyance, and the hand left his thigh.
Fenris stared vehemently at his empty glass of water. The ache in his ribs only got worse with talking, but he didn't really want Hawke to go. They had so little time together in the mornings. The evenings were theirs to have on the nights Hawke didn't have to entertain. That was when they read together or ended up in a sweaty tangle of hot, passionate kisses and messy limbs. Fenris couldn't really remember the last time he'd seen Hawke's face in daylight.
"Is there some new tactic she is using to gain your attentions?" Fenris inquired innocently enough. "I have never known you to avoid work because of a suitor."
The human's frown deepened into a scowl of displeasure. "She shows up and sits on my books, talking until the day is over. I can't keep her out. She crawled through the window last time the Templars escorted her away."
"Have her thrown in jail."
"That's a little harsh, don't you think?" Hawke asked, brushing some of Fenris's snowy hair from his face.
The elf batted the hand away. "Not if she's preventing you from working."
"Actually—" Hawke cut himself off. His expression of gentle aggravation melted into one of hesitance. Then he shook his head. "No, never mind. Sorry. I'm being rude. You should rest."
Before Fenris could stop him, he was standing and messing up his hair in an irritated gesture. The irritation was mostly directed at himself it seemed, because Hawke hardly ever became irritated with Fenris. The human turned his back and patted Fenris's knee through the heap of quilts on top of him.
"What is it, Hawke?" Fenris all but demanded, more curious than annoyed. If there was one attribute that had stayed constant through the last few years, it was that Hawke spoke his mind at home. Always.
"It's just…I was thinking," Hawke threw up a hand at the ceiling, expression pensive. "These suitors just get more and more persistent. I'm getting older, and they're definitely not afraid of throwing that in my face. I must have heard, 'You're not getting any younger, Messere'at least a dozen times last night. So I was thinking...what if I did something to get rid of them?"
Fenris's blood ran cold before he could stop it, and a pang shot through him that had nothing to do with the wound in his ribcage. He swallowed and berated himself nearly immediately. Sure, he had every right to be angry, but wasn't this a long time coming? Hawke had been badgered by potential love interests since he was a teen, first from their rag-tag group, then pale-faced nobles, and now some of the most respected men and women in Thedas.
"So I was wondering," Hawke kneeled by the bed, "if we could make…well, this, our relationship, something of an official declaration." His eyes wavered back and forth, searching for any shift on Fenris's face.
Relief was probably not what he expected to show. Fenris let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and gritted his teeth against the pain it caused. Hawke immediately backtracked.
"No, this isn't the right time. I'm sorry," he said immediately. "You're hurt, and you don't need to be thinking about my stupid problems."
Make their relationship something of an official declaration? What did that mean? If anyone in Kirkwall was oblivious to the fact that the tattooed elf that followed Hawke around was also his bedmate and trusted friend, the person had to be blind, deaf, and incredibly stupid. It wasn't beyond the Viscount to sneak a kiss out in public or even sidle up and put a hand around Fenris's waist. The elf's insecurities had nothing to do with a lack of affection on Hawke's part.
It was just in his blood to expect betrayal.
Danarius had called him a tool, something to be used and discarded if it became useless. That was what he had become to Hawke. An accessory, not a necessity. The Viscount of Kirkwall hardly needed another bodyguard, and definitely didn't need a strange-looking, foreign elf warming his bed. The tutting older women with their fancy, lace fans and powdered noses said so. Merchants gossiped about it in Lowtown when he passed. Everyone knew.
All these totally useless facts buzzed in his head while curiosity clawed at him to ask what Hawke was implying.
"What…exactly," Fenris had to press a hand against his wound for a moment, gathering himself. Too deep a breath, too much talking, too much exertion. Yet this was turning into the conversation of the year, and he dared not miss it. "What exactly would that…entail?"
Then Hawke looked nervous, rubbing the back of his neck as he produced something out of his pocket. He kept his hand clenched over the secret object while he kneeled beside the bed again. "A few witnesses, a small ceremony, and a bit of jewelry," he murmured, opening his palm to reveal a small ring.
It was hardly the type of expensive, adorned metal he'd seen on the hands of dozens of married women. The ring was simple, a golden band with his name scrawled in elegant script across the inside, glinting at him from the human's palm. Hawke stared at him with unreadable eyes.
"I know you don't really care for accessories," the human explained to fill the silence. "You wouldn't really have to wear it if you didn't want to. If I wore mine, it would be enough."
Fenris felt his throat close up as he reached for the tiny thing, feeling the strength of the metal. It was tempered to fit his finger; he could tell. Minute and light, the ring almost seemed made so that he could wear it. He didn't like clunky jewelry to wear down his hands as he was fighting. Necklaces, even enchanted ones, got caught on his nose when he pulled off his shirt. No, he was better off as he was. Yet this token of Hawke's affection wasn't nearly as heavy as the red ribbon he'd worn around his wrist those three estranged years when they lingered between friends and lovers.
Very slowly, he slid it down the length of his ring finger and flexed his hand. The ring was thin, as well. It hardly felt as though he were wearing anything at all.
"Is that a yes?" Hawke implored.
"I…" Fenris trailed off, staring at it. To live in sin together for years and years, would so much change if they acknowledged their relationship officially to the world? How different would they be after Her Grace announced them husband and husband?
"It hurts you," Hawke said softly, "to see them constantly trying to win my affections. I know it does."
Fenris bit back the fervent denial that came to his lips. There was some truth to the statement. It made him more angry and jealous than actually hurt. A hand covered his, a thumb rubbing smoothly over the new ornament on his finger. "I have no intention of caging you again," Hawke continued. "This is your choice. You're not my slave; you're my equal, my lover, and my friend."
"If we do this," Fenris met his gaze, "we do it for the right reasons. Not because you are being bothered at work." He heard the own sourness in his tone, and he winced at it.
"I love you," Hawke confessed. "It's time everyone knew it."
It was certainly not the most romantic proposal anyone had ever received, that was for sure. Fenris had never thought their awkward courting ritual to end in marriage. He'd never thought to find himself married at all, let alone to a high power. The thought that it could be was gratifying, that he could have something Danarius would have vehemently denied him a pleasant thought. But he wasn't doing this to spite a dead corpse or to become more powerful in Kirkwall. He was doing it because he owed Hawke more than his life. Because he loved him and wanted to stay.
The answer was succinct. "Yes."
I showed this to a friend of mine who is majoring in English and creative writing. His reaction:
"I've read tons of your stories. What's wrong with you lately? This is clumsy, awkward writing. Not at all like you normally do."
My response: "I don't know. Is it really that bad?"
His: "It's better than average, but the story doesn't flow. It's just...not you."
On that note, I'm so sorry. *cries* Thanks for reading. Review please.