Hawke was still sleeping peacefully in the bed as Fenris slipped out from under the blankets. Moonlight streamed in through the tall window, the full moon providing more than enough light for his keen eyes to see. He padded softly to the window to look out over the slumbering city.
He couldn't shake the images from his mind. Red hair and green eyes and laughter. The smell of lavender and scratchy cotton on his cheek and lips pressed against his forehead. Tantalizing snippets of memory taunting him from just outside his mind's grasp. He could neither catch them nor chase them away. He was trapped in a personal hell he had never considered might exist.
He gave up trying to pursue the fragments of his past and turned away from the window with a sigh. His armor lay in a forgotten trail between the bed and the door. He collected and donned the pieces, resettling himself into his familiar protection.
He moved back towards the window. He should leave now. It would be easier. But she deserved an explanation, and if he left now he wouldn't be able to face her. He was also very aware that the longer he remained there, the more likely he was to allow himself to abandon his better senses and fall back into bed with her, the consequences and his internal conflict be damned.
A scrap of red cloth on a desk next to the window caught his eye. The moonlight dulled most of the color in the room, but this red refused to be dimmed. He stepped closer. It was a fragment of a scarf, like the one she wore on her upper arm, the Hawke crest prominent, black against bloody crimson: her chosen family colors. He reached out and brushed his fingers against the cloth. It was remarkably soft. He lifted it and turned it over in his hands, glancing back at Hawke. He couldn't do this, couldn't be what she needed or deserved, but somehow he had grown to care about this mage, who wore her emotions as an armor and hid nothing. He couldn't stay, but perhaps he could show her another way that he still cared. It was a silly little idea, but somehow he still found himself tying the scrap of fabric around his forearm.
The decision made and the act completed, he turned and paced back to stand before the fireplace, his back to the bed. He rested his forearm against the stone running up the wall, leaning his weight against it. Embers still glimmered, hidden among the ashes.
It could have been minutes or hours later when the blankets rustled and a groan escaped Hawke's lips. He imagined her reaching to the other side of the bed to find only emptiness. He didn't turn.
"Fenris?" she asked softly. She spotted him. "Was it that bad?" A joke, as was her way, but it lacked her usual mirth. She was concerned.
He shook his head once, vehemently, and half-turned. "I'm sorry. It's not . . . it was fine," he told her, looking away. He gave his head another sharp shake and returned his attention to her just in time to see her face fall. The cracks in his heart that looked remarkably like lyrium lines deepened. "No. That is insufficient. It was better than anything I could have dreamed."
Her face cracked into a smile, and his resolve wavered. "Oh, I can come up with much crazier things in my dreams." She let the blanket she was holding up to cover her slip just slightly. An invitation.
He looked away again. "I began to remember. My life before. Just flashes . . ." His brows knit together, and he pressed the back of his gauntlet against an eye, shaking his head slowly. "It's too much. This is too fast. I cannot . . . do this." He straightened, strengthening his resolve, eyes on her jawline.
"Your life before?" she asked, wonder in her voice. "What do you mean?"
He risked a glance at her face. She looked excited for him. He felt compelled to bare his soul to her, to slice himself open and let spill out everything he was. "I've never remembered anything from before the ritual. But there were . . . faces. Words." He scrubbed a hand over his face, cold metal biting at his flesh. "For just a moment, I could recall all of it. And then it slipped away." He turned his head, starring into the flickering fire she had conjured.
"Don't you want to get your memories back?" came Hawke's soft voice
He couldn't muster an edge to his gaze or tone when he returned his attention to her. "Perhaps you don't realize how upsetting this is." He paced away. "I've never remembered anything, and to have it all come back in a rush, only to lose it . . ." He twisted to see her watching him, his distress mirrored in her eyes. "I can't. I can't," he pleaded.
"We can work through this," she entreated.
He met her eyes, brows drawn together with grief. "I'm sorry. I feel like such a fool." He couldn't hold her gaze any longer, dropping to where her hands wrung themselves in her lap. "All I wanted was to be happy . . . just for a little while. Forgive me."
Cursing himself and the world that put him here, he turned slowly and walked away. Hawke didn't call out to his retreating back. He didn't know if he was relieved or not. A single word would have been all it took for him to turn around and fall to his knees at her feet, to give himself to her entirely. Instead, he let himself walk away from the only person he'd ever cared for.