The silken sheets are slick against his skin as she crawls up his body, slowly, languidly, strong hands sinking into the soft mattress while her lips curl upwards into a simpering smile. There's an uneasy stirring in his chest, like a small bird ruffling its wings against danger and preparing itself to flee, but he can't place why her presence would warrant such a feeling. His hands twine and fist into the fabric beneath him, lyrium singing in his veins as if begging him to activate their powers and defend himself, but...defend himself from Hawke? Of all people, she's proven herself to be the least likely to hurt him.

Fenris desperately tries to quell his sudden worries and instead focuses on the way her bare chest presses to his own, eyes like ice chips setting his blood aflame as she presses her lips against the corner of his mouth, proceeding to trail a burning path across his cheek and down his throat. A contented growl rumbles in his chest and she hums delicately, gooseflesh prickling along the regal slope of her spine as he tentatively rest his hands on her waist. This is Hawke, he reminds himself, trying to steel his resolve, but even so, something just feels off.

Her breath fans across his neck, the curve of her smile can be felt on his skin and her hands boldly continue on a trek downward. He wants to let her continue, oh Maker, does he want. Nothing but good things have come from her wriggling her way into his smallclothes, but that damn nagging in the back of his mind won't leave him alone. His instincts have rarely lead him astray before, and honestly, what was the worst that could happen? She addresses his concerns, respects his wishes, and they're left simply cuddling? He could live with that.

Hawke's fingers dance along the waistband of his smalls, teeth scraping over his pulse. He clenches his jaw and moves his hands from her waist to her wrists, stilling her movements as he tries to wriggle away from her in an attempt to see her face. "Hawke, wait," he murmurs lowly, voice thick.

She hums again, fingers twitching playfully as magic leaps across her fingertips. He freezes, eyes wide with shock and terror as she raises herself up to meet his gaze. Her eyes are cold, bitingly so, and yet they hold a twisted sort of amusement, as if there was a joke he simply wasn't let in on. He watches in abject horror as her face twists and morphs into Danarius'. "What's wrong, amatus?"

Fenris' blood turns to lead in his veins, his muscles tensing. Suddenly the bed is gone and replaced with the sickeningly familiar cold of the stone dungeon, and he hears more than feels the metal shackles settle around his wrists. Everything goes dark, the only light coming from the lyrium as it burns into his skin again and again. The word echoes in this empty space, a horrific cacophony made up of Danarius' voice mixed with Hawke's, Varric's, Isabela's, all of his friends. They taunt him as he writhes.

"Amatus, amatus, amatus."

His fingers claw at his scalp as he grips his hair, hoping it might anchor him. This can't be real. It can't be, it can't be. He escaped. He's free. Danarius is dead and he killed the Maker forsaken slaver himself.

A softer weight settles around his wrist and he looks to find Hawke's red favor, the fabric glowing as brightly as his markings, and for a moment, his heart stutters into a calm beat as it swells.

Hawke.

Fenris almost allows himself to lull into the calm, almost allows the taunting voices fade into background noise, but the favor begins to burn. Sizzling and searing into his skin, eating at his flesh like acid, fiery red blood slithering down his forearm and leaving stinging paths in its wake. The pain is too much, the chanting of that damn pet name too loud, his eyes screw shut and he lets out a scream that rattles his bones and makes his head pound.

Another voice joins the din, softer and gentler than the others.

"-enris? Fenris, wake up, love."

The elf jerks awake, eyes flying open as he pants in a desperate attempt to catch his breath. His throat is raw and it feels as if there's a blacksmith hammering the walls of his mind. His skin burns and he has a pressing need to throw himself from bed and run. The mattress dips and shifts on his right, and he doesn't think as he whirls and pins the intruder down, hand lighting in a lyrium glow as he presses his fingertips to their chest.

Hawke stares up at him with wide eyes, lips parted in fear as she searches his face, hands laying sprawled and limp beside her head. His mind suddenly snaps into focus. He's in her estate, her room, her bed. He's never seen her so...frightened. She's always stood strong and steady in the face of everything thrown her way, she hadn't even truly broke down over her mother until late into the night, long after her corpse had been burned and buried. The worry and fear in her eyes isn't for herself, though. It's not even of him, it's for him.

He retracts his hand, glow fading and digits shaking. "I'm...sorry." Fenris whispers, scooting away from the champion as she sits up, her hand gently rubbing her chest as she stares at the low burning fire across the room.

"Do you want to talk about it?" She whispers, once again looking all the strong, fearless woman he fell in love with, flames flickering and reflecting in her tired eyes.

"No."

Marian nods in understanding, hair still mussed from sleep. "Do they hurt?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to be alone?"

A pause. He thinks on it moment, his forehead pressed against his knees. Does he want to be alone with his thoughts? "Yes." She doesn't reply, instead opting to stand from the bed, draping her robe loosely around her shoulders as she stands. She moves to touch him, an almost thoughtless gesture, but she pauses, fingers hovering just above his skin, close enough for him to feel the heat radiating from her palm. Hawke rethinks her movements, and her fingers just barely ghost over his hair as she retracts her hand. She moves silently from the room, bare feet padding across the flagstone floor, and the door shuts softly behind her.

Fenris focuses on his breathing, on the sharp pain lancing through every inch of his skin. It keeps him grounded, sharpens his senses. Now the nightmares were using Hawke against him? He doesn't know how long he stays like that, but eventually his body begins to protest against the position. He sighs, carefully unfurling from his balled up state and shifting to face the door. They don't mean anything, at least, that's what he tells himself. He's having a hard time believing that. Fenris shakes himself, trying to physically throw the weight of those nightmares from his shoulders. It's been such a long time since he'd had a new nightmare, the first time Hawke or anyone from his new life had appeared- he's shaken, reeling from the sudden slap of that fucking pet name. He knows that, no matter what, Hawke will never call him such a thing. His mind stumbles on that thought, helpfully bringing up the moment in which her features had twisted and morphed into the worst thing he could think of. Hawke's appearance is new. She's not his master, not by any meaning of the word, and she would never hurt him- this he's sure. Every gentle pass of her skin against his, every lingering look and soft kiss bespoke of that. Maker, even her ability to give him a moment's peace to collect himself, just as she's doing now, is a testament to her love. It hadn't always been so easy for her to pull away, true, but fortunately for him, she's learned when they get to be too much, learned to leave him be and to pull away when need be.

At first, it hadn't been so easy, he knows. She told him of how she grew up coddling younger siblings, of waking to find her sister shaking and crying in fear of the templars, and of holding her tightly as she spoke soothing, meaningless words. So, had been natural instinct to try to do the same to him, but the lyrium burned and his body shook and the thought of being touched so soon after nightmares nearly made him blind with panic and rage and fear. Hawke was a nothing if not a fast learner, and she had quickly made adjustments. Gentle words to beckon him from the dream, 'yes' or 'no' questions to allow him what he both wants and needs.

Never once had she tried to press the issue beyond what he was willing to share on his own, never forcing him into complacency or a state of uncomfort to satisfy her curiosities. He had asked her once, why she was so accepting, why she didn't demand answers, and her reply had been so shockingly simple, it had stunned him into silence.

"You're a free man, Fenris." She had said, tucking her house robe into the dresser, scarred skin practically shimmering in the light of the fire. "You're the only one with a right to your thoughts and feelings, it's not my place to demand you lay them out at my feet."

Even now, the memory brings a small smile to his face.

A quiet knock sounds at the door, and Hawke follows soon after, steaming cups held in her hands and a soft upturn on her lips. "Is everything alright?" She asks, body still partially turned towards the threshold, ready to leave once more if he did so wish. He nods once, and she returns to him, gently pressing the fragile cup into his hands. Marian discards her tunic before she sinks down beside him in nothing but her smallclothes, cradling her own cup in her palms. Her body is tense, careful to keep her skin from brushing his own out of fear of hurting him. The sting never truly fades, but it has once again became bearable and he bumps his shoulder against hers. Her relieved smile could have blinded even the sun. She allows herself to relax against him, sipping from her teacup as he snakes his arm around her waist, thumb running over the rough ridge of the scar on her stomach, given to her by the Arishok all those years ago. She shudders, gaze far away and glazed, eyes puffy and red with exhaustion.

"You called my name." She murmurs, almost to herself, taking another drag from her mint-smelling tea. He can't help the way his muscles tense, how his mind automatically falls into panic mode. Her eyes, so blue and intelligent and incredibly tired lock with his just before she presses a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw. "I'm sorry," she says, voice softer than the finest Antivan fabrics, gentler than any chantry mother.

His brows furrow and his heart skips a beat, part of him wants to laugh at her foolishness. What could she possibly have to apologize for? "You did nothing wrong." He says because it's true, and because Hawke is many things, and although perfect is far from being one of them, she's not to blame for this particular horror.

"Well, allow me to apologize on behalf of dream-me. She sounds like an asshole."

"You are an asshole."

"Yeah, okay, true- but think more along the lines of lovable-mouthpiece-asshole, not Knight-Commander-Meredith-asshole." Fenris snorts out a laugh and she grins up at him, a familiar glint of mischief in her eyes. She's doing this on purpose, he knows, to distract him and bring him back to the present, to drag his mind from the Fade and all its horrors, but he's grateful. She couldn't possibly know how much he appreciates it, not that he could ever put it into words.

Fenris takes a swig of his tea, finds it too cool for his liking, and leans across Hawke to set both of their cups aside on the heavy wooden nightstand. He moves to settle back in beside her, sure that dawn was fast approaching and it would be more sensible to just stay awake, but she grabs his hands and tugs him down beside her as she burrows back under the covers.

"We do have things to attend to today," he reminds her, though he doesn't put up much of a fight in laying down beside her. His arms snake around her ribs and he tucks his head into the crook of her neck, their legs tangle together as she presses a devastatingly gentle kiss to his crown.

"You have things to do today." Hawke corrects, one hand carding through his hair and the fingers of the other tracing nonsense patterns into the skin of his neck and shoulders.

Fenris smiles and drops a kiss to her collarbone, his arms tightening around her middle. "Are you trying to make me late?"

"You were just going to proofread Varric's new novel." She yawns. "Which, by the way, is most likely more of Isabela's friend-fiction. Probably about us and/or Avaline and Donnic."

Fenris pulls a face at the thought, remembering the last time he'd stumbled upon Isabela's writing, finding that she had scarily accurate ideas about what happens between them in Hawke's bedchambers.

So, with that particular brand of horror swimming to the forefront of his mind, he allows himself to fully relax into the soft mattress, his eyelids suddenly feeling much heavier than they had moments before. "Looks like Varric can pester someone else, then." He mumbles sleepily into the skin of Hawke's neck.

She shakes with silent laughter, though it's weak and tired, really more of a halfhearted chuckle than anything else. "I'm sure there are plenty of Lowtown scholars who would love to read his latest work."

Though Fenris' lips curl into a smile, he doesn't laugh or respond, already feeling the warm tendrils of sleep curling at his consciousness. Hawke's hand in his hair slows to a stop, and she presses a final kiss to the trio of lyrium dots on his forehead before allowing herself to drift off to sleep as well.