Reposted, edited, and I think, perfected. Reposting everything after my account was deleted is a pain in the nether regions, and my mood is dark, to say the least, so I tat off with this series, that actually has no naughty bits in it, and is safe -I hope- to repost.

My eternal gratitude to all of you that have stood by my side through all this. I love you all.

The Queen will be back. That I promise.

warnings: character death, obtuse Fenris.

Fenris scowled at the short, rotund bartender. "What do you mean, someone wants to meet me?"

The man continued polishing the glass with a ratty, dirty old rag. "A lad came in, asking about someone of your description. Said he'd be at the Dead Man's Crossing tavern at noon, if you were interested."

"I am not."

The bartender chuckled. "He knew you might say that. He told me to tell you 'I am what magic touched that it didn't spoil' if you did."

Fenris froze in place. It couldn't be.

"I guess there is no easy way to say this, so I'll just say it: I'm pregnant." Hawke said, twisting her hands nervously on her lap.

"Congratulations."

"It's yours," her eyes pleaded with him to look at her, but he resisted. Cold dread had spread through him at her words; blind panic. For a moment, the thought of her carrying his child spread joy and pride through him, but it was only for a moment. A half-elven child of a mage. A child out of wedlock, with anough magic talen flowing through its veins to set fire to the entire world; and any child of Hawke's probably would. A bastard mage- another bastard mage.

"I am well aware," he finally spat. "But I want nothing to do with it."

Seventeen years had passed since that day. Seventeen years, since the day he had walked out, his every step leaden with guild. But he could not be a father to a half-elven baby, one who would probably end up being a mage. He could not stay and play house with Hawke. He could not-would not- let himself love her. He would not shackle himself to her- a powerful mage, one that threatened to enslave him just as surely as any collar could.

Her tear drenched eyes as was leaving had remained with him all these years; his nightmares were haunted by them. Sad, heartbroken eyes, brimming with tears, and her almost inaudible whisper.

"Fenris, please don't go. I love you. Stay with me, stay with us."

He had left the city of chains that very night. It had broken what was left of his heart, but he had, not once looking back.

He didn't trust her; not what she was, not what she said, not what she professed to feel about him. He just couldn't. He couldn't look over what she was to really appreciate who she was. For his she wouldalways be one thing, and one thing only, first and foremost: a mage.

News came to him in the years that followed, as he drifted from place to place, of Hawke being named Champion of Kirkwall after foiling a Qunari invasion. News arrived to him after some time, a letter by Varric, informing him that Danarius had looked for him in Kirkwall and had been 'dealt of by Hawke'. The dwarf had even sent him a letter by his long lost sister; and so he'd earned a bit of his past: his given name before the markings, the name of his mother. His hared for mages didn't abate, though, far from it, it became even greater with another proof of what they had taken from him.

He never answered Varric's letter, not even looking at it a second time, not even stopping to acknowledge the sentence "Hawke misses you. She's still waiting, Elf, what will it be now?" As the parchment had slowly blackened and burned in the fire, Fenris stubborny ignored the feeling of loss gnawing at his insides and tried to convince himself that he was glad his last tie to her was finally severed.

Then, afew years later, the world had exploded into chaos; the rumours had it that it had been Anders that had started the Mage Rebellion, by blowing up the Chantry, assisted by his lover, the Champion of Kirkwall, Marian Hawke. Posters carrying sketches of their faces and rewards that kept climbing higher and higher had appeared all over Thedas.

But there had been no talk of her ever having a child so Fenris had assumed she'd gotten rid of it. He tried very hard not to think why it made him so very incredibly angry to imagine her running to her mage lover, and him giving her a potion. He didn't examine his feelings closely, afraid he would discover jealousy hiding underneatht the anger; she had taken up with Anders.

But what business was it of his that the healer had taken his leftovers?

In the years that had passed, he'd come across bounty hunters that were looking for her; they had all assumed he would know of her whereabouts. Sebastian had once tried to hire him to lead the search for her and Anders, but he had refused.

He might not have loved her, but he never wished her any harm.

Sometimes...sometimes, after a particular gruelling fight, or a cold, frigid night camping out on the open, he would remember her, allowing himself to dredge up fond memories; her smile, radiant after a fight. The way she blew on his fingers once to warm them when they had been camping on the Wounded Coast. Her girly laughter, which had the ability to warm his insides like warm spiked cider. Her smell, the taste of her skin, slicked with sweat and quaking under his mouth. The special way she had of saying his name, as if just the sound of it had brought her joy.

He had refused to love her, back then, had resisted letting his walls down, had ruthlessly and savagely suppressed any tender feelings her easy, open affection had sparked in his heart. He had carved a nice little pigeonhole of prejudice and tucked her in there: mage, monster, seductress.

He hadn't let himself love her.

Had he?

No, no he hadn't. He had managed to walk away from her tear drenched eyes, he had not been captured by the false promise of her love. He had not been enslaved to yet another mage, one that used chains of sweet love words and tender touches, that caused him pain by not inflicting any, confusing him to no end. He had not let himself be fooled, he had remained free.

What if sometimes he thought of what might have been if he had been a different kind of man? What if he grew irrationally angry at the thought that she had taken up with the abomination after he had left? What if his own words rang into every one of his nightmares?

"I want nothing to do with it."

Apparently, it now wanted something to do with him, because he could think of no other lad that could possibly know these words than the child he'd thought Hawke had gotten rid of.

It was a he, then, and would now be...what? Sixteen?

He had a son.

He looked up at the pale winter sun...a half an hour or so to noon. Swearing to himself, he quickened his pace, handing to the Dead Man's Crossing. He didn't want to go. Maker, he knew he would hear nothing good about himself, but he couldn't help it...that night...he could still remember it as if it had been yesterday. If a child had come of it, if she hadn't gotten rid of it, him, he needed to know.

I want nothing to do with it. But it was a he now, and Fenris felt morbidly curious: what, who, had he abandoned all these years ago?

He entered the tavern and blinked a few times to help his eyes adjust to the gloom in the dimly lit tavern. The patrons in the tables fell silent for a moment, accessing him for potential danger, then shrugged and carried on with their conversations and their ales.

He let his gaze wonder around the tavern, and spotted a hooded figure in one of the tables farther away, tucked into a nook by the wall. A hand lifted a mug of ale, and he could see that the hand had a white-knuckled grip on the mug. So. That was him.

Fenris made his way to the table, quaking inside, but eerily composed on the surface. The hood slid back, and a young face turned up to look at him.

Fenris drew in a sharp breath and then held it, fighting against the shock.

His own eyes were gazing at him out from a youthful, handsome face, shaded by the same pitch black hair that Hawke had sported, long and tied back with a leather strap. Hawke's mouth; Hawke's chin, Hawke's nose, Fenris' eyes. That mouth that was so like the woman's he had once known so intimately rose up on one corner; a wry, self-mocking smile.

"Well, well. Father. So nice to finally meet you."

His voice. Maker, the lad had his voice, a bit thinner, a bit more childish, not fully matured into his own gravely baritone yet. But it was definitely his own voice.

He took a seat without even looking, his gaze –round eyed and shocked- still on the lad's face. "What is your name?" he managed to ask, his eyes still trailing over the boy's face, scrutinizing every little detail, finding more and more similarities with the woman he had once abandoned. There. That little dimple when he smiled; that was Hawke's too.

The lad looked away then his wry, sarcastic smile grew a bit larger. "Leto Wolfgang Hawke," he drawled. "People call me Wolf."

Fenris drew back, a shocked gasp escaping him. "She named you after me?"

Wolf's smile turned bitter. "Why not? You are my sire, aren't you?" he then pursed his lips and looked at his mug, a sad look suddenly shading his eyes. "Wolfgang was Anders' real name, the one he had before the Circle. Ironic, isn't it? It means 'the path of the wolf'...both my fathers were named after wolves. So Wolf seemed appropriate."

Fenris tensed up. "Both your fathers?"

The lad's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me. Dad's name was Wolfgang. You are nothing to me."

He rose up to leave and Fenris felt a small twinge of alarm slash through him; he hadn't gotten the answers to the questions he had yet. He grabbed the arm the boy extended to toss some coins on the table.

Wolf looked at the hand that was touching him with barely veiled contempt and under the accusation in those green eyes, Fenris had to pull back.

"Where is your mother?"

A small flash of pain. "When dad got his Calling, she went with him, less than a year ago. She refused to let him face the deep on his own. She is dead, as is my dad."

Fenris fell back, the thought of Hawke not being a part of this world any more a wound on his very soul. For the first time in years, his heart gave a painful lurch and grief flooded him... she was dead. She had followed Anders to his death.

"Why the heartbroken look?" Wolf sneered. "You left her. You left us both. All my life I had been wondering...I asked her time and time again; why had my father not wanted me? And all she ever said was that you were a good man, but that loved scared you."

The young boy's lip curled in contempt.

"Pathetic, if you ask me."

Anger rose like a wave inside of Fenris. "Is that why you wanted to see me? To taunt me?"

The boy tilted his head to the side –another one of Hawke's trademark moves- and regarded him with nothing more than mild contempt. "No," he finally said before a small smile curled his lips, sad and self-mocking. "I was just curious about you. Curious to see if what she said about you was true." He appraised Fenris one last time. "I see nothing of the man she said was brave and good and kind. She was a fool, my poor mother. A fool for loving you. All I see is a coward." He then pointed to a sack he had left by his seat. "These are mother's journals. I read them after she died...and since most of them are addressed to you, I though you should read them."

He leaned towards Fenris and the older man was taken aback by the hate he could see flashing in Wolf's eyes for a moment. "She loved you till the moment she died. She loved my father, make no mistake, but she never forgot you; you were always in her thoughts and in her heart. Read them." He pointed to the journals again.

"That is my revenge for leaving me, and her."

And then he turned and in a flash, he was out of the tavern, and out of Fenris life. He thought he saw a great sword strapped into the lad's back before he disappeared, and his mouth curled a little into a sad, self-deprecating grin ; a warrior then. Not a mage like he had feared.

He reached for the sack of books and pulled it to himself, then emptied the contents on the table. Blindly reaching for the newest looking one of them, he leafed through it.

We leave tomorrow, the last entry said. I will not leave Anders alone in the dark he fears so much, I will not abandon him, just like he stayed by my side all these years, raising my son as if he was his flesh and blood. I will not desert the man I have come to love; even if it means my boy will be left all alone. He is a strong, brave young man, and he will be alright.

Farewell, my son. Be strong. Be good. Be honest. Live, love, hope; as often and as wholeheartedly as you possibly can. Make mistakes, then correct them. Get angry, fight, defend those who are less fortunate than you. Be the man you dad raised you to be and the man your father could have been.

Fenris, you would have been proud of the son I gave you, even if you never wanted him.

I wonder where you are. I wonder if you might ever meet the amazing young man we made that night. I wonder if you ever think of me...if the news of my death will make you sad, even for a second. I wonder...and hope, and dream that we might meet again one day, in another life...futile, useless practices that never did me any good.

I love you both, my wolves, and will always do.

Fenris closed the book, then put it back into the sack and took to his feet. He felt...numb. Something inside him had cracked, and ice was pouring into his soul; he felt blessedly chilled, unable to think, unable to do anything than mechanically walk back to his rented little cottage.

He spent the night reading her journals, in order, from her grief and pain when he had left, to the joyous moment of his son's birth.

Fenris, he is so beautiful. I wish you could see him, I wish you wanted to see him. He has your eyes. His toes are so small and perfect...he is so perfect. How can you not want him? He is such a little miracle.

I have named him Leto Wolfgang Hawke. You are probably wondering about his middle name...Anders delivered him, and saved my life. There was so much blood, so much pain. I cried for you, called your name till my voice broke. You never came; but Anders was there. He saved me, and asked if he could decide the baby's middle name. I accepted; something in me died a little when I saw the way he was holding him, totally in love, with tender, shaking hands, his eyes shining with awe and wonder.

It should have been you. Damn you, Fenris. It should have been you, you blighted fool.

Damn you. Why can't I stop loving you?

Then Anders had gotten into her life, and he had to grit his teeth reading about it, feeling pangs of jealousy eating away at his gut.

He is a gentle man, and he loves me. Forgive me Fenris, but I could stand being alone no more...I waited for you, but you never came back. Leto calls him daddy. For his shake, for the sake of the baby you didn't want, I will have Anders in my life; and for my sake too. I have fallen in love with him; he is gentle, caring, good to me, makes me feel desired and loved. I can wait for you no longer. You are not coming back...I have finally accepted it.

Tears stains on the pages. Anger when Justice used Anders to blow up the Chantry. Despair when they had to run, a young child with them, hunted from city to city until they had found a quiet little village in Felelden to hide.

Wolf's first tooth, his first lessons, his tears when some boys called him a filthy half-breed. Tales of the little boy's antics, tales of her and Anders' adventures.

And always, all over her journals, her love for him. Her desire to see him again, even from a distance. His name on her lips and in her thoughts, her shame at lying with one man and thinking of another. Anders' sadness; he had always known.

Fenris read them all, one after the other, and ached.

It appeared he had been lying to himself all this time; he had loved Hawke after all. And now...now she was dead, and his son hated him.

He reread the passage when Leto had demanded not to be called like that, when he chose the nickname Wolf for himself. When he had screamed to his dad that he hated the man who had sired him and ran off in the woods. Hawke's tears that had stained the page.

I didn't want hate to fester in his heart as well, Fenris. Look what it did to you.

Morning had already come when he raised his head from the pages, his eyes red and hurting, his neck creaking. He looked to the ceiling of his little ramshackle cottage and admitted to himself he had been wrong, that he had loved her, that he should have stayed, that he had been a blind, stupid fool. Regret for the things he had lost charred his heart, reducing it to ash. A whole life he could have spend with her, presents given him that he had tossed away; a son, a life, love, happiness. He had been too blind to see; too blind to understand.

He whispered her name, whispered how sorry he was, hoping that she could hear him, wherever she now was.

And cried.