Author's Note : My first published fanfic; you'll have to excuse my rusty-ness, I haven't gone and done a lot of writing in goodness knows how long. :3 Just a short and simple F!Hawke/Fenris to get started.
I do not own anything related to Dragon Age in this fanfic, all of which are property of BioWare.
Syrah Hawke takes an uncomfortable evening stroll with Fenris, memories of her late brother, Carver, playing on her mind.
Darkness fell over the Free Marches, a blanket of deepest night draping over the smallest hovel to the largest mansion, filling the broad valleys and enveloping the tallest peaks.
It was that certain time of night when the air was rich with the sounds of the oceans, lapping at the beachheads of the Wounded Coast, when the evening was ripe with the scent of the wild vegetation, sprouting amongst even the jagged rocks that were this region's namesake. Hazardous in its own right –to naval vessels and travellers alike –even the coast was abundant in natural extravagance. The haunting moon hung sleepily in the evening sky, speckled with glittering stars, and the gentle waves of the sea reflected a rippling sphere of pale light back to the heavens.
An equine's snort shattered the undisturbed silence of this picturesque scene, its plodding hooves following the eroded-chalk trail leading towards the hills overlooking the ocean. The radiant moon caught his coat of glossy ebon, yet he lazily continued onwards, snuffling his nose hungrily against the green that lined the dirt road.
Two golden eyes gazed skyward atop the stallion's back, a head of unkempt, harvest-coloured locks framing her ghostly white face that adorned the smile of a dreaming child. Her fingers clutched the leather reins of her horse tightly, the bulk of a modest yet lengthy aquamarine cloak wrapped around her shoulder blades before billowing out over the equine's hindquarters, shielding them both from the cold evening breeze.
"It's a beautiful night," she murmured, combing the fatigued stallion's coarse mane with her fingernails.
"It looks like any other night," another voice bluntly responded from her side. Gaze hardening, the woman shot the figure walking by her side a drained glare. Granting her nothing more than a sideways glance, a gauntlet of sharpened metal tugged on the reins softly, bringing the absent-minded horse to a standstill.
"And here I was hoping you'd say otherwise," a hand released the slack reins to gesture towards the heavens, "You don't see any of this?"
"Stars, a moon, the Wounded Coast," the elf shrugged his broad shoulders, "What else must I see?"
"You're hopeless." She swung her legs over the saddle and landed nimbly in the space between Fenris and the horse, making as little sound as a cat. She was tempted to mew at him, but his cynical expression deterred her naturally playful personality. She could never justify those eyes; those large, enchanting, vivid jade eyes…
Eyes which narrowed in disapproval. "Don't fall asleep on me again, Hawke," he growled, roughly handing her the reins of her steed. Steel grazed against her palms and she winced: Fenris wasn't known to be a gentleman. "I didn't accompany you just to carry you back over my shoulder." Left to flex her fingers painfully, the rebelliously white-haired elf folded his arms over his chest, the spirals and curls of lyrium etched on his skin glinting in the moonlight.
Hawke halted. "Is there anything that you like, Fenris?" The rapid turn of his body forced extra words from her lips. "I mean... You never really do tell what it is you actually do when you're not with me." His unaltered expression spoke for him; a lump surfaced in her throat. "Maybe it would help.. break the ice?"
"I dance."
Well, that was... easy. Not the answer she was looking for, but easily wrung from him nonetheless.
"Don't bring that on me again. Varric may find it humorous, but you know I'm no fool."
His unwelcoming gaze locked onto her again, as if to mock those words. Lean head turning over his right shoulder, he almost seemed to stare through Hawke, and her skin crawled at the thought. Framed by the light of the moon, Fenris glowed an otherworldly white – a menacing beauty even to her - and she swallowed a lungful of fearful air.
"I don't have the freedom to choose the things I like, Syrah." His eyelids drooped shut. "Bear in mind, it's been too long since I found a sense of freedom entirely, and even now I question it." His jaw tightened, as it did when he readied venom-laced words. "An estate, a life of luxury, a family - people who give up their time to even consider you. What do I have? A dillapidated mansion, perhaps, but no family, no driving force in life to keep me in one place other than to survive."
"That doesn't mean you can't enjoy life, Fenris." She thought she saw him twitch in aggravation.
"I have been running for as long as I can remember, Hawke. You are neither an elf nor a former slave - you would never understand my plight."
The contrast slammed into her like an ogre; that tone was all it needed for the guilt to course through Hawke's veins.
"I-I'm sorry," she stuttered, a pale blush heating her cheeks, "I should've-"
"Don't bother with the sympathy, I don't need it."
Silence descended over them once more. Reluctant to meet his undoubtedly hostile gaze, Syrah Hawke strode forwards, leading the black stallion by the bridle into the tall grassland. He needed space; Fenris always needed space. She knew when she wasn't needed – she'd simply find a suitable gazing spot for herself, with or without his company. The stallion whickered soothingly by her side, and was rewarded with a caring stroke along his shoulder, damp with sweat. She almost dared to look back, but stopped midway, deciding against it, and slowly resumed her walk.
How he envied that bloody horse. Not once had those dark green eyes left Syrah's blackened silhouette, not for a moment: he never wanted to look away. His arms ached as the distance between them increased: each stroke Syrah gifted to her horse sent shivers down the elf's spine, envisioning her fingers grazing his own skin, kissing his own shoulders. Fingers clenched into fists, Fenris growled a curse, resting a hand on the back of his tall neck.
How little she knows.
"Hawke."
He soon caught up with her, perched on the bank of a verdant green hill looking out over the coast. A nod acknowledged his presence: "Oh, Fenris." The gusting wind drove through her garments, dragging at the edges of her breeches and the trim of her cape, attempting to tear it from her back. Scrambling for the fabric, Syrah wrapped it tighter about her diminutive frame, arching her back.
"Are you alright?" He asked through his teeth. "You shouldn't walk off like that."
A quizzical expression crossed her. "Since when are you concerned about me?"
"I'm not concerned personally."
"So that's how it is." She rolled her eyes. "I'm fine; it's pathetic really." Her eyes sought the blackened horizon, shadowing the edges of the world. "This reminds me of my childhood, back in Ferelden; I used to climb a similar hill with Carver at sunset, back in Ferelden, so I figured I'd stop here for a while." A hand brushed the tips of the grass, reminiscing the past. "It overlooked Lothering, barely; you could even see the ruined towers of Ostagar if your eyesight was keen enough."
Her brother. Hawke hardly mentioned her late brother. Fenris took this moment of remembrance to edge closer, strangely intrigued to hear her out.
"We never saw eye-to-eye," she continued, surfacing a whirlpool of memories, "But he always listened, was always offering his shoulder; he never admitted it, but he was a sweetheart." She hugged her knees closer. "We'd talk until night fell, until it was too cold to rely on my cloak. He'd…" A choking silence, her voice began to betray her. "He'd hold me; keep me warm until father came to take us home, joke about templars and Orlesians." Her hood shook, a sparkling tear slipping down her cheek. "Maker... forgive me, Fenris - I know you hate my endless bab-..."
The sudden drumming of heartbeats to her back silenced her, her sunshine-yellow eyes widening in surprise. Fenris' arms coiled around her, one locked over her stomach, the other tangling its fingers amid hers, and he carefully pulled her closer to his chest. "F-Fen-…" She had no voice, no means to express her shock.
A hushed whisper tickled her ears. "You looked cold."
Why did he sound so much like Carver? Her stupid younger brother. Her irresponsible younger brother... Her beautiful younger brother. Tears threatened to overcome her, tensing every muscle in her body - why now? Why must she mourn him a second time? Distress beginning to surface in her breathing patterns, Fenris began to regret closing in – this place, the memories; they were making it difficult to break through to her. Each second within his arms drove her closer to the edge, and he felt her body pulse to fight back weakness. He was a puzzle, and she was the missing piece to the complete picture; her thin back fit snugly into the contours of his chest, the spaces between his fingers moulded to align with hers. Maker, it was as if she wasmade for him, as much as he was for her; an alien feeling warmed his stomach, quickening the rythym of his heart - possession? Anxiety? Desire?
What was he even doing? None of it made sense. Not a few months before, the two snapped at eachothers throats like Mabari, her sympathetic outlook on the dealings of mages within Kirkwall clashing with his hatred for all things magic. It was this contrast that created the rift between them, the only reason he remained was to repay her aid against Danarius. On occasion, he refused to even acknowledge her presence, let alone dream of coming so close to her.
She was a human, and he an elf. That alone was reason enough to steer clear. Hawke had status, a family, money; Fenris was a former slave, a dog severed from its leash. Danarius and his lackeys would hunt him until he was dragged kicking and screaming back to the Imperium, or until one was dead, yet she insisted to protect him. She was benevolent, kind, innocent; he was distant, and even she knew not to cross him. She never requested anything of him, yet he remained by her side (albeit cautiously) despite their differences.
So why was this scenario any different?
"Let it all out, Syrah. There is no shame in crying." He tangled his fingers with hers, squeezing her hand encouragingly. He could hardly believe the unnatural words that tumbled from his lips. "I'm here. I'll always be here."
He had never witnessed Hawke cry. Few have.
As if waterfalls, her glassy eyes released rivers of salted tears, free to rush down her flustered cheeks and splash against the muscled dimensions of his arms. Her shoulders wracked with each sharp intake of breath, only urging the elf to hold her tighter. His head lowered to rest above her collarbone, and hers turned to meet him, tilting it forwards to press her forehead to his cheek. As she sobbed, he soothed her with hushed elven whispers; when her clutch on him tightened, he responded in full, his constricting arms bringing her ever closer.
His head wished those whispers to be bitter, scolding and hostile, his hold to unlock and push her away; his heart yearned to keep her as such forever: this was where she was meant to be, he shouldn't squander his chances, not now - not when she looked so fragile she would shatter into a thousand pieces should he let go. Torn between mind and soul, Fenris remained her silent shoulder, murmuring what he thought appropriate to coax her into silence once more. It did fairly little to drive back the raw emotion present in her weeping, but crossing such a delicate boundary would only worsen the matter. He refrained from stepping out of line. He would most certainly regret it later.
"... Thank you, Fenris."
Did she just thank him?
Beginning to sink against his armor, however uncomfortable it may seem, the woman's sorrow began to deteriorate, as did her will to remain conscious. The elf contemplated shifting her across to the sleeping stallion, barely a foot from them, but decided against it. If she was to sleep, let it be here, where he could watch over her. As her taught body relaxed, Fenris managed to rotate her sufficiently to rest her spine against his arm, her head nestled in the crook of his neck. Though her hair tickled his skin, he was soon reminded of the lyrium markings present on his throat, the pain striking him as if thunder. He would have howled, had he not found the strength to bite back the pain. He was beginning to get better at it, or so it seemed.
He could never be Carver - not even the Maker could bring Syrah's brother home to her, not now. But he could protect her, to the best of his abilities, as the younger brother had done so before him.
Another step to add to his ever-growing list. First of all, he'd have to convince Hawke to move, come daylight.