There came a point where the words on the pages of his book became blurred scrawl to Fenris. A mess of inked scratches from a pen, meaningless and savage and his eyes refused to clarify what they were seeing. The book simply held his fancy no longer and his mind was set adrift. Tides and currents pulled it far, pulled it under and let it float to the surface again, only to catch it in another wild torrent. Whirlpools of memories, storms of dreams, waves of wishes. A journey of time at a stand still and an eternity racing before him at the beck and call of whim. Until, at last, his thoughts washed up on the shores of his favorite subject. Hawke.
Of all the things that changed, disappeared, got sculpted into something else, the bold Edrear remained consistent. A marooned island refusing to drown in a turbulent ocean. There were many treasures held by its sands, recollections that Fenris held close to the chest. He would never let them go.
He takes a journey down the small paths he's tread into this refuge as he often traverses it border to border. Each bend leading to a landmark of his imaginings. Markers with glory that never faded.
One of the first on his trampled road was the many times spent at the Hanged Man with Hawke. Every game of cards was spent side by side, the hand that was dealt shared between them. Fenris would read the symbols of the cards that Hawke could not see, trace their patterns in his palm beneath the table. Then each would take their turn in deciding what move to make.
There was never a game they played that Fenris could recall passing without Edrear beaming ear to ear. Exceedingly grateful for the aid and to be included in such games and mischief. He would unfurl his fingers in anticipation, his gesture reminiscent of an impatient bloom bursting open. Fenris knew every line, every callous by heart through touch alone. His palm a memorized map.
There were times this contact would ignite a spark of yearning he could not escape. It would spread a warmth over his skin like a sunburn and his fingertips would tingle. Butterflies would flutter in his gut. Other times, it brought him sorrow and guilt for all the harsh things Fenris had ever said and the mistakes that he had made. Those days, he would tremble with regret instead as he touched Hawke.
Edrear never lacked gratitude for his charity, regardless. In his giddy cheer, he'd be swept up in old Ferelden folk melodies that sometimes played at the tavern. His way of expressing his thanks often resulted in pulling Fenris up with him to dance to the rhythm. Despite all the objections and glares. He would tug Fenris along with him to all the steps, until Fenris could only think to keep up. Forgetting his reluctance, and the patrons watching. A smirk spreading over his lips without him realizing it.
The next tribute to life that came were the times Fenris would be caught in furious nightmares. When, at last, they had begun to sleep next to one another, peaceful dreaming would be dashed to pieces by the assault of fears burning through. This had not been something new to Fenris, the past always came to haunt him. Yet, at that point, there was a change.
A jolt or a cry in response to these terrors would result in Edrear rolling over to smother him in an embrace. In spite of the suffocation caused by such affections, Fenris could only ever think to curl tight against Hawke's chest. Eagerly accepting the consolation.
He would often press his face to Edrear's neck just beneath his chin. Taking in deeply his scent, always the aura of the wilderness in autum. Before long Fenris' eyes would grow heavy again, his pulse slowing to the beat of slumber. And he would easily slip back into the confines of rest. No matter how shocking the previous visions had been. He'd feel safe and soothed in Hawke's grasp.
Then came another intimate symbol on this beach he has stranded himself on. In past days they would often bathe together to scrub clean the grime of a hard day's work. A simple and straight forward affair most of the time. Each more concerned with getting clean than with the other. Edrear would always offer to help wash his back, taking care to never rub a marking the wrong way. If Fenris consented, he would indeed polish the sweat and blood of battle from the skin. But, also, afterward, he tended to work the stress from the shoulders. Unbeknownst to Fenris at first, that is exactly where he tended to collect it all. And there were years of it to be released, undone.
It took only single moment before he would find he could not refrain from slouching over the tub's edge, eyes pressing closed and an unintentinonal grin of euphoria spreading at the corners of his mouth. Hawke would take care to massage them for as long as was necessary to ease the aching away, his hands never straying. He would hum some song or another to himself as he went, and secretly smirk at Fenris's back at the reactions this earned him. Fenris couldn't care. He would always be too lost in the relief of the caresses.
Next came the days Edrear happened to decide to cook himself, rather than allowing Orana to tend to it. Having a rather strong knack for it, despite it being 'woman's domain.' He had decent skill in mixing spices and making sauces to accompany meat and vegetables. Fenris discovered he liked the flavors of every recipe Hawke could cook. He would sit at the small kitchen table, the dining room left untouched since Leandra's death. Edrear would tell him stories, some ridiculous, some inruiging. He would sneak an apple Fenris' way as the meal was being prepared, a gift gratefully accepted.
After their food, Edrear would reveal a pie he had baked a day previous. Usually apple, occasionally cherry. Although he did not mind cherry, Fenris always found the taste of them to be a little too tart and thus preferred the other kind. Spiced with cinnamon, he would devour the apple pie much like a child. Hastily and always searching for more. Hawke always insisted that he himself got to claim at least two slices, and would let Fenris eat as much as he'd like of the rest. When he would finish, he'd wipe the crumbs from his chin and blush a little at his overindulgence.
Edrear never had teased Fenris for any of the belly aches his sweet tooth had caused him. A lesson regarding when enough was enough that Fenris never could learn -
He was pulled from his internal quest by the sound of the door, pulling his focus to the intrusion.
"Ah, at last I have found your hiding place," Hawke muses, "Everyone was beginning to wonder if Fang had eaten you up. And books were being misplaced by your ghost."
Fenris eyes him without humor.
"You should have heard the young maids telling horror stories about what will happen to you if you enter the library at midnight. They nearly called in a cleric to exorcise you."
"If I were banished from the castle, I'd be taking you with me, dragging you by the ear. We shouldn't be here, Hawke."
"Still on about that, huh? If they intended to throw us in the dungeon, I think our guest chambers would be set up in the dank tunnels below us, not in such a fine room in the tower. And I think we'd be in shackles by now, regardless."
"It isn't a joke, Hawke," he growls, "You keep finding trouble and putting yourself at risk! You trust far too easily... One of these days I'll leave you to find your own way out of it!"
Edrear did not know the weight shackles bear, or the solitude bars could bring. But, Fenris did. He knew the cruelty of them within and without, they taxed his very soul. To make light of their concept was taboo.
In defiance, he meets Hawke's colorless eyes. The light in them is gone, replaced by the throb of a small cut caused by his words. Fenris reflects on them, recalls what he had said without much thought. A threat of abandonment, which, for Edrear is taboo. And guilt presses in, stinging his eyes just a touch. Fenris would never want to leave anymore than Hawke would ever want him to. With a reluctant sigh, he caves and gives up the argument for the time offers a truce, a bandage to the cut.
"I simply wish you would be more cautious. That is all I mean," a pause, "Hawke... I am yours..."
As expected, as always, Hawke's expression changes to that of flattery. A rosy pink gracing his cheeks. A hundred times it has been said before, and yet, the reaction remains the same. Every utterance, without fail. And Fenris cannot help but to muse over such a guaranteed return for such words. He thinks, it must be his favorite landmark on his secret island sanctuary.