This bit of oddity is for FenZev, in general appreciation for all her lovely reviews and support and enthusiasm, and in specific for being the 250th reviewer on "A Candle in the Darkness."

This was inspired by Sondheim's Big Bad Wolf from "Into the Woods" and by Meat Loaf's "You Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth." Enjoy!

Hawke was practically skipping through the woods. It was so lovely to be so free and all alone. No matter that at the other end of the path lay … something dark that she didn't want to reach. She couldn't put her finger on just what it was, but that didn't matter, because the sun was warm and the flowers on either side of the path were beautiful and …

In front of her was a man. Lean and dark of face, he had eyes of such a deep green they seemed to be part of the forest, and lines of something that shone silvery-white snaked across his body everywhere that she could see. She wondered, feeling suddenly rather too warm, how far beneath his armor they extended.

"Hello, Hawke," he said, his voice wrapping around her like rich, dark smoke, filling her head.

"Do I know you?"

"Would you like to?"

"Yes," she breathed, without thinking. Then, "No. I mean … I have to get somewhere. Leave me alone."

"Surely you have time to stop and … smell the roses? They are just over there." He gestured off the path to a profusion of wild rosebushes. The blooms were red, red as blood, and the sight of them made Hawke hunger suddenly for the velvety soft feel of the petals, for the intoxicating scent.

"Well … maybe there's not such a hurry as all that …"

The man's lips drew back from his teeth in a lupine grin. Hawke could see his white teeth shining in the sudden dimness as the sun went behind a cloud, and she had a dizzy feeling that she knew the way those teeth felt on her skin, or at least that she wanted to know it.

"No," she said again. "Leave me be. I have to get somewhere."

He bowed, stepping off the path and disappearing into the trees.

Hawke continued down the path. The sun had returned, but the flowers seemed dim after the vibrancy of the red roses. She no longer felt like skipping.

She walked the path now, enjoying the beauty of the day around her, tilting her head back to let the sun warm her face. Wherever she was going was still far enough away that she felt at her leisure to take her time. Here and there she plucked a bright blossom, twirling them in her fingers.

"Would you not rather one of these?" The man was back, leaning across the path, one arm anchoring him to a tree and the other holding out a single red rose. Its scent came to Hawke, leaving her breathless.

She wanted to reach for it, but something held her back. "What do you want from me?"

"Do you not know?" He let go of the tree, stepping toward her. All of Hawke's instincts said to run, but her feet were frozen to the path. The man was very close now, his scent mingling with that of the rose, both somehow so familiar, so tantalizing. He reached out with the rose, drawing it down her face, the petals so soft against her skin. It skimmed her lips, then drew a fragrant line down the column of her throat.

Heat blazed in Hawke where the rose had touched, and she felt herself swaying toward him.

"Do you desire more?" he whispered, his mouth close to her ear, his voice caressing her. "They are just over there." He pointed with the rose, but Hawke had trouble following his words and his gestures because his lips were following the path the rose had blazed, hovering maddeningly close to her skin but not quite touching, his breath tracing the line of rose-scented fire that burned inside her.

"Stop," she whispered breathlessly. "Stop." She could feel the heat of his hunger, and she longed for the bite of those sharp white teeth; she yearned to be devoured by him. She pushed him away. "Stop!"

"As you please." He melted away, leaving her cold and bereft, her body hungering for something she couldn't quite name.

Hawke trod the path warily now. The sunlight had dimmed, as though the day was waning, although she hadn't noticed the time passing, and the flowers at her feet seemed pale, withered. Off to the side she could smell the scent of the roses, so beautiful. She kept stumbling, tripping over roots at the edge of the path, finding herself drifting off it in the direction the roses lay, the direction the man had gone. What was his name? It seemed she should know, but somehow it wasn't coming to her.

She was chilled through, and it occurred to her that her destination was coming closer. She wasn't certain any longer that she should go there; but she didn't think she knew the way back. The path behind her seemed to have closed in.

She had passed the man without realizing it, and now she turned and went back to where he stood. He was bent over, holding on to the tree. "Please," he whispered. "Please, do not leave."

"I don't understand," she said. "What do you want from me?"

He reached one lean, strong arm toward her, then it fell limply at his side. As if in the memory of a dream, Hawke could feel his body against hers. She knew that feeling, hungered for it.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

"The roses," he said, his voice ragged. His eyes were a bright green now, almost feverish with his own hunger, glittering at her, and she could feel how much he wanted … something.

"Where are they?" she asked, because she couldn't leave him like this; because she wanted to touch the roses with her hands and see if they felt as velvety sweet as they smelled.

"They are over there." He gestured off the path, and she could see them clearly, even though the forest was dark now.

Gamely, Hawke stepped off the path into the depths of the forest. The man stayed where he was, watching her go.

Hawke staggered through the woods, feeling her way in the darkness. Her hair was tangled around her face, her hands and arms covered in scratches from the brambles. Why had she left the path? she asked herself. Because the man needed her to, because she had wanted to touch the roses. But they seemed so far out of reach, and somehow even though she was off the path, she had almost come to her destination. It was so cold now, so dark, and every step something crackled beneath her, something rustled around her. It was almost too loud. Were there voices in the wind? She could almost understand them, if she stopped to listen.

"Hawke." It was his voice above the cacophony, that rich, deep roll that sent shivers through her. "I am here, Hawke. Come toward me."

She turned, but could see nothing. "Where are you?" Then, dimly through the brambles of the roses she could see a flash of white. Remembering the lines that marked his skin, she followed it. Slowly they made their way through the forest, his markings flashing and Hawke following them at a distance, clinging to them as the only thing familiar in this achingly terrifying darkness where she didn't know where to turn or how to escape.

At last she found him, standing with his arms open in a clearing where the moon shone on his white hair. "Come here, Hawke. Come back to me."

"What do you want from me?" she asked again.

The answer came softly, cutting through the sounds of the night and the voices in the wind and bringing with it the scent of roses. "I love you."

She went toward him, into his arms, willingly, at last, tilting her head back, waiting for the touch of those sharp teeth.

Opening her eyes, Hawke blinked against the sudden brightness. The man was leaning over her, cradling her in his lap, but she knew his name now. "Fenris."

"Yes."

Behind him, she heard other voices muttering "Thank the Maker" and "It's about time" and "I thought we'd lost her", but none of them mattered. Only Fenris did, Fenris who had come for her, who hadn't let her go.

"I was lost," she said.

"I know."

"But you found me."

"I always will. I could not bear the thought of living without you." He bent, nuzzling her cheek, breathing her in.

Hawke held his head to her, clinging to him. She grinned suddenly. "I bet you say that to all the girls."

Fenris chuckled. "I love you," he said, echoing her dream. "I have only ever said that to you." The words were unbearably precious to Hawke, as delicate as the petals of a rose. She held them—and him—close, and she would have returned them, but he was kissing her, and she was sure that he could taste them on her tongue, taking them directly from her mouth. And if not, she could tell him, again and again, later. They had all the time in the world.