Title: Like the Sun
Rating: T
Summary: Hawke was tough. She was witty. She was sweet. Now she's tranquil. Fenris/FemHawke.
A/N: Thanks for reading. Review please.
Like the Sun
Hawke stands next to the armoire, carefully tying the sash about her waist. Every move she makes is meticulous, painfully so. It is practiced; it is learned. Fenris watches from his haunting perch near the door, one arm braced against the frame, curled fingers pressing against his forehead. She knows, and she continues to get dressed with him there. Once she might have blushed, fingers trembling as she tried to overcome her embarrassment. Once she might have smiled with arrogance and stolen a kiss as she walked out, teasing him with a promise of later.
Now she is subdued. When the sash is tied, she glances in the mirror, dark eyes roving over her appearance. She is not checking for beauty or radiance or elegance. She is checking to see that she is acceptable to go outside, for that is where they are going. On the surface, she is the same. Her blonde hair is still just as beautiful, spun strands of pure cold as they curl around her delicate face. Her skin is just as pale as though made of alabaster. Her lips are delicate, perfectly heart-shaped, her nose small. The slight dip in her eyes is the same, but it is in her eyes that one can tell the difference. There is no spark, no light. The beautiful orbs that had once resembled a tumultuous ocean or a flickering blue flame are completely opaque. And, of course, there is the garish brand on her head.
There are other things that only close friends would notice. She does not blush anymore. There is no flush of life to her skin. Her hair is not delicately pinned back into a bun. This Hawke lets it fly free, curling around her shoulders in waves. She does not wear her dead mother's locket around her throat. Her breathing is barely noticeable. There is no excitement, no life, just existence. Fenris swallows and turns his head.
She brushes the hair from her forehead with a few fingers and turns to face him, a robotic shell. She does not smile as she once used to. Instead, she simply approaches, and he holds out a hand. By now he is used to her behavior. She will not hesitate to do as he asks. Her fingers curl into his, and he guides her down the stairs. Bodahn has the kindness to wish them farewell, even if she will not appreciate it. She simply wishes him a happy night, and they exit to the darkness of Hightown.
Fenris is the one who laces their fingers, an elf and a human. She remarks on the strangeness of their coupling every once in a while, but she does not attempt to stop it. He does not comment when she broaches the subject. In the beginning, she did not remember anything. He reminded her daily of their burning romance, their endless passion. Later, she began to remember. It was small things, her remarking on his favorite color, the ribbon around his wrist, or memories from long ago. The Tranquil Solution has that kind of effect. The mage can forget things for a time.
The celebration has already started. He can hear the fireworks being shot into the sky, the trembling explosion that splits the air and the cheering of crowds. It is an old tradition in Kirkwall, to celebrate on this specific day. Hawke knows where they are going, and she comments briefly that she is cold. Fenris pulls her closer, and she does not say another word.
When she was still Hawke, she loved the fireworks. There was nothing more beautiful to her. She burst into tears quite a few times, and it was their place to be together. They watched them every year, even during the three years after he left her. Fenris does not know if he is bringing her now for himself or for her. He wants her to remember, and maybe she does. Maybe she recalls the nights that he used to hold her close and whisper sweet things into her ears. He only knows that he will not deny her anything. Whether she wants to go or not—and he is certain she does not because Tranquil don't want anything—he will take her.
He does not know her sometimes, this shell of the woman that he loves. The 'I'm cold' reference is game they played before, one that she used to use countless times when they went to celebrations together. She was never cold. She wanted him close, near her. He recalls Aveline's story of her father, and he shares the feeling. He does not know if she is really cold or if it is the old game.
Sometimes he sees remnants of the old Hawke. When the tranquil smiles, there is a glimmer there. There is no amusement, and she only smiles when she thinks she should. It is used in times of encouragement, in times of jest when she understands the joke but does not have the capacity to laugh. She does not feel, only responds how society would ask her to. There are other moments. She brings up debates they once had. She feeds her dog and pets it, and he sees her scratching behind the old hound's ears. These small things are nostalgic, lovely, and they why he can stand to be near her. She is a shadow of Hawke, but he loves her still.
On their way, they see plenty of lovers tangled in dark corners. Small moans blotted out by the explosion of fireworks are ignored. The dark paints Hightown a glorious shade of violet and blue, the splashes of light against the sky bouncing off painted masks and faces. Hair is colored exotically. Outfits are elegantly made of the best silk, trimmed with bright lace. Children rush through the crowds and steal things from merchants with sticky palms and fat fingers. Women have their breasts plumped up, nearly spilling out of their gaudy outfits. Every man is a slim stranger ready to sweep a beautiful lady off her feet in a night of mindless passion. Even the elves have crawled from their decrepit alienage to see the fireworks, moving in the dark like stealthy shadows.
Fenris carefully tightens his hold on Hawke's hand as he pulls her along. Everyone recognizes the champion in her dull clothes and wavy hair. Some even bow as she passes. She ignores them all, not being rude but only apathetic. They do not understand. Most take it as a dismissal. Others know the truth and nod to Fenris in sympathy rather than respect. He is an elf. They sympathize with his burden only enough to be civil. There is no love for him. He is their champion's caretaker, not her lover.
Once he was her lover. They defied the entire expectations of the world, a wonderful, beautiful woman like Hawke taking a former elven slave as her partner. No one expected it. She laughed in their faces, defending him like a faithful person would. She argued for him, swatted away suitors, and helped him when he asked. Now she smiles politely, emptily, at the people who bring it up. Sometimes she recognizes that it is true—their coupling is strange. She says nothing else, voices neither her disapproval nor approval. She has no opinion, this empty being.
She has no love, is what he thinks as they duck around a particularly loud merchant. Their coupling involves his gentle massages, his deep voice, and her quiet words. He does not touch her in passion, because he has no desire for her. It was not her body attracted him at first, it was her brilliant mind. With that gone, he has no more interest in her than he would a common whore. He is still a man. He notices her swaying hips, her beautiful figure. He eyes the plumpness of her breasts and beauty of her open mouth, but he only notices these things. They stir nothing within him. He is becoming a tranquil himself.
A woman haggles to the side for a better price on a shawl. Children whisper in a corner, trading candies in excited voices. Fenris guides her gently around a bunch of horses slowly trotting into the main square. Hawke watches with dead eyes, noticing without commenting, but she gasps slightly when Fenris squeezes her hand almost to the point of cracking bone. Cullen is across the way, eyes following the people in the crowd. The elf narrows his eyes, feeling an undeniable anger even after so much time.
Hawke's gasp, however, pulls him back. He releases his grip and feels old guilt rise to his throat. Her pained sound brings up old memories, ones he would rather repress.
Of all the things she cannot feel, she can still feel pain. She does not scream in agony. She does not curse in anger, but she does show that she is in distress. There is a slight tightening around her mouth. Her knuckles clench sometimes. Her eyes get smaller. It is not a faked reaction for others. It is a true reaction, not an emotion but a feeling. In the beginning, he reveled in that. He hurt her on purpose to see it. He burned her with fire. He dislocated her shoulder once. Only after Varric showed him that beating a lifeless doll would not quench his frustration and anger did he stop. He saw that he was hurting the person he loved, and he did not do it again. In fact, he is still ashamed of himself.
Fenris is careful of his reaction as he stares at Cullen without restraint. The vile Templar did not order the solution, but he did nothing to stop it. Meredith ordered it. She signed the paper. Cullen, however, carried it out. He 'owed Hawke that much' was the excuse. Fenris snorts in disgust and yanks on Hawke's arm a little too roughly as he continues on, putting Cullen in the back of his mind.
Finally they are in the place where it all began. Varric sometimes teases that he can still hear Bartrand yelling at Hawke to go away. The fireworks are exploding in earnest across the sky, splashes of color interrupting the darkness of the heavens. Aveline is standing there, her hair like a banner down her back. Varric is at her side, arms crossed as he watches the show. Even Anders is standing nervously in the dark, eyes frantically searching the crowd. They all turn as he approaches, his burden in tow. Each gaze flicks to her and then to him. Aveline envelopes him in a hug. Varric shakes his hand. It has been many weeks since they last saw each other.
Hawke does not need care, per se. She can eat, bathe, and work. In short, she can keep herself alive. Fenris sometimes questions why he stays. He questions not only why he stays to watch her scribble mindlessly for hours but also why he crawls into her bed at night and holds her close. She is so cold. She does not respond to his touch. She does not nuzzle up close or stay in the morning when the light falls on them. Every morning is another disappointment. Varric, in a moment of grief and passion, grabbed him by the shoulders at the beginning and revealed why he did it. It is because he hopes that one day he will wake up beside her and she will be smiling, the old Hawke shining through. Fenris does not agree openly, but it is true.
Anders shivers when Hawke takes his the hand he offers. Fenris knows her grip will be firm, polite. Tranquil are nothing but. They do not lose their tempers. They do not shout or get their feelings hurt unnecessarily. To some, they are perfect. Anders lets go quickly, smiling at her. There is a darkness there. He often expresses his wish to kill Hawke. It is an awful punishment, he argues, for one such as her. She always asked to be murdered should it happen. He feels like he is destroying her wish.
It is that foolish hope that Hawke is still somewhere in there that makes Fenris fiercely protective of her. He fought tooth and nail for her the night that Anders presented the idea to the rest of the group. It is that excuse that he uses when Aveline questions why he stays by her. She needs protection. She needs love even if she can't feel it. She needs him, he defends, but that is not true. He needs her. He is not ready to let her go. It is similar to carting a corpse around. It is twisted and demented and wrong. Yet he cannot stop.
"It's nice to see you, Hawke," Aveline says to her, taking her hand and squeezing. Hawke shifts her gaze to the guard.
"You look well, Guard-Captain," she nods slowly.
Fenris stops himself before he can crush her fingers again in his. He shares a glance with Varric who claps Hawke on the shoulder and points upward. "The show's starting."
Hawke follows his finger up as a bright red splotch of color adorns the sky. It is a tiny contraption that is shot into the air at startling speed, the blackpowder inside building up enough pressure to push out on the sides of the container and burst into a myriad of patterns and shapes. Hawke, as a mage, was obsessed with fire once. She lit everything on fire. Now she stares with no interest, looking only because Varric pointed her to it. The red flushes her face and gives her life. It is not something he has seen on her in a very long time, and he tightens his grip.
Another explosion and another light the sky. One after the other, the tubes are shot into the heavens in quick succession. Fenris does not watch them. He stares at Hawke as a parade of various shapes and colors dance across her skin, the pale slope of her neck, an exposed ear. Her lips part as she watches, and Fenris's heart quick starts as he realizes that she is applying pressure to his hand. Startled, he leans forward to take in the look in her eyes. Perfect mirrors reflect the powerful display in the sky, but there is more. A spark, so small that no one else would ever notice it, is starting in the dead embers behind her corneas. There is life there, happiness. Wrinkles at the corner of her eyes are crinkled. Her plump lips are turning up into an exhilarated smile. Blood rushes to her face, and she is crushing his small fingers. He does not mind. The others are watching suddenly, too. No one is focusing on the fireworks but Hawke, and she is in such a state of happiness that Fenris feels his heart give a twinge.
She lets loose a sound like peeling bells, and it takes a moment for the elf to realize that it is laughter. Not only is it laughter, it's a giggle. Hawke giggles and pulls him closer, snuggling into his arm. He is so astonished that he cannot even think to enjoy the situation. Her eyes stay firmly on the fireworks for so long, and his eyes stay fastened to her face. Too soon, he thinks, the show ends. She turns to him with the face of a satisfied lover, pressing a kiss to his lips.
"Thank you for bringing me," she whispers against his mouth.
"Hawke?" he calls to her, turning to grip her upper arms. He gives her a firm shake, and the light stays in her eyes for a moment longer. A sudden passion grips him, so absolute that he nearly desperately crushes their mouths together. She presses back with the same desperation, fingernails digging into his back. There's even a grunt and a moan as he pushes her against the wall, but it fades quickly. Soon her hands stop working against his back. Her mouth isn't soft and pliable anymore. She stops moving, allowing him to kiss her without responding.
When he pulls back her eyes are dead, and Aveline is in tears. Fenris is nearly in tears as well, and he falls to his knees, burying his head against her stomach. Hawke puts her hands on his head without hesitation, cradling him to her, but there is nothing in it. It is a common response. Everything she does is precise. It is practiced; it is learned.
After everyone else has gone home, Fenris takes her hand and gently leads her away. He takes her home, and once he is far enough away, Aveline slaps Anders as hard as she can.
The mage stumbles back in surprise. "That was cruel," the guard spits.
"So says the woman that allows him to keep her alive like some mindless pet," he bites out, meaning every word. Varric is silent as they both glare.
"Is it…did she…?" the dwarf doesn't know what he is trying to ask.
"A moment of happiness," Anders explains, the glow of his magic fading from where she was standing. "I gave her a moment of feeling. The Fade burns like the sun, as sure as those fireworks, and it can bring them back for a moment. It is a gift from me to her, to ease the suffering." He wipes the blood from his face. "Hawke can't feel anymore, and we can. So we keep her alive. Judge me if you will, Aveline, but doing nothing is the cruelest act of all."
He storms away, and Fenris can't help the tears that fall. He has heard it all, and the knowledge that it is a trick, not her getting better, breaks what is left of his heart.
Hawke is silent by his side.
Thanks for reading. Review please.