This is in response to a kinkmeme prompt. I wrote it while I was at a convention last week.
Actual tears. Fenris had actual tears running down his cheeks, sliding along his lyrium lines, and dripping off his chin. On his knees, sitting back on his the dirty soles of his feet in utter devastation, his wide green eyes stared down in a pitiable mixture of disbelief and depression at the charred remains of the red cloth that had been tied so gently, so lovingly around his wrist just over three years before. He cradled it as delicately as he would have Hawke herself had she been the one destroyed. His fingers twitched with desire to stroke the tiny swatch of crimson and fear that it too would disappear at his touch. His shoulders quaked, and his mouth hung open, but only the sound of ragged breath came from his lips.
When Hawke wrenched her curved dagger from the side of her newly dead foe and turned on her heel, ready to engage the nearest enemy, this was the sight she was greeted with. It was all she saw, though in the wake of their recent battle, there was plenty of gore and horror to look at. As if under spotlight, her broken once-lover stood out against a sea of black. The garrote on her heart that had steadily squeezed since he'd walked out that morning twisted ever tighter, turning the dull throb she had learned to mostly ignore into a yawning pain that threatened to burst from her chest.
"Fenris!" The word was broken and unheard as she scrambled toward him.
"What's wro-," she began to half ask, half beg but cut herself off when she saw what was cupped in his hands. It had seemed a silly, impulsive gesture at the time, tying one of her scarves around his gauntlet, but one she had been infinitely grateful for the past few sight of it displayed so blatantly allowed a tiny spark of hope to remain in the back of her mind that maybe one day, when he was ready, he would try again, and she could be truly happy once more.
A small, self-satisfied hmph sounded from her left, and the world ballooned beyond the white-haired elf to include the rest of Thedas. Then several things happened at once. Anders' smug smirk bragged to all of his achievement; his accidental fireball had hit its mark nearly perfectly. The simple piece of cloth had mocked him, claiming that which he desired most. He had tasted her lips once the night before the Tevinter elf had shown up to steal all her affection for himself. The warrior had used her, tasted that sweetest of forbidden fruits, and then left her broken-hearted and alone. Yet he wore that favor like a trophy, and Anders had seen her startlingly blue eyes drift to it in longing more times than he cared to remember. He had taken great pleasure in burning it, and the sneer on his face showed it.
Fenris stopped shaking, stopped breathing, and every muscle in his body drew tighter than Sebastian's bowstring. His eyes narrowed sharply, stemming the flow of tears instantly. His focus shifted from the charred cloth to the blood-spattered stone floor to his right. Magic had taken yet another precious thing from him when he had so few to begin with, and the mage responsible was just beyond his eyeline. His ever-present hatred roared within him, urged him to inflict upon his companion the very virtue he embodied.
Hawke, for her part, saw these things and through them glimpsed both the past and the future. She knew what Anders had done, what Fenris would do. She could imagine the blind fury on the elf's face, the terror in the mage's eyes. She knew Fenris would rip Anders' heart from his chest and throw it down next to his lifeless corpse, adding its own red firework of blood to the puddle that would pour from the gaping wound. Their companions would understand and not understand. They would hate and pity. Fenris would be ashamed of what he'd done, fear the rage she would not possess, and flee her side again, physically this time. She would lose them both.
The blur of movement ended as quickly as it began. Anders had time to take only a single step back in fear. Fenris was glowing lightly, fading from the bright flash of lyrium that had powered his lightning fast movement. He was not looking at the former Gray Warden, but rather staring incredulously at Hawke who was wrapped bodily around his arm exactly where his favor had once been. His olive green eyes widened slightly as she pressed her face against the closed fist that had slid through so many sternums, had murdered so many people under the command of Danarius, under his own command. Fenris slowly uncurled his hand, careful not to nick her pale skin on the razor-edged metal joints of his gauntlets. She nuzzled her cheek against his open palm. The once thick leather worn thin by years of gripping his great sword shielded him from her touch. The memory of her skin against his morphed from a lingering phantom to something real and solid and once again within his reach.
He couldn't feel the wind or the strands of white hair it blew in is face, couldn't hear the rustle of Anders' robes as he scurried to a safe distance. Her words were merely whispers, yet they wrapped themselves around his being as surely as she was wrapped around his wrist. "I'll give you another one. I'll give you anything. I'll always be here, by your side."
She reached out to grab his other arm, her metal armor clinking against his. She pressed the deadly weapon of his hand over her fragile, fluttering heart. She flattened her palm against his breastplate in turn, and he wished he could shuck his armor off, break down the walls that held them apart, reach across the chasm between them that he had put there.
"We are always together," she promised, "We've never been apart." Their companions looked on in shocked silence, in dismayed silence, in joyous silence. The wind continued to blow, and the blood around them slowly turned to rust brown stains on the cobbles.
When Anders saw Hawke again, she was not alone, though this was unsurprising. Her partner too was expected, the ever-present ex-slave at her side. What did shock him was the respectful, slightly uncomfortable distance they always kept was gone. Instead, his arm encircled her waist possessively. His nose was nestled into her hair, the black strands partially obscuring the unguarded grin on his face. When the mage turned away in shame and anger, her smile burned into his mind's eye, as vivid as the new red scarf around Fenris' wrist, marred only by the clumsy stitches made by fingers more used to picking locks than sewing that secured a singed swatch of crimson to the favor. As he walked toward Darktown, his fury fizzled into regret and sadness without the booming voice of Justice spurring it on.
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