"Why?" Fenris demanded, pinning the dwarf with a glare.

Varric shook it off as he always did and tossed back with studied nonchalance, "Why is Hawke spending so much time outside of the city? Or why am I telling you?"

The elf bristled, shifting from one foot to the other. In mounting frustration, he crossed his arms over his chest.

Varric smiled, flashing his teeth in a predatory leer. "Or why does he never take you with him?"

Fenris growled and slammed his fist down onto the table, furious beyond words. A voice in the back of his head asked him why he was so upset. He had no answer and that just made him angrier.

"For that answer, you should ask the man himself. Or better yet, Isabella . . .."

Hot and chill sensations ran the length of his body in alternating waves as he thought about that snide insinuation. Not really an insinuation, though, since he knew, as most of them knew, how freely Hawke gave his affections. Given that Isabella didn't play the flower of innocence herself, then one could readily assume the natural outcome.

That logic that often had the power to calm him failed him now. It only stoked the fire in his belly until his vision reddened around the edges with it.

And so, he found himself here. Shivering on a cold ridge of rock in the wilderness of the Wounded Coast. Having followed the pair out here with the initial intent of confronting Hawke about his mystifying behavior, he soon found himself stalking them as they laughed, teased one another and generally . . . cavorted.

The casual touches and embraces they shared lanced him with a dozen conflicting emotions until he felt dizzy just trying to sort them. All climbing to a crescendo as Hawke and Isabella started to rut in their makeshift camp. Her pleasure noises filled the dusk air, loud and uninhibited. But that didn't hold a candle to how Hawke's low moans and muttered curses affected the elf.

Fenris tried to block it out; those soft vocalizations that echoed up to him. His heart started to pound, sending waves of hot blood to his extremities. And one extremity in particular. Perched in a cliffside thicket, Fenris tried not to squirm as his pants became unbearably tight in the groinal region. Unbidden, he pictured himself pinned under Hawke, being taken. Or having the man below him, writhing in ecstasy. It made his cock lurch against the leather of his trews. Hearing them, seeing them; it stole his composure with startling swiftness. He felt his balls draw up. Somehow, he managed to turn a moan into a strangled hiss. Thank the Maker they did not hear.

He jerked his hand away from where it crept between his parted thighs as realization hit him. He'd intruded on a private thing , for all that it happened out here in the wild. If someone had the audacity to do the same to him, he would have felt more than justified ripping their innards out. With clarity, came shame. He flushed even harder as they finished, with twin cries of completion. The throbbing between his legs shouted an accusation.

Soft voices poked holes in his guilt-ridden reverie and once again, he strained to capture even a single word. Luck escaped him, as it had a habit of doing. He could growl, frustrated, if he dared to. Isabella burst into a sudden peal of laughter, followed by Hawke joining her. Fenris listened to it fill the air and found himself longing to join them, in the circle of firelight below.

He searched for the word to describe the sharp prickles in his guts; the dropping, heavy sensation on his limbs. Jealousy, he was jealous. Of their easy camaraderie, of their sighs and touches. The obvious affection Hawke showed her. Was this love he looked upon? Did Hawke love her? And did she, who never seemed capable, love him?

And, why did that leave him . . . bereft, somehow?

Fenris swallowed hard as he contemplated the confusion in him. By the time the sun rose over the sleeping pair below, he found himself no closer to answers. Instead, sifting through memories, he surprised himself with the amount of regret he unearthed. Doors he closed, opportunities outright dodged because of some fear in him of letting people too close.

He saw, in his mind's eye, how patient Hawke had been, reaching out to a former slave. At the time, the human just seemed nosy and stubborn. Now, Fenris recalled how Hawke, with gentle and boundless inner strength, worked loose the tight, clenched fist the elf made of himself. And things once thought impossible now lay within his grasp: Friendship, respect, pride, even. Pride in what he could bring to the group as a whole. Value.

Hawke needed him. Said as much once upon a time . . ..

The mage wept; unashamed, full wracking sobs. How much of that could be blamed on the empty bottles that littered the floor of Hawke's bedroom, Fenris couldn't say.

Taken aback by this open display of emotion, the elf could only sit at the mage's side in awkward silence. Embarrassment flooded him as he felt his own throat close and eyes prickle. What was it about Hawke that strained his control to breaking every time he found himself in the man's company?

Arms, muscular and strong despite the piteous trembling, wrapped themselves around Fenris' waist. The human laid his head in the elf's lap, cheek pressed along the tops of both of the warrior's thighs as the mage continued crying.

At a loss as to what to do with his hands, Fenris looked around in a panic. An unprecedented occurrence; being clutched at like this. Most being too frightened of his odd appearance to even try. Not wishing to be handled like the stock he used to be, he encouraged that.

"Why? Why her?" Hawke all but wailed. He slid off the bed so he knelt at Fenris' feet, face still buried in the warrior's leather trews. "She never hurt anybody! Maker, why?"

Looking down at that dark crown of hair; hearing those cries wrenched at something in Fenris. He laid a hand on Hawke's head and murmured comforting nonsense. A night of firsts; this.

"You were so right, Fenris. About everything. About mages!" Hawke said with such hateful venom.

Fenris recoiled from it without thinking. He wondered if that's how he himself sounded. Probably. A strange sort of mirror he looked into. A sour feeling blossomed in his guts. Bitterness had been his long companion, but to hear Hawke speak thus . . .. It felt . . . wrong.

"Maker, what am I going to tell Carver?" The sobs renewed with tremendous force. Cascading down into gulping, gutteral noises like Hawke might vomit.

Suddenly, Fenris found himself yanked right down into Hawke's face by his breastplate. Using his arms, the elf kept them both kneeling. For if he had not, he'd surely be sprawled on top of the mage by now. Shocked, he stared into the man's crazed, golden eyes. Grief cast them in a feverish light.

Hawke spat, "Tear it out of me, Fenris!"

Fenris' mouth opened and closed a few times before he managed, "W-what?"

"The magic! Jus-just rip it out! Please!" Like a man drowning, Hawke pulled at him, face a desperate rictus.

Tearing himself loose from the mage, Fenris lunged to his feet. Sputtering, he ran a hand through his own hair. "I-I can't, Hawke."

For more reasons than the obvious one, he realized. Moreover, even if it was possible, he wouldn't do it. This epiphany shocked him even more.

Hawke fell at his feet with a whimper, curling over his knees in abasement. The mage curled his hands around Fenris' ankles and moaned, "I'm no better. Maker save me, how did I ever think I could be better?"

Words that flashed through his mind tripped on the way to his mouth. All the ways Hawke had been better. Had shown them all that control could be possible. Not every mage ended up an abomination.

Words so anathema to his previous state of being that they couldn't be uttered for fear that Fenris would find nothing to believe in behind them. These tenets held his world together, without them he'd fall into the abyss.

Lips pressed into a grim line, Fenris picked up the sobbing mage and put him to bed. He worked at the wrinkled and soiled clothes Hawke wore until the man lay bare but for his smallclothes. Then came the blanket. Fenris tucked the fabric around the man's figure with care, taking off his gauntlets to do so.

Through it all, Hawke let himself be manipulated like a doll, eyes clenched shut. Tears rolled down his cheeks still, staining the pillow beneath his head. On impulse, Fenris wiped them away with his thumbs.

One of Hawke's hands grabbed his wrist, causing him pause. Worried that he somehow hurt Hawke. He'd never seemed so vulnerable. Fenris heard, though it floated on the air as little more than a slurred whisper, "Please."

"I can't take your magic from you, Hawke. Even if magic came from an organ, like a heart or a stomach, the results tend to be more or less . . . lethal."

Something masquerading as a laugh bubbled out of Hawke's throat, dry and dead. Those molten eyes opened a fraction to regard him. "So?"

Again, that feeling of foundations shaking; of vertigo. How had he changed so much? To care whether a single mage, no matter how singular, died. Or that he wanted to die. "I cannot speak of this now."

"Why not?"

"Because you are clearly not in your right mind." He smiled to take the sting out of the words.

"Promise me something, Fenris." The mage's eyelids slipped closed once more. "If I ever . . .. Don't hesitate."

"Hawke, I-"

"Promise!" hissed the only friend Fenris had. "I need this, Fenris. I need you."

Sighing, Fenris nodded. "I swear."

Not a second later, Hawke drifted off into drunken catatonia, the deep lines of his face relaxing in repose. Without the terror and grief, Fenris almost saw the carefree and jovial man he'd met three years ago. He didn't realize how he'd missed that lightness, that spirit of caprice, until that moment. The world had enough bitter, hardened individuals like himself in it, and not nearly enough laughter.

What a precious gift Hawke had and how easily it could be lost. Moved by feelings that had no name, Fenris pressed his cheek to Hawke's and whispered, "Maker, may it never come to be."

Fenris snapped out of the memory with a lurch, almost falling out of his nest as he did. The figures below still had not stirred so he decided to make good his retreat.

No matter that the mage preferred another's company now. Fenris would keep his promise for as long as he could, even if Hawke didn't remember it. Probably didn't recall a thing about that night, from the look in his eye the next day when he met them at the Hanged Man.

A chagrined smile and nod to Fenris the only indication that Hawke acknowledged his presence at the mansion the night before. And the elf stood away from the gathering to try to sort it out, the jumble of relief and disappointment.

Perhaps on that day, Fenris shouldn't have resolved that it would pass, as all things did. And pass him it did, passed him right on by.