Anders slept soundly as Fenris finished bandaging his lacerated feet. It seemed the mage was determined to give him much practice at treating his wounds. He wound up the left-over bandages and carefully stored them away again for later use. He paused as his hands brushed something – a small pillow made of soft white linen, carefully embroidered with small neat stitches in fading silks in a pattern of flowers he didn't recognise; they were like nothing he had ever seen in the Imperium. He pulled it from the pack and turned it over in his hands; it seemed a somehow incongruous object to find in the mage's backpack. He turned it back over, and plucked a single golden hair from it.
He bent his head and cautiously sniffed it. It smelled of the mage himself – herbs and musk, a faint tang of lyrium, and something else. Something that reminded him of fresh, new-mown hay on a summer's day.
He glanced over at the sleeping mage, and leaning over him he carefully slid a hand beneath the golden hair, lifting Anders' head just enough to slide the pillow beneath his cheek before lowering it again. Tenderly he stroked his fingers lightly down the mage's cheek.
Anders sighed, turning his face a little into the pillow. "Mother?" he murmured quietly. "I had that dream again, Mother... don't let them take me..."
Fenris slid a hand into the soft silky hair and pressed his lips to the pale forehead. "Hush. No-one will take you. You are safe now," he whispered. Anders sighed, then stilled as he slipped deeper into sleep.
"His mother made it," remarked Hawke quietly from his seat by the dead fire; his voice was slightly muffled, breath hitching a little. "It's the only thing he has of her. The templars came for him when he was 12."
"I did not know," Fenris replied, smoothing the grey Warden blanket over Anders' supine form. "I do not remember my mother."
"Maybe you're lucky, elf," replied Hawke morosely. "No-one to miss."
"Or be missed by," replied Fenris.
"Apart from him," replied Hawke, waving his bottle without turning. "Congratulations. You've won. He's yours."
Fenris rose from the bed and walked back towards the fireplace. "He is not a prize to be fought over," he said coolly.
"But you won him all the same," replied Hawke belligerently.
Fenris plucked the last remaining bottle of wine from the empty ones stood around it. Peeling the wax from the seal with his thumb, he tugged the cork out with his teeth and spat it out into the fireplace. "I thought it was magic that destroyed all it touched, Hawke," he said quietly. "It seems you have found a new magic all your own, using only your tongue." He saluted the warrior with his bottle then took a long drink.
"What is that supposed to mean?" snarled Hawke.
Fenris gestured at the bed. "Go see for yourself," he suggested. "Take a good look at him."
Hawke hauled himself to his feet, frowning at the elf, cradling his bottle to his chest. With a suspicious glance back at Fenris, he made his way over to the foot of the bed, and stood there, staring at Anders, drinking in silence as he studied the sleeping man.
Anders had pushed down the blanket, restlessly; fading bruises still mottled his too-prominent ribs. Hawke scowled, taking another pull from the bottle as he stared. There were dark circles beneath the sleeping eyes, pale lashes resting against bruised flesh that had not seen enough rest in – when? Days? Weeks? Months? The hair was longer, untidy; bereft of its usual cord to restrain it, it lay scattered over the embroidered pillow. His jaw was shaded with stubble; he couldn't remember when last he'd seen Anders clean-shaven. Even in sleep, a faint line creased the mage's brow. One hand rested atop his breast, faint burn scars marking the fingers from too many fire spells and careless, sleepless nights spent stirring potions as they cooked. That drakenstone could be difficult and unpredictable to handle when heated.
His other hand lay palm uppermost beside his head, fingers curled slightly in upon themselves. A fading scar ran up the inside of his arm – a memento of one of their more recent clashes with raiders near the Wounded Coast. His eyes roved over the unconscious man's body, tallying all the scars and blemishes – some old and almost as familiar to Hawke as his own, others more recent.
Downing more of the wine, Hawke reached out for the blanket; Fenris made a faint disapproving sound, but did not move, watching him from the shadows. Hawke drew the blanket slowly down, studying Anders' sleeping body with hungry eyes. He leaned forward to kneel upon the bed, spanning a hand over the healing scar a little to the left of his navel, a hand-span beneath his ribs. The flesh was still new and pink, the edges puckered, though the wound no longer troubled Anders. The pale skin was warm beneath his touch as he gently pressed down, sliding his hand lower towards the mage's groin.
Anders tossed his head restlessly upon the pillow and a faint sigh slipped from his lips. "No, please..." he slurred drowsily, the hand upon the pillow twitching as the other slid unconsciously to cradle his throat. Hawke felt the breath catch in his throat as he leaned closer, setting aside the empty bottle and resting both hands upon Anders' thighs.
The sleeping man frowned and whimpered quietly, a soft sound of distress. "Please... don't... don't hurt me again," he moaned.
Hawke snatched back his hands as though they suddenly burned, recoiling.
Anders rolled slowly over onto his side, curling his arms about his slender body as he hunched in upon himself with a low moan. Hawke gently pulled the blanket back up over the sleeping man.
"I'm sorry, love," he said huskily. He gently threaded his hands into the blond hair, but froze as Anders flinched in his sleep.
Angrily Hawke glared at the shadowy form of the elf; all he could see were faint lyrium lines glowing silver in the dark, reflecting in dark green eyes that glittered like the cold glass shattered in the hearth.
"I did this?" he hissed.
"You have done nothing to ease him," replied Fenris coldly.
"I did not rape him!" growled the warrior.
"You made of him an object," replied Fenris. "When he needed your love, you made of him a slave."
"I love him!"
"You would own him."
Hawke stared down at Anders, pale and vulnerable in sleep.
"I wanted to keep him safe," whispered Hawke.
"You wanted to keep him," replied Fenris. "Not all slaves wear the magister's collar, Hawke." He smiled sadly, tilting the bottle towards Hawke in mocking salute before quietly drinking.
"What do I do?" whispered Hawke helplessly. Fenris regarded him coldly.
"Let him go," he replied. "Let him fly where he will. Give him a safe nest to rest in should he choose... but leave the door to your gilded cage open. Or you will destroy what you love."
Hawke stared down at Anders hopelessly. "I love him," he repeated despairingly. Fenris was silent. Slowly Hawke drew back from the bed, stumbling slowly backwards. "I should go," he said quietly.
"It is late. You are drunk," replied Fenris. He gestured to the chair. "Sit. Sleep. Don't be more of a fool than you already are. Think what it would do to him if you were to come to harm out there." He gestured towards the windows briefly.
"You don't care about me at all," Hawke huffed. "You only care about him."
"That's not true," replied Fenris calmly. "You're drunk. Go to sleep." He picked up a blanket and threw it at the man. Hawke gaped at him as the elf set the half-drunk bottle of wine back upon the table, walking over towards the bed. He pulled a spare blanket from the end of the bed and settled back in a low chair next to the bed, pulling the blanket over himself as he curled up. "Go to sleep, Hawke," he repeated quietly, voice muffled by the woollen fabric.
Hawke slowly stumbled back over to his chair and slumped down into the seat, pulling his own blanket over himself. He stared into the empty fireplace for a long time. Despite the wine he'd drunk, sleep was long in coming that night. He fell asleep, still brooding on a pair of amber eyes that regarded him with a world of hurt.
"Whore. Abomination. Thing. Did you think I didn't know? It was in your thoughts, in your mind. It's what I am after all. An abomination. A monster."
Anders' despairing cry haunted him into his dreams.