7. From locketofyourhair, 340 words. Hawke/Fenris.
—
There are worse ways to wake up than tiny fingers curling in his hair (and he does not dwell on them) but that does not change the fact that it's before dawn.
—
Even as early a riser as he is, this is too much. "Hawke," he tries without opening his eyes, his voice rough with sleep, and reaches for the tiny wrist that should, theoretically, be attached to the tiny fingers. "Your child is awake."
Hawke acknowledges this with an incomprehensible mumble and rolls away from them both, drawing the thick coverlet higher to her shoulders, exposing Fenris's far arm to a shock of cool air in the process. He cracks a baleful eye just in time to see her pull the pillow over her head, and she groans again when he yanks the covers back over himself.
"Hawke."
"Papa," comes the whisper, choked with giggles, and Fenris closes his eyes, trying desperately to cling to the last vestiges of sleep. "Papa, guess what."
Probably futile. He tries anyway. "No."
A sudden shift of the mattress as their daughter clambers onto the bed, knees cheerfully inserting themselves into the tenderest places of Fenris's ribs. "Guess!"
"Hawke." If he is to be pestered, so will she. How little he had expected this child to bring out the child in him. "Hawke. Hawke."
"If someone," she says at last, thick through the pillow, "is not on the verge of death, they're about to be."
"Your daughter wants you."
"It's you she's calling," Hawke points out, but the daughter in question apparently takes that as invitation and knees and elbows her way to her mother's side of the bed. Somewhere outside a bird begins to chirp, piercing and repetitive.
"Guess what, Mama! I painted a picture!"
"Adorable," Hawke sighs. There is a long moment of perfect silence, and then Hawke and Fenris stiffen at the same time. "How?" Hawke asks at the same moment Fenris says, "Where?"
Their daughter only giggles, an innocent sound to portend such doom. "It is your turn," he tries without much hope, but he is awake now regardless, and when Hawke throws back the covers, he rises with her.
"Come on," she says ruefully, and together they follow their daughter into chaos.
.
8. From silksieve, 933 words. Hawke/Fenris.
—
"You said this would work!" she yelled.
—
"It would have," Fenris shouted back, "if you did not reach for fire every time you're startled!"
Hawke spluttered, attempted to blow sodden bangs out of her eyes, and spluttered again as the river threw a wave over her head. On the other side of the enormous rock they both clung to Fenris looked little better, his white hair plastered against his head, the sword lashed to his back catching the swirling water in odd ways, throwing sprays of glitter over his shoulders with every movement.
She glanced up at the remains of the narrow, rickety wooden bridge above them, the one that'd been their only way across the river—right before the rotted board had shattered under her foot and she'd accidentally set fire to the rest of it in her surprise. The sky was almost insultingly bright past the charred, smoking remains, as if the Maker had wanted to give her imminent demise the blessing of a sunny spring.
"Oops," she offered weakly, and Fenris scowled as he refirmed his grip on the boulder's river-slick surface.
"Apologize later," he snapped. "We need to get out of here, Hawke!"
"No, really?" Her hand slipped; she flung herself against stone and found better purchase, shaking her head in fruitless attempt to clear the water from her eyes. "I thought we'd just wallow here forever!"
Fenris sneered, then glanced behind her, upriver. "There is a log lodged between two rocks. Can you free it?"
Hawke drew in a breath, then twisted against the boulder as best she could without jeopardizing her hold. A good log, not twenty yards behind her—a large one, more importantly, and long enough to reach from their boulder to shore if she aimed it properly. If she missed, though, she risked knocking them both from their tentative shelter, lost to the implacable mercy of whatever rapids or falls lurked ahead. Not her favorite option.
Not much choice, either.
"All right," she said. Beneath the surface of the river her armored boots dragged heavily at her legs, her sodden coat an equal weight. "If I miss, I expect you to save me."
"Don't miss, Hawke."
She snorted, and after a long moment to judge her angle, pushed just the barest bit at the nearer end of the log. It rocked, resettled into its resting place; she pushed again and a wave broke over it, enough to jar its weight free with a terrifying groan of wood and earth.
"Here it comes!" she shouted, as if Fenris could not see, and then the river had hold of the log and was bringing it towards them, barreling almost faster than she could believe, so much larger in freedom than it had been half-hidden by water. She gritted her teeth, shoved again—and again, and again, angling the log as best she could until the far end pointed downriver, towards the shore, a clumsy arrow to drive into the earth when she commanded.
"Wait," Fenris said, and she waited, waited, waited as the thing bore down on them, her heart pounding, the river pounding against her; then– "Now!" he shouted and magic exploded out of her hand, a solid wall of sheer force rocketing the log spear-like into the shore. A breathless moment of terror as it quivered, slipped a foot, farther—then the far end dug deep into the earth and the nearer end slammed like a hammer against their boulder, not two feet from Hawke's hand, and lodged there with all the finality of Isabela slapping down her hand at cards.
Hawke laughed, the sounding ringing out giddy and clear in the sunlight, and as Fenris watched she began edging her way across the makeshift bridge, chest to log, the river crushing impassively against her back. A lifetime's minute later and she felt solid ground beneath her feet; a clumsy pull of earth and she had a foothold, then two, and she levered herself from river to safe, precious, perfect earth with a groan.
"Your turn," she shouted, when she could speak, and Fenris scowled. His was the harder on the wrong side of the log, the river eager to push him downriver and away from her; but even as Hawke steadied herself to do—something—Fenris let out a ferocious snarl and with a brilliant burst of lyrium-light, had dragged most of his body atop the boulder. Another shout and he was free of the river; then, carefully as she had, began to crawl along the log towards shore and safety.
It was more than wide enough, especially given Fenris's narrow elfish knees, and in short order he'd covered most of the distance without incident. Hawke reached for him the instant he neared; then he was on his feet and in her arms and she was laughing and he was—well, less alight, and despite their breathlessness and the brush with death and the fact that they were both soaked enough to wring out a second river, Hawke could not keep from grinning when he took her face in his hands and kissed her.
"I won't burn the bridge next time," she said, when Fenris had drawn back, shaken her by the shoulders, and kissed her again. "I promise."
"Next time," he said drily, shoving his sodden hair from his eyes, "I will cross the bridge first."
"Deal," Hawke said, and began to wring out her shirt. "But look at it this way: at least we're across the river!"
Fenris snorted, and shook his head sharply enough that water sprayed across them both, but she thought she saw him smirk.
—
.
9. From hatepig, 1718 words. Hawke/Fenris.
—
By the time they have staunched the bleeding, Fenris realizes he should've thought more about what the cold would do to Hawke, rather than lingering bandits."
—
When she and the bandit she'd grappled with had first gone through the ice his heart had stopped; when the tower of flame exploded into the winter air and Hawke scrabbled through its wake, gasping, for purchase on the slick ice, it had started again, sending him sprawling across the ice for her hands. The bandit had not emerged after her; behind Fenris had been the other three, their blood smeared brilliant and crimson across the ice.
A struggle, silent, terrifying, as she'd battled to grip with hands gone numb and frozen; a bolt of fear down his spine when he'd hauled her out at last and the ice had cracked ominously beneath his knees. He hadn't tried to stand; instead he'd gripped her arm and shoulder and dragged her behind, fast as he could move, to thicker ice he'd known would hold his weight.
And then he'd seen the blood, bright as dye, trailing behind Hawke with every step, and he'd thought—
The place where the ice broke stands out like a scab, black water scarring the smooth white surface of the frozen river, of the whiter snow-covered hills that rise all around them. Hawke still hasn't spoken, her eyelids fluttering as Fenris tightens the bandage around her thigh. Her lips have gone blue without his noticing, her wet hair still plastered to her cheeks, and he—
"Hawke," he says, one hand on her throat for her pulse. She is so cold. So cold, and he should have— "Hawke?"
"Ffff," she tries, and clenches her eyes shut. "F-ffen—"
Enough. They'd passed a cave just before emerging onto the frozen river—and into the ambush—and Fenris lifts her in arms, pack and all, before turning on his heel.
It takes precious few minutes to reach the cave, but they are precious when Hawke begins slurring sounds into the winter air, her eyes unfocused over his shoulder, her soaked cloak like an anchor dragging on them both. Not noticeably warmer inside, but no colder either, and enough brush and leaves from warmer seasons hidden dry in the cave's shallow depths to start a fire.
Fenris does, wasting no movements, and the instant the first flicker has caught he reaches for Hawke, stripping her of cloak and vest and soaked, ruined boots, of the gloves that offer no shelter now against the wintry air. Her shirt is harder to remove; she has begun to fight him, now, not strong but impossible to ignore, and he must pin her arms to her sides before she allows him to work the clasps of her shirt.
His hasty field bandage he must unwind to divest her of her trousers, and he curses again at the long, deep slice that runs down the inside of her thigh. She needs healing. She needs to heal herself, and she needs to wake up, and he—doesn't know what to do. No one dies of frostbite in Tevinter.
He gets her trousers free. Her smalls, too, laid beside the fire he stokes again; then he wraps her in his own cloak, damp at the hem but otherwise sound, and moves her as close to the fire as he dares. Their oiled packs, when he yanks them close, are infuriatingly useless; they'd been traveling light for a reason and had brought little with them, and the only things he finds of worth are a spare pair of stockings and a headwrap she'd picked up on the journey. Still, better than nothing, and then, beneath them—elfroot potion, infinitely more precious.
The stockings she accepts, as well as his clumsy hood, but the moment he lifts her head for the potion she begins thrashing, her head tossing from side to side, arms trapped by his cloak, meaningless protest that does not still even through his alternate cajoling and threatening. He tries to pinch her nose as he has seen women do with infants, but she will not swallow and spits out what he can pour in.
Too little to spare. He takes a mouthful of bitter elfroot, bends over Hawke, and presses his lips to hers. Closed, first, until she recognizes him; then as she stills he coaxes her mouth open with his own and lets in the elfroot, swallow by swallow, his fingers gentle on her throat for comfort and persuasion both. She takes everything he offers, trust terrifying in its totality, and again a second time, and a third, until the phial is closer to empty than full and Hawke's wound is, if not sealed, no longer bleeding. Her lips are like ice.
Enough. He caps the vial, adds more brush to the fire, gathers the rest for easy feeding—enough for hours yet, and Fenris is grateful for the providence. Her clothes he spreads where he can, just far enough from the fire that an errant spark will not burn them all, and when he is finished he strips himself of his own boots, overtunic, and vest, their metal fasteners chipped with ice and the fabric soaked where he held Hawke against him. His own trousers he leaves on for prudence's sake—if there are more bandits, he will not be totally defenseless—and his undershirt he wraps around Hawke's feet, adding to what warmth he can provide to skin so cold he can feel it through two layers of fabric.
Then, when he is certain there is nothing else he can provide from her from their limited stores, Fenris unwraps her from the cloak long enough that he can slide in beside her and pull her to his chest. She is so cold—so cold—even with the fire at her back there is no warmth to her, Hawke who has always been warm, and her hands wrapped in his hands between them are cold as a corpse.
He brings them to his mouth, breathes hot and heavy on curled fingers. They twitch, once; then Hawke croaks, "Don't chafe."
Fenris glances up, startled, pained by hope. Hawke's watching him, exhausted but lucid, and her mouth quirks at his almost-smile. "Don't chafe my fingers," she repeats, her eyes slipping shut. "They'll swell. If you rub them. Like…saus. Sausages."
"Then I will not," he murmurs, and breathes on them again. "What else should I do?"
"Just…" she begins, and he realizes she has begun to shiver, slight trembling things at first, and then in a matter of moments a deep, frightening, full-body shake that rocks her violently in his arms. "Just stay here," she grits out through clenched teeth, every line of her bare throat pulled hard as wire. "Keep being—keep—keep being warm."
He can do that. He can, in fact, do little else, and he wraps both arms around her and throws one leg over hers, pulling her naked body as close against his as he can. The fire still burns brightly; the cloak wraps around them both, and Fenris pulls it even tighter when Hawke lets out a low, involuntary whine.
"S—s—" she tries, teeth audibly clacking together, and Fenris bends his head even closer until her icy cheek rests on his. "Sorry," she gets out at last, along with a breathless laugh. "Stupid."
"I presume you didn't intend to fall into the river."
"Mm. Not—not—not as such."
"Then there is nothing to forgive."
Hawke laughs again, still shivering, and curls into him. "Love you."
He closes his eyes—and a thought occurs to him. "Hawke. Can you call fire?"
"W-weak," she says, the first consonant dragged out over several seconds as she struggles to speak through numb lips. "Good idea. Not strong—strong enough."
He draws in a breath, lets it out again. Then, carefully, not enough to overwhelm but enough to warm, Fenris pulls on the strength of the lyrium until the whole of his bare chest is aglow. It glitters weirdly on Hawke's face, thrown light on her cheek and shining through the cloak they're wrapped in, glinting in Hawke's eyes through her surprise—and gratitude.
She closes her eyes and flattens palms like ice against his chest. He suppresses the urge to flinch at the cold, and again at that old, familiar ache as the lyrium is siphoned out of his skin; he says, startled at his own humor, "Please don't burn either of us."
"Try," Hawke murmurs, eyes half-lidded—and then all at once heat floods through her, a living thing that ripples down her skin, so stark between cold and hot that for a moment Fenris cannot understand it. He can feel the line of it down her chest where she's pressed against him, her waist, her thighs down to her feet, as if the flame that burns at her back has begun to lick through her. Her fingers curl around his, suddenly hot; her face flushes all at once, her lips flooding pink, her cheeks blushing with warmth that had not been there a moment before. She still shivers, but it no longer wracks her like a fever, and Fenris—breathes, letting the lyrium die, stunned by the relief that flares just as hot in his heart.
"That," she says, no stumble now, no hesitation to her smile, "was brilliant. You're amazing, Fenris. Amazing. I—thank you."
He shakes his head, pulls her close again until she cannot see his face. "I'm glad it could—I could—help." He pauses, then: "How do you feel?"
"Better. Still freezing, but not like I'm at death's door. Thigh's not bad. I think it can wait."
Good, Fenris thinks, and lets out a long, slow breath. "We'll wait here, then, until you have recovered."
"Mm." Her eyes are drooping, now; he can feel her beginning to relax against him for the first time in over an hour, her head heavy on his shoulder, her breath hot on his collarbone. "It'll be a few hours yet, anyway."
"Oh?"
"My clothes are wet," she points out, and presses a sleepy kiss to his throat. "And also, I'm naked."
"A fair point," Fenris allows, smiling despite himself, and when she slips into a light doze he permits himself to follow, his pulse finally beginning to slow, safe and sound and silent in a wild winter cave that has, against all odds, finally managed to grow warm.