...
I.
After years spent at sea, Hawke has begun to find her own ways of putting space between them.
She gets into the habit of taking the very last watch, standing guard upon the bridge until the sky turns rosy with morning light. Some nights she crawls up into the rigging and finds a perch among the ropes.
Fenris makes no remark on her frequent absences, but on occasion she catches him watching her when he thinks she's not looking.
For all her precautions and good intentions, outside of their shared bed he has fallen back into a familiar role, the faithful bodyguard. Or perhaps it has always been this way. "I am yours," he'd told her time and time again during the onslaught of those final years in Kirkwall. What she had once taken for a profession of love now rings eerily close to an oath of servitude. Sometimes she wonders if he even knows the difference.
There will always be the nights that he is lost. She will never spontaneously embrace him without feeling him flinch. It is not in her power to fix or to protect him. It never was.
Nor does she harbor any illusions about what his life with her will be. Running, hiding, and fighting. Eventually one of them will fall. She has seen it happen enough times to be certain.
And maybe leaving is cowardice, or maybe it's just common sense come seven years too late. Hawke can't be sure, having long lacked the capacity for either quality.
The truth is that she is tired of watching loved ones fall. Of feeling the heat of anger and self loathing burn under her skin at night. Of seeing her own wan face reflected in the concerned gaze of her companions.
When Carver's letter reaches her, she needs no further excuse.
….
II.
The shallow waters of the port glittered with an oily sheen, and the night air was faintly gray from the greasy smoke of too many makeshift cooking fires burning at once. Hawke coughed, and spat over the side of the boat. She wiped a hand across her mouth, trying to be rid of the taste of Estwatch.
Widely known as Llomerryn's smaller, less reputable cousin, the smuggler's port of Estwatch was a haven for every sort of swindler and cutthroat. Over the years it had grown into the de facto headquarters of the Felicisima Armada, and under this dubious aegis vice, squalor and violence had become so commonplace that it was difficult to determine which of the three ran most rampant. Predictably, Isabela loved the dirty little island. But for Hawke it held too many memories of the year she'd spent earning her way into Kirkwall. It was as if the intervening time had been wiped clean away, taking her mother and Carver with it.
Now she looked out over the side of the ship, squinting into the fading light of the evening. On the far side of the harbor, she thought she could just make out the familiar shape of Athenril's scow.
The sound of approaching footsteps distracted her, and she glanced down. Her eyes narrowed. A ragged pack of children had gathered at the edge of the gangplank.
Her mouth set into a hard scowl, and she sank down with her back against the railing. Whistling to herself, she summoned a flickering handful of flames. The footsteps faltered, and she heard one pair quickly running the other way.
But when she looked up there were five determined little faces staring down at her.
One boy stepped forward, his arms across his chest and his chin tilted up defiantly.
"Are you the Champion?" he demanded.
Hawke leaned back nonchalantly, tossing the fireball back and forth between her hands.
"Maybe," she said. "Who wants to know?"
She caught the ball of fire in the palm of one hand and set it spinning with a flick of her wrist. She heard one of the children gasp.
But the boy was not done.
"So, is it true then?" he said.
"What," she asked, narrowing her eyes and grinning savagely at them. "That mages prefer their children served toasted?"
The others shrank back, but the boy just scowled.
"No," he said, stomping his foot. "About dueling the Arishok."
Hawke's eyes closed. The fire died, and she let her hands drop. "Yes," she said. "It's true."
"Tell us the story!" she heard him say.
She opened one eye and blinked at him. "Why should I?"
The boy obviously hadn't considered that. She saw one of the others pull on his sleeve, whisper something in his ear.
Hesitantly he reached into his pockets, pulling out a fistful of copper coins. He held them out to her. Hawke scoffed loudly, and pushed his hand back. "Not interested," she said, turning away.
This prompted another heated bout of whispering among the children. Out of the corner of her eye Hawke saw one of them go running back down the gangplank. After a few minutes, she returned. The others parted to let her through.
Rooting around in a dirty knapsack, the shabby child produced one large brown-glass bottle, which she deposited with a heavy thunk on the deck in front of Hawke
"That's better," Hawke said, snatching it up. She pulled the cork out of the bottle with a pop, and leaned in to take a deep whiff of it's contents. Immediately she rocked back, coughing violently. "Much better," she croaked when she had caught her breath, and she raised the bottle to her mouth.
When she looked up again, the five children had seated themselves in a semi circle around her, their faces bright and eager. The youngest couldn't have been more than eight years old. Hawke stared at her, and for a second her eyes clouded. She took another swallow from the bottle, reluctantly setting it down. Then she stretched out her hands, cracking each one of her knuckles, and began to speak.
"In the year of 9:31 Dragon," she said, looking somewhere above their heads, "the Arishok came to Kirkwall looking for a thief. By 9:34, he was tired of looking."
…
"He staggered and fell down upon the steps of the main hall, dropping both his sword and his fearsome axe, his terrible black eyes going dull and dim-"
The children sat spellbound, their mouths open, and Hawke smiled despite herself.
"-and as he lay dying, with his life's last breath the great Qunari warrior gasped out, "One day, we shall return." She bowed her head.
"I never heard him say that," said a deep voice from behind her.
Hawke started, her smile dropping away. "Run along, children," she said curtly, sitting up. "Story time's over."
They scuttled away, casting wide eyed glances back as the dark armored elf strode out of the shadows.
Hawke looked up at him through narrowed eyes.
"I thought you were helping Isabela deliver the cargo," she said, taking another swig.
"She does not require my sword to deal with that swaggering pack of thieves," he said, leaning against the railing. He frowned as he looked out over the squalid dock. "And despite what attractions it may hold for our Admiral, I will admit that Estwatch has not endeared itself overmuch to me." At Hawke's snort, he raised a eyebrow at her. "Though you seem to have succeeded in making a favorable impression on some of the younger residents."
"I was cautioning them against the evils of strong drink," Hawke said primly. She took another swallow and grimaced. "This spirit in particular may be the strongest and most evil I have ever encountered."
"It cannot possibly be worse than the swill Isabela brews in the cargo hold," he said, eyeing her bottle with skepticism.
"Care to wager on that?" she said, grinning as she held it up to him. He took it and raised it to his lips. He got down one gulp before quickly lowering it, coughing and swearing in Tevene.
"I was mistaken," he rasped, thrusting the bottle back down to her. "Those children were clearly trying to poison you." She took it back, a smug smile on her face.
He spat over the side of the ship, and then turned back to lean against the railing, his arms crossed. He looked down at her curiously.
"Why did you not tell them how it truly happened?" he asked.
Hawke's smile went tight and sharp, and she looked away. She summoned another fireball, cupping it between her hands.
"What, and undo all of Varric's hard work?" She pressed her hands together, causing the fire to jump and crackle. "That book of his almost succeeds at making me seem halfway respectable."
Fenris shot her an amused glance. "I would not go quite that far."
Hawke shrugged. "I didn't give him much to work with. Still," she said, hunching down, "it's better this way. Wouldn't want to plant any funny ideas about blood magic in their impressionable young minds." With a vicious jerk she hurled the flames high over the railing of the ship.
"I suppose it is not exactly appropriate material for children," Fenris conceded, frowning as he followed the trajectory of the fireball until it quenched itself with a sputtering hiss in the water. "Even ones that live in a cesspool such as this."
Hawke let out a choked laugh, and Fenris glanced down at her in surprise. He dropped down to sit next to her, his arm inches from touching hers.
"Hawke," he said in a lower voice. "I have missed you these past nights." He leaned in, and she twitched as she felt his lips ghost up over the curve of her neck, the unexpected contact sending a wave of heat rushing through her body.
"However," he whispered into her ear, one arm slipping around her waist, "I should warn you that I have not forgotten my responsibilities to the ship and it's crew."
Hawke's eyes went wide. Cursing, she lunged away. But she was not quick enough.
"Maker's balls, Fenris, give it a rest-" she yelped as she struggled to escape from his arms.
"Invoke the Maker's name all you like, Mage. My duty is clear."
Hawke tried to wriggle out of his grip, but he held her fast. Leaning back as far as she could she lifted one hand up in warning, fingers burning bright through the haze of polluted air.
"Fenris, I swear to Andraste, if you dump me in that muck I will actually set the ship on fire-"
He laughed, and pulled her into his lap.
"Honestly, it will be hard enough as it is to get the stink of this island out of my hair," she muttered into his shoulder, scowling as she shifted into a position that kept her clear of his armor's black spikes.
"If it is a bath you desire, I would be happy to oblige you," he said with mock seriousness. She jabbed him in the stomach with her elbow. He caught it neatly in one gloved hand and pulled her towards him, kissing the sensitive spot below her ear.
As always, his touch was enough to wipe away any thought but the closeness of him, the smell of his skin. She closed her eyes and stopped thinking, stopped breathing.
He pulled back and looked at her, his face suddenly serious. "You've been avoiding me since we left Rialto," he said quietly.
Her eyes snapped open. "Have I?" she said, more than a little dazed. She adopted a look of surprise while she waited for her head to clear. "Are you quite certain?"
"It is difficult not to notice such things on a ship."
She nodded, swallowing. "I suppose it would be." She snuck a glance up at him, tried to calm her beating heart. His gloved hand ran down the side of her cheek, the black metal cold against her skin, and she shivered. She knew he was aware of the effect he had on her. Resentment and desire simmered under her skin, and she closed her eyes again, trying to marshall her wits.
It was a tactical error. Too late she heard the clink as he undid the clasp of his glove. She started as she felt his bare thumb gently trace over the curve of her mouth. Seemingly of their own volition, her lips parted and she licked his calloused finger pad. He leaned in slowly and kissed her, his face pressed against hers, his lips warm and soft on her mouth, the bare fingers of his left hand stroking the nape of her neck.
It would have been so easy to forget all her plans, to simply yield to the moment and accept whatever he was willing to give her. Within the circle of his arms the fears that haunted her seemed flimsy, her doubts mere fabrications. And a part of her wanted so badly to believe that they could still build something bright and new between them, a future worth all of the pain and sorrow left in their wake. But even through her haze of longing she could feel his gloved right hand locked like a shackle around her wrist, the metal spikes digging into her flesh.
It was up to her to set them both free.
"Fenris," she made herself say, "there is something we need to discuss."
He pulled back reluctantly. "You have my attention," he said, his expression wry.
She withdrew, carefully extricating herself from the tangle of his arms until they were again sitting side by side.
"I've had word from Carver," she said, looking down. "Something has gone wrong with the Wardens. He is … not well." She stumbled over the words. "Aveline has taken him to a safe house in the Free Marches," she continued. "I have made arrangements to meet them there."
Fenris' eyes narrowed "And if it's a trap-"
"I don't care," she said, closing her eyes. "I must try to help him, in any way I can."
She felt him take her hand.
"I understand," he said, and she squeezed her eyes shut tighter. Why couldn't he fight her, make it easier to do what came next- "When would you have us leave?"
The longer she delayed the harder it would be.
She opened her eyes, and looked at him. "I will go alone."
His hand clenched down on hers.
"You will not."
They stared at each other for a full minute.
"I fear the wretched drink of this island has gone to your head," Fenris said finally, his face stiff. "You cannot possibly believe that I will allow you to make such a journey on your own."
"My head is perfectly clear," Hawke said. "And I will go alone whether you allow it or not."
"Do not be absurd," he spat. "What you suggest would be dangerous even were I to accompany you, but alone…" He shook his head.
"Try to understand, Fenris," Hawke said, pulling her hand away. "This is what I have to do."
"And am I to be informed what it is I have done that you should feel compelled to throw yourself upon our enemies' swords simply to escape my company?" Fenris said though clenched teeth.
Hawke winced. "You haven't done anything," she said, her voice softening. "It's just, well," she rubbed the back of her neck. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm in very high demand these days." She turned her face up wearily to the sky. "The Chantry wants me for questioning, the Templars want me six feet under, and the Rebel Mages want me for a mascot." She paused for a moment, considering. "Most likely the sort that gets stuffed, mounted, and wheeled out with a bow hung 'round it's neck at speeches and rallies," she concluded, pulling a face. "And in addition to that lot, I've managed to piss off the Carta, the Crows, and the Coterie, or at least what's left of them." She tapped her fingers against the bottle. "I rather suspect that their secret headquarters must have been located somewhere awfully close to the Kirkwall Chantry, poor blighters."
"You have always been something of a divisive figure," Fenris muttered, rubbing the spot between his eyes.
Hawke shook her head. "Not anymore," she said grimly. "Now I'm helping people all over Thedas find common ground. The trouble is that what's brought them together is the notion that my head would make a lovely ornament stuck on the business end of a pike." She slumped down, her voice going low. "I've heard my own name spat as a curse in half the ports we've docked in."
"Hawke-"
"You, on the other hand," she said, straightening up, "are a different case altogether. Your self-styled master is dead. We spent ten years slaughtering anyone else stupid enough to come looking for you. I dare say you are free to settle anywhere you like." She frowned. "I know for a fact that you've received an invitation to go and play royal guardsman for His Most Pious Highness, the Prince of Starkhaven."
"So I have," Fenris acknowledged, his brows drawing together. "I did not give the matter much thought. If you wished to visit Sebastian, I would certainly not object-"
Hawke shook her head. "I'm afraid Starkhaven has been giving mages rather too warm a welcome for my taste," she said with a humorless grin. "You do recall the circumstances that brought our dear friend Grace to Kirkwall?" Her smile sharpened. "Though truthfully, I can't find it in my heart to blame the villagers of Starkhaven in that particular case. Maker knows their intentions were good." She turned back to him "But nevertheless-"
"Hawke, listen to me," Fenris said, his voice rising.
"-you finally have a chance to lead the life you have always sought, as a free man-"
"Hawke!" Fenris shouted, reaching over to cover her mouth with his bare hand. He glared at her. "Has it not occurred to you that I am in fact living the life I have always sought? That I am here by my own choice?"
Hawke stared at him angrily. Her words came out muffled. He removed his hand.
"You can't be serious," she said, rubbing her jaw. She looked up at him. "Your choice?" she said, shaking her head in disbelief. "To fight for the mages? To leave Kirkwall in ashes? To sail away on Isabela's bloody pleasure cruise?" She gritted her teeth. "Exactly which part of that did you choose, Fenris?"
"The part that is doing her best to talk me into losing my temper," he said, gazing down at her.
She flushed, and looked away. They were both silent for several minutes.
"I'm sorry," she said at last, in a quieter voice. "It's just that I don't seem to have the foggiest idea of what I'm doing anymore. Out there," she waved out to the sea, "or even here, with you."
Fenris went still.
"For years and years I told myself lies," she continued, swallowing. "That I could fix you, heal you, keep you safe. That if I loved you enough, tried hard enough, things would get better." She looked down at her hands. "But they only got worse, didn't they?"
"Hawke," Fenris said slowly, "I know that I am not… an easy man to care for-"
"You're wrong," Hawke said fiercely, raising her head to stare at him. "You are extremely easy to care for." She reached out to touch his face. He didn't flinch, but she saw his pupils dilate as her fingers moved over the white markings. "It's all the rest of it that's difficult," she said.
Silently, he took her hand.
"I used to believe that I was helping you," she said. "Now I look back and think, what have I done but drag you into a bigger mess than the one you first came to me in?" Her voice dropped lower. "And of course, there are times when I fear that you simply replaced one mage with another-"
"Do not compare yourself to Danarius," Fenris said, his eyes going dangerously narrow. "You are nothing like him."
"I did not want to be," she said, drawing back. She fidgeted with the bottle. "After he died, I thought I could change, make myself into a different sort of person. Well." She shook her head. "Too little too late, I suppose. And now I find myself thinking, what's the point? Who am I fooling, really?" She pushed the bottle away, her face twisted up into a grimace. "A pack of blighted children, come to hear tales of a Champion who never existed." She stopped, looking up at him. "And you."
Fenris's brows drew up. "You think you are deceiving me?"
"I must be," she said, with the ghost of a smile. "You're still here, aren't you?"
"Venhedis," Fenris swore, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her. "Enough of this! I am here because I care for you, and because I would not see you come to harm! What must I do to make you believe me?"
There was a beat of silence, then he withdrew his hands and sighed, rubbing his brow. He reached for the bottle, took a long drink, and set it down squarely between them.
"You and I, we are fond of quarreling, are we not?" he said, his voice tired.
"Fenris-"
"And yet somehow I find that the prospect of spending the rest of the night attempting to shout sense into you one harsh word at a time lacks its usual appeal." He turned, and gave her a tight smile. "But I can see that you will not be deterred. So allow me to make one thing clear." His voice went hard, and he caught up her hand in his fist. "Whatever is said between us tonight, however you attempt to drive me away, this will only end in one of two ways. You will either leave with me at your side, or at your back." He stared defiantly into her eyes. "I meant what I said at the Gallows, Hawke. Nothing is going to keep me from you."
All the rest of her arguments died on her lips, and she swallowed.
There was one thing left to say. But seven years of silence had hardened around the words, ossifying them into something sharp and brittle. She had not realized how difficult it would be, to bring them up from the depths of her heart, break them open, speak them out loud.
For a second she wondered if it was too late to run.
Stalling for time, she picked up the bottle again, and drank deeply. This time when she set it down it took a moment for the world to settle around her, and the night took on a warm, unreal quality. She looked up at the sky. Behind the haze of pollution the crescent moon was faintly visible, a slim sickle of bone picked clean and white. She shivered.
"Fenris," she said. "Would you like to hear a story?"
"Not particularly," he said, staring off into the night. "But you will do what you wish, as always." He reached out for his discarded glove.
Hawke pressed her hands to her face to stop them from shaking, forced herself to repeat the words. They came out rushed and slurred. "In the year of 9:31 Dragon, The Arishok came to Kirkwall looking for a thief. By 9:34, he was tired -"
"I believe I have heard this story before," Fenris interrupted, scowling as he pulled his glove back on.
She shook her head.
"Not like this," she said.