Moments in Time – Realisations

A Sense of Belonging

"Leto," Hawke whispered, her lips lingering on fading dreams even as her eyes slowly blinked back to consciousness. She looked up at a derelict wooden ceiling wondering faintly where in the world she was when her body began to protest profusely at being awake. The sudden onslaught of aches and pains evoked an uncontrollable moan from her instantly bringing Anders to her side.

"Marian? Maker, you're awake already."

"Anders? Where, what..." Hawke began, her mind struggling to recall anything now that her essence was being assaulted by the waking world again.

"Easy, don't rush." Anders placed his hands to her shoulders and gently stopped her from attempting to sit up. She didn't fight him and let her head rest back again, overcome with sudden dizziness. "You're in my Clinic. You'd been critically injured. By rights, you shouldn't have regained consciousness yet... Do you remember anything?"

Even as her mind clutched feebly at various answers, none were forthcoming. She groaned with the effort of thinking and rested her arm over her face. "Only a big blurge," she mumbled.

Hawke knew this would not be a good enough answer, but Anders remained surprisingly quiet. She sighed with content at feeling his familiar healing magic flow through her. The soothing nature of it dulled the throbbing of her injuries and Hawke allowed herself to relax under his skilled attentiveness. Gradually her eyes slipped shut again beneath the crook of her arm.

"What were you thinking?" he asked at length, continuing to work over her. His voice, a mixture of concern and irritation, pulled her back from the edge of sleep with an incredulous tug.

"Anders," she began tiredly, seeing his stern, disapproving face. "I can barely register what I'm thinking now with any coherency. Please don't ask about past thoughts just yet."

"You nearly died," he pressed.

"But I didn't," she answered flatly, and with a groan she pushed herself up, pointedly ignoring Anders's mutterings as he relented and let her - though he continued to hover, ready to steady her if needed.

Hawke managed, rather gingerly, to edge her weight around and sit with her legs hanging off the side of the pallet bed. It was then that she noticed Juno lying unmoving on the bed opposite, his hind leg wrapped in a tight bandage.

"He'll be alright," Anders assured. "I had to put him to sleep while I reset his leg. He must have taken quite a tumble, though I can't imagine what could have knocked him off his legs. He's a sturdy one. Took both myself and Varric to turn his dead-weight over."

Hawke said nothing as she continued to stare at her faithful mabari, struggling to remember what had happened to him.

"No doubt he'll come round soon. Somehow, he'll know you're awake." Even as Anders finished speaking Juno's face twitched wakefully.

"Your skills are second to none," Hawke complimented after a moment, offering Anders a small smile before clutching her head against the returning giddiness and pounding ache inside her skull.

She felt him step closer, his hands gently guiding her toward him allowing her forehead to rest against his chest. She wanted to pull away, but lacked the strength at first. Anders's touch, though comforting, felt unwelcome to her for some reason. It was too intimate - especially when his right hand began softly massaging the back of her neck. Hawke opened her eyes, ready to lift her head, but was instantly consumed by the gory remnants of her tattered leathers. Their bloodied appearance brought about such an explosion of imagery that she physically reeled, totally overwhelmed.

The intermingled smells of sweat, tobacco, stale beer and vomit assaulting her senses upon entering the Hanged Man.

For all the griminess it was the Inn's overwhelming silence that was truly disturbing.

The unfamiliar barman drying out the inside of pint mugs with unskilled hands.

Her unheeded concern whispered to Fenris. "It's too quiet, we must be careful."

"Varania?" She heard him mutter as they approached a red headed elven woman with porcelain coloured skin and dark green eyes so strikingly similar to Fenris's there could be no doubt she was his sister.

"Varania," Hawke said abruptly, looking up at Anders startled face. "What happened to her?"

"Fenris's sister?" he enquired harshly. "I honestly don't know, Marian. He said she healed your arm, but that was all."

"She healed my..." Hawke lifted her arm into the light, forcing Anders to take an unwilling step back. At just the right angle spiralling scars became clearly visible along the length of it.

"It really happened," she whispered, quietly horrified; letting her arm fall back into her lap as she stared vacantly ahead. She could see it all now. It was as if one memory brought about the next, and then another and another, unravelling the whole terrifying circumstance before her. Hawke covered her face despondently. "I wasn't sure if I was dreaming. Oh, Maker, what have I done?"

"What do you mean?" asked Anders concerned, reaching toward her.

"Fenris, where is he?" she asked, frantically looking about the clinic as if he might be occupying another of the beds. He'd been injured hadn't he, though Maker knows how he carried me here if he were? "Fenris was here?" she asked Anders, uncertainly, but never gave him chance to reply. "Of course, he must have been to have told you about Varania. I must go to him," she declared, shuffling unsteadily off the edge of the bed and catching herself as her knees gave way.

"You must go to him?" Anders repeated in disbelief, quickly leaning forward to support her. "He's the reason you nearly died, Marian!"

"No." Hawke lifted a hand to his chest pleadingly, wishing to allay his frustration. "Anders, he's the reason I'm alive. He brought me here didn't he, to you?"

Anders turned away, scowling. Somehow her attempt to pacify him looked to have insulted him instead.

"A lot of things happened," she continued, watching him carefully. "Some things... well, they need explaining. I, I need to talk to him."

He looked down at her again, his expression notably unconvinced.

She smiled softly. "He did bring me to you."

"And destroyed half my clinic in the process," Anders snapped, gesturing to piles of broken wood that littered the floor.

Hawke knew that this was not the true reason behind his outburst. He would not have been like this had it been Varric she needed to see, of that she was certain.

"I will make sure repairs are made," she replied, heatedly, trying to pull back from his support.

"That is not for you to do," Anders retorted, not letting her move away as she wished. "Just wait a moment," he insisted impatiently when she staggered again. "You can barely stand, let alone walk anywhere."

Hawke did as she was told and leant back against the bed while Anders retrieved something off the near side table.

"Here," he said, offering her a small phial filled with dark red liquid.

"Elfroot?" she asked, eyeing it briefly.

Anders nodded, and watched as Hawke uncorked the phial and downed the contents in one. Her face screwed up at the bitter after taste but the effect of the healing potion was immediate. It flowed through her with comforting warmth, restoring a large volume of her strength which she tested immediately, standing up straight without Anders's continued support.

Rolling her neck experimentally, Hawke smiled with satisfaction when it noticeably 'cracked' back into place. "Andraste's mercy, that's so much better," she sighed, rubbing at the base of her skull.

"That alone won't do, you know that," Anders insisted. "You'll quickly feel like you've been punched in the gut again. You need bed rest. I'm serious," he added in response to the 'you worry too much' look she afforded him.

"I'll be alright," she assured, patting him on the shoulder consolingly.

"He's dangerous, Marian!"

Hawke pretended not to hear Anders's remark as she moved passed him to check on her mabari. She knew better than anyone how dangerous Fenris could be, she wasn't a fool. Though he's still no more dangerous than anyone else I seem to know, she added in afterthought, stroking Juno fondly. He whimpered plaintively at her touch till she soothed him into a calm slumber again.

"If Juno wakes up before I return," Hawke began quietly, glancing at Anders over her shoulder, "and he can walk soundly, tell him I'm alright and to follow me home."

"Please," Anders begged, and the urgency in his voice stopped Hawke in her tracks as she headed for the clinic entrance. "Please, don't go."

She looked back at him, watching the indecision of some 'inner' argument play across his features. He was at war with Justice, with himself, even now. It was curious to note how little she felt on witnessing the hurt her wanting to leave obviously caused him. A hurt he did nothing to hide.

"I'm sorry, Anders. I have to." Hawke watched as his eyes narrowed from betrayal before he simply turned his back on her, his shoulders slumping dejectedly.

"Then go," he demanded.

The unexpected sting of his parting words found Hawke reaching out to him, but Anders ignored her presence, and his obvious attempt at making her feel guilty only succeeded in serving as a reminder: pity was the only comfort she could offer him now.

He wouldn't want that, surely? she asked herself, finding she wasn't at all certain of the answer.

When Anders deigned to look back over his shoulder, Hawke was gone.

It was into the middle of a full kitchen and late dinner that Hawke emerged unexpectedly, shocking the Void out of Orana and Bodahn both as she staggered through the estate's cellar entrance to Darktown. Only Sandal remained unmoved, though he laughed animatedly at Orana's squeal as she dropped her cutlery.

"Where's Ruff?" he asked Hawke, speaking his pet name for Juno as a 'bark'.

"He'll be along," she replied with a tired grin, finding Sandal's distant, but continuous smile infectious.

"The Guard Captain has not long been gone," Bodahn informed her, recovering himself quickly, though his eyes remained worried as he took in Hawke's appearance.

"Aveline? Was she alright?"

"Yes, Messere. She was merely returning your staff. She told us you were staying at Master Anders's Clinic, though I must admit to thinking that was the case when you didn't come home yesterday."

"My staff?... Yesterday?" Hawke gasped. "Sweet, Maker, and Anders hadn't expected me to wake up just yet, either." With the memories of everything that had transpired coming back in such a rush, she hadn't even thought to ask him. Her overwhelming fear for Fenris had left it impossible to consider the present with any candour.

"Mistress?" Orana asked, looking on anxiously. Her hands were held out as she stepped forward, as if fearing Hawke was about to collapse.

"It's alright, Orana." Hawke took one of the elf's nervous hands in both of hers comfortingly. "I've just had a time of it, that's all. I'm afraid I've lost track. So today is..."

"Wednesday!" Sandal announced, jumping up with enthusiasm and clapping his hands.

"Yes," Bodahn chuckled fondly, watching as the young dwarf started throwing his boiled potatoes into the kitchen's hearth. "My boy's right."

"Boom!" shouted Sandal as one of the potatoes fizzled in the hot embers.

"Wednesday," Hawke reiterated quietly. "What time is it? Is it dark out already?" she asked, her concerns growing tenfold for how long Fenris had been left to himself.

"The ninth bell tolled some ten minutes ago or so," Bodahn answered helpfully. "It's been dark a couple of hours now."

"The ninth bell," Hawke repeated, hoping it would not be too late for her to pay Fenris a visit. "Right, I need to freshen up a bit."

"Your staff," Bodahn added as Hawke made to leave. She looked back at him expectantly. "I let the Guard Captain put it up in your room. I hope I did right? She was quite insistent."

Hawke thought on this information for a moment before realising Bodahn was beginning to think he'd done something wrong. "Of course, Bodahn, thank you," she answered, hoping it was enough to assuage his growing fears. "Did she leave any message?"

"Not with me, Messere. No."

Hawke pouted thoughtfully before shrugging, glad her staff had been returned to her at least - not that she'd given its absence much thought till that moment. Whether it was the shrug or just the motion of turning her head back and forth, Hawke wasn't sure, but she reeled suddenly, staggering back into Orana's waiting arms. The timid elf squeaked with surprise.

Bodahn jumped to his feet. "Should I have my boy run down and fetch Master Anders?"

"No!" Hawke snapped, steeling her mind quickly. Bodahn looked up at her harsh tone. "I mean, there's little point bothering him," she elaborated. "Anders has already done everything he can. Its dizziness, it'll pass. I just need to rest."

"And eat," Orana added quietly.

"Yes, and that too," Hawke agreed, rubbing at her temples as the disorientation began to ebb.

"I'll bring you up some soup in a moment then, shall I?" Bodahn asked. Hawke simply nodded as she felt Orana begin to steer her carefully out of the kitchen.

"Finish yours first, Bodahn," she managed to add over her shoulder before the kitchen door closed.

Hawke had thought to merely wash away the grime of the day, but two days grime was possibly more than her washbasin could stand. Clubbed together with Orana's deep concern at seeing her Mistress so dishevelled and exhausted, and covered in blood, it was nigh on impossible.

Her usually shy elven servant had been prompted into such a bout of fussiness that Hawke dared not stand against what Orana determinedly felt was in her Mistress's best interest. So, some delicious soup and a quick bath later, Hawke was sitting at her dressing table, tiredly rereading the note Aveline had left by her staff.

Maker, Hawke!

You really have no idea the lengths I had to go to getting this out of the Hanged Man before the Templars found it.

It's quite distinctive in appearance and I know the Knight Captain has seen you with it before.

I've just been to see you. An unscheduled inspection of the Darktown patrols – if you can believe that.

You looked peaceful at least.

What a bloody mess, literally. I assume you'll explain it all at some point.

(You'd better. You're not dying on my watch.)

Wake up soon, Hawke.

Aveline

Hawke's eyes looked up from the well-thumbed parchment to stare at her ghostly reflection in the dressing table mirror. Her thoughts drifted as Orana pulled a brush through her hair, mulling over the word 'peaceful' in Aveline's description of her sleeping - and very near death if Anders's earlier concerns were to be believed.

Hawke had no idea how severe her injuries were till she had struggled to undress and had the bare state of her fetch a gasp of horror from Orana as she'd helped Hawke into the tub. She was literally covered in bruises, all throbbing insistently, and soothing as the bath had been her limbs were seizing up fast while she sat.

I do look ill, she realised, her fingers gently probing the dark circles beneath her eyes. Like several good night's sleep are in order and still might not put me to right. Her eyes flitted toward her bed at this, and she huffed indignantly at the idea that Anders had been correct in his 'bed rest' assessment.

When Orana had finished combing the many snarls from her hair, Hawke could barely stand, but by strength of will alone she managed to hobble over to her wardrobe in search of something suitable to wear.

"Mistress?" Orana questioned, evidently distressed that Hawke's intentions were not simply to get straight into bed and rest.

"It's alright Orana. I won't be gone long," she promised, wincing as she attempted to part her many garments and couldn't. "Could you help me find something light? I don't think I could bear anything else right now." She flexed her arms uncomfortably as she spoke, running a hand over her fresh scars.

Orana came forward - despite her obvious concerns - and helped her into a long fitting, simple linen robe.

"Thank you," Hawke acknowledged gratefully, feeling the elf free her hair from the robe's high collar. "Your attentions are very much appreciated." Maker knew she'd have been there all night otherwise.

Orana nodded with a shy smile, "Anything else, Mistress?"

"I'll need a couple of my healing phials from the study chest and a poultice, please. Just put them in my satchel, I'll be taking it with me."

"As you wish, Mistress." With that, Orana left, leaving Hawke to gingerly wrap her comfortable red shawl about her aching shoulders.

The Chantry bells chimed a quarter past the tenth hour as Hawke pushed her way through Fenris's front door. Though she felt it had taken too long for her to get here, it wasn't so late. She'd been at the mansion later than this on occasion and doubted Fenris would be in bed.

His chamber door stood wide open, which though not unusual, normally Fenris would have made his presence known by now whether Hawke called out in greeting or not.

Instead, as she looked into his dimly lit room, her heart clenched to find him hunched forward on the bench in front of a dying fire looking thoroughly worn, one long leg stretched out before him and his sword arm roughly bandaged in a bloody rag.

He was evidently deep into his bottles; numerous empties littered the floor about him. Even as she watched he took a long pull on the one in his hand. She fervently hoped it was his last.

"Fenris?"

His ear twitched as he turned his head fractionally toward her. "You shouldn't be here," he said. Considering the amount of alcohol he must have consumed he spoke with impressive clarity.

"Where else should I be?" Hawke asked.

"Anywhere," he replied, still refusing to look at her.

Eventually, Fenris lifted the bottle to his lips again, but when nothing came out this time he pulled it away with a grimace. Closing one eye he looked down inside the neck to be sure the wine was gone and cursed bitterly when he realised it was. With a disgusted growl he launched the empty bottle into the fire. Glass shards exploded throughout the stone hearth making the fading embers hiss.

"Doesn't 'anywhere' include here?" Hawke asked, trying to sound reasonable. "I wanted to see if you were alright."

Fenris laughed mirthlessly, running his hands over his face; cursing mages under his breath before he winced with the pain of his injured arm. He lifted it experimentally, flexing the joint. When it obviously hurt again he began unravelling the gory bandage to check it over, pretending to ignore Hawke's presence altogether.

She swept into the room, undeterred by his abrasive pretences, she'd known worse.

"You'll need better light than this if you're going to look at that," she said, able to see that Fenris was listening intently to her, if nothing else. His body tensed in a way that was discernible.

Placing her satchel down upon the free bench, Hawke stoked the fire back to life, and on adding a dry log or two to the growing flames, bathed Fenris's room in a warm light. He had fully exposed a searing gash that cut down the length of his bicep by the time she turned to face him. It was deep, angry, and obviously needed some serious attention, but before she could speak her concerns she was completely distracted. Fenris was without his armour.

She saw it then, the strange absence of it drawing her to look. Bits and pieces of leather strapping, his spiky gauntlets, his chest plate, his gaiters and sword, they were all scattered haphazardly throughout the room. All that remained of his usual attire were the dark leather leggings and tunic he normally wore underneath, and to her great surprise the latter was left hanging open to his midriff affording her a rather distinctive view of his lean physique, something she had never been privy to before.

Though it was a very pleasant sight; a true testimony to Fenris's honed warrior skills, Hawke did not wish her eyes to wander knowing how discomforting he found such attention, but his markings made it very difficult to look away. They covered his exposed chest and stomach, wrapping their way over his body; intimately accentuating the sculpted curves of every lithe muscle before disappearing out of view behind the dark leather.

She had feared but never would have believed the extent of them, having been merely hinted at over the areas of his usually exposed skin. Hawke found her eyes pulled inextricably further and further till she forced herself to blink. Fenris was undeniably the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, but the connotations were terrifying.

How did he live through it? she wondered, her hand running over the seemingly insignificant scars Danarius had gifted her. Such a small amount, but it had been agonising. It nearly killed me!

She turned her head away feeling wretched, her mouth strangely dry. It's wrong to look on Fenris so. He's hurt and vulnerable, and deserves so much better from me.

"It's the price of freedom, Hawke," he said, unexpectedly, concentrating solely on his injury. "It's not such a high price."

"It is if your arm falls off," she replied, allowing herself to look at him again. He scoffed in response. "You should have let Anders look at it," she added, unthinking, determined to stick her foot in her mouth it seemed. She was too tired for this.

The cold glare he fixed her with barely contained the brimming anger she knew lurked just beneath the surface. The same anger that had torn out Danarius's throat or wrecked Anders's Clinic, she needed to be more careful.

"No," he growled and looked away again.

Inwardly cringing at her suggestion, Hawke sighed deeply. "May I?" she asked, lifting her palms when he glanced up at her with wild eyes. "I can help."

"No. Leave it be," he rejected forcefully, getting to his feet and stalking away from her; sending a discarded gauntlet skidding across the floor with a swift kick.

"Fenris?"

"Why are you still here?" he asked, truly agitated now, his back hunched with all the same hurt she remembered seeing before; perhaps more. He stayed looking determinedly away from her. "You wanted to see if I was alright. Well, you've seen me."

"But, Fenris..."

"What?"

His infuriated manner left her momentarily speechless, gawking at him dumbly.

"What?" he snapped again, scowling over his shoulder at her.

"You're not alright," Hawke answered weakly.

Fenris laughed again. It was a bitter, despairing sound. "What did you expect?" he asked, his voice riddled with aggression as he rounded on her. "Is the elf not living up to your expectations? Were you thinking I'd just forgive and forget?"

"Of course not," Hawke tried to answer, but Fenris continued over her, his voice growing in volume and anger.

"My own sister sold me out to become a Magister; told me I wanted these." He spread his arms, affording Hawke a prominent view of the markings adorning his body again. "I fought for them!?"

With a desolate roar he reached out for the set of shelves closest to him and ripped the whole thing from the wall, throwing it across the room in a shower of books and other belongings.

"I would have given her everything," he seethed. "I should have crushed her worthless heart."

Hawke could only watch in astonished horror as he stood breathing heavily for a second. The weight and guilt of such a declaration torturing him further as both of them knew that was exactly what he would've done had Hawke not been there in dire need of aid.

Fenris covered his face with his hands only to pull them away; looking down at his open palms repulsively. "I feel unclean, like these markings have not only marred my body but have stained my soul as well. I can't even kill him again," he added in grisly afterthought.

"Fenris."

"And you," he snarled, tossing a chair aside as he raged toward her. "You, who made me believe you understood, made me think you were my friend, made me care. You betrayed me. I should've known you're no different from the rest, mage."

"Fenris," Hawke began again, trying not to recoil as he loomed over her, reaching a hand toward him instinctively, desperate to explain, to pacify him in some way. She knew it was a terrible mistake the moment she touched him. He was too fractious, fuelled by too much drink, blinded by hurt and fury and left alone to brood for too long. It was such a stupid, stupid thing to do.

"Don't touch me!" he cried, his markings flaring to life as he wrenched his arm free of Hawke's gentle grasp. Within the same second he twisted her about; forcing her arm up her back and pushed her hard against the near wall. She didn't fight, not that she could have done even if she'd wished to. She simply took the impact as best she could before allowing the side of her head to rest against the cool stone.

Silence descended as they both just stood there: Fenris refusing to relinquish his hold on her; Hawke counting his slowing, wine scented breaths.

Finally the ominous haze of his markings faded and his muscles relaxed. Carefully, Fenris untwisted Hawke's arm and placed it up against the wall beside her. She had expected him to release her then, instead he just held her there, his grasp about her wrist firm, but no longer uncomfortable as he leaned his weight into her. A short time later he completely encircled her as his other hand took hold of the free arm she was already leaning on.

Hawke's emotions began to spiral out of control. It seemed impossible for her to register any of the hurt his blind rage should have aroused - not when his electrifying presence crowded her against the wall so possessively. She had nowhere to go and the idea excited her beyond reason.

Was this the comfort I wanted? she asked herself, unable to move or breathe.

The overwhelming awareness of Fenris hovering mere inches from her back - so much closer than he'd ever been out of choice before - left her aching longingly, and enlivened senses had her turning her head toward the feel of his warm breath desperate for further contact, however subtle. She could just make out his slightly bowed head. His eyes were closed.

"Fenris?" Hawke whispered, gathering together her chaotic mental state in the face of his undeniable troubles. "I'm so sorry," she began, feeling a pang of excitement as his grip tightened briefly before his eyes flickered open. "I shouldn't have-"

He released her as she spoke, forcing her to pause again as his lyrium lined hands slid up to cover both of hers completely, still holding her in place. Hawke's breath caught at the sudden light caress, her eyes sinking closed to savour the sensation.

"I-I shouldn't have touched you," she stammered, thinking the complete opposite at that moment.

"It doesn't excuse my actions, Hawke," Fenris replied gravely, his deep voice so close she quivered. "I know how forthright you are, I should expect no less."

"I had to do it," she confessed.

He tensed, evidently unsure to what she was referring.

"Yesterday," Hawke clarified nervously, resting her forehead to the wall, "it was all I could think of."

Her eyes closed as the memories stirred up terrifying echoes of the fear and doubt they had suffered. Her feigned choice to let Danarius believe she would hand Fenris over, and Fenris's turmoil and disbelief at Hawke betraying him not realising it was a ruse.

"If you want the elf, he's yours."

"What? Why are you doing this? I thought you, I thought we... Please, Hawke, I can't do this without you!"

"You're on your own, Fenris."

Hawke shook her head at the memory. A desperate plan formed in an instant. All to lull that bastard Magister and his small army of Tevinter soldiers into a false sense of security.

"In that moment, it looked so hopeless," she muttered. "I knew we couldn't stand against them, not all alone, not without the element of surprise at least."

"It was just too much. I couldn't, I still can't..." Fenris's fingers curled about hers tentatively.

"I didn't want to hurt you, but the idea that I might lose you," Hawke's voice trembled to silence.

"I wanted to hurt you," he admitted in a whisper. "This hate, it swallows up everything, every other thought, feeling, till I'm left with nothing; wondering if I'll ever know who I am again. I struggle to rein it in, even when I know deep down I should. That's why I didn't want you here."

"Fenris, I... I hoped beyond hope you knew me well enough to know it could never be true. I was playing them to give us time, a chance, anything. How could you honestly think I would give you up?"

Hawke turned more insistently, wanting him to see the sincerity in her eyes, but he was still looking down, his expression distant.

He shook his head. "I wasn't sure," he said. "It just felt inevitable all over again. Like all my good fortune fled at the sight of him."

"Good fortune?" Hawke asked.

Finally, Fenris lifted his gaze. "I would class knowing you and ten years of freedom as good fortune, yes."

"So you have felt free?" The idea lightened Hawke's heart considerably but Fenris didn't elaborate. Instead, he allowed her hands to slip from beneath his own whilst his dark eyes searched hers, evidently trying to understand what he could see in them. His arms continued to crowd her against the wall.

"May I?" she asked at length, her attention now trained on the exposed gash down his arm. "It needs tending and you are no healer."

His expression became troubled again as he looked over his wound and then back at Hawke. She understood his trepidation.

"No magic," she promised, softly. "Remember, I'm a herbalist, too. I have brought some bits with me in fact, just in case you needed anything. In my satchel, over there." She nodded to where she had placed it down upon the bench, torn in telling him, knowing they would have to move away from this sudden closeness in order to reach her bag.

It seemed Fenris felt the same. He altered his position, enough to stop her attempting to duck under his injured arm, and turned, stretching out as far as he could to grasp the long leather strap of Hawke's satchel. He managed it, offering it to her without a word. As she thanked him he lifted his hand to the wall again, encircling her once more.

Hawke could feel him watching her in the lingering silence. It made her blush profusely, but she ignored her discomfort, trying to remain focused on the task at hand, digging through her bag as best she could in the meagre space left between them. Eventually she managed to extract the clean square of muslin and healing salve she sought and let the bag drop to the floor at her side.

"This might sting," she warned, emptying a small amount of the salve onto the muslin and hovering with it just above Fenris's afflicted arm, waiting as she gave him a quick glance. His eyes held hers briefly before he nodded his assent.

Hawke noticed an infinitesimal flex of his arm as she began gently dabbing over the wound, but when she checked to make sure he was alright, he appeared neutral to any soreness as he stared away toward the fire.

Long minutes passed as she tended him, and though she was very aware of his eyes having returned to her, she was too much of a coward to meet them, fearing to lose herself in the strange intensity of the moment. So, to be sure of her self-control, Hawke forced herself to be meticulous, taking far longer than would have otherwise been necessary in preparing his wound for a fresh bandage.

"Am I to lose the arm after all?" Fenris asked suddenly, drawing her eyes to his in confusion. "Whenever you get that look to your brow, I know it's something serious."

"Look to my...?" Hawke replied perplexed, but noticed the corner of his mouth was lifted in a half smile. He's making fun of me. Damn him! "Well I'm glad my face amuses you," she responded testily, looking back to her task with a frustrated sigh. "Your arm will be fine. It just needed some better attention earlier. Drinking yourself into oblivion doesn't qualify as medicinal, you know?"

Fenris didn't respond, but continued studying her. It was as if he'd never really seen her clearly before and wanted to take in every detail. Hawke reached down for her bag again, replacing the salve and spent muslin and began rooting for a moment before cursing.

"I knew there was something I'd forgotten, bandages!" She swiftly scanned the room, scouting for anything half-decent that could be used instead. "I assume bloody rags are all you packed, hmm?" she asked Fenris.

He shrugged, "It doesn't matter, Hawke. It already feels better. It'll be fine."

"It needs bandaging," she insisted, suddenly looking down at her own attire and pulling her long red shawl from about her shoulders. "This should do," she added, assessing the material's width in relation to being able to wrap around Fenris's arm comfortably.

"That is your favourite," he murmured, realising what she intended.

She looked up in surprise. How does he know that? "It's old," she replied, her fingers grasping firmly at one end of the material ready to tear a strip off.

Fenris stayed her hands, his light touch a striking contradiction to his earlier roughness. "Age has little effect on favour," he said.

Hawke looked up at him again, a mix of emotions running through her at his concern, and the delightful feeling of his warm hand on hers.

"It is your favourite," he said again.

"Then let it mean something," she suggested. "That I would be willing to tear up my 'favourite' red shawl and use it for bandage, and not find you something else, some ragged bit of cloth."

Fenris released her instantly, his expression a little stunned as he rested his arm against the wall again.

With a satisfying rip, Hawke tore off a long strip and set about wrapping it around his arm, secretly marvelling at his muscular definition... before guilt gripped her to be thinking of him in such a way again.

When she had finished tying the bandage in place Fenris pulled away to test the feel of it, and Hawke took the opportunity to tear off another length from her shawl.

"So you can redress it tomorrow," she explained on seeing his confused expression. He watched as she tossed the torn fabric over to the bench and nodded his understanding. That done, Hawke adjusted the remains of her shawl about her shoulders, and just to be safe, clasped her hands firmly behind her, pinning them between her back and the wall.

She began to register her own aches returning with a vengeance as she stood there. It didn't help that she had a couple of fresh bruises to add to her already substantial collection now, though she understood it had not been a deliberate assault on Fenris's part. His beaten-in instinct to lash out was not a new one, and not one of his own making.

With a long sigh, he ran a hand over his new bandage. "Discovering my past was meant to bring a sense of belonging. I was wrong," he muttered, his eyes closing sadly. "Magic has tainted that, too. There is nothing left for me to reclaim. I am alone."

"Is that truly how you feel? Alone?" Hawke asked, wondering if this closeness between them meant anything to him.

He looked lost as he tried to form an answer. After a moment he simply shook his head.

"I'm here, Fenris," she assured him.

He rested his good arm upon the wall beside her and brought his face intimately closer.

Maker, she breathed, totally overcome by the low, simmering burn of desire she had for him being stoked to a healthy blaze. "And I would never give you up to anyone, you must know that?" she whispered, blushing as she searched his dark green eyes and fought the urge to release her hands.

"I do now," he answered softly, and Hawke quivered afresh. The proximity of his voice was truly intoxicating. "It nearly cost you your life." He looked over her face uneasily, almost questioning if she was really there, standing in front of him. "That will never happen again, not for me."

"It was my decision," Hawke replied, the whole hearted truth of her words giving her the confidence to look at him as she spoke. "I would never choose to let you die, not if I knew I could prevent it, even with my own life."

"Hawke," Fenris chastised, his voice faint.

"My decision," she reiterated, placing her hand to her chest to emphasize the point.

They stared at each other for a long time then, unmoving, thinking over what had happened and what had been declared between them. It was everything and nothing.

The night cast long shadows about them as the fire began to dim again and the darkness of the room finally forced Hawke to take in the late hour.

"I should go," she murmured.

"Stay," Fenris implored.

Such a simple invitation, but it left Hawke feeling weak as she looked back into Fenris's face and was able to see his avidity for her for the first time.

Her eyes slipped closed at the unexpected tender touch of his hand against her cheek, his thumb stroking softly over her trembling lower lip.

This is the comfort I need, she realised with a faint moan of satisfaction. It was nearly her undoing.

She pulled her face away, embarrassed by her own desires, but his hand was more demanding as he coaxed her to look at him again, his fingers gently caressing along the edge of her ear.

"Stay," he repeated simply, and in that instant Hawke knew there was nothing she wanted to do more. It would be the easiest thing in the world to stay, to let him take comfort in me, to lay with him.

Hawke snatched her face away in earnest. "I shouldn't," she responded desolately, pushing against the hand that held her cheek, her heart pounding argumentatively in her chest. I won't do that to him, not now, not after all he's been through.

Fenris let her go, instantly dropping his arm out of her way, but his head remained inclined forward with his white hair partly shielding his elven profile.

"I will not be your biggest regret, Fenris," Hawke explained, walking over to the other side of the room, finding it easier to think now there was more space between them. "I'm a mage for always. Your friend? Yes, but always a mage."

He glanced over at her, and she noted his questioning expression, no doubt wondering at her choice of words. Deliberately similar to something she had once heard him mutter under his breath a long time ago.

"And you hate mages," she added, knowingly.

It was hardly a fact he could refute and he didn't. Fenris offered no reply at all, in fact, and resumed staring at the wall intently.

After a long silence Hawke decided she should go, unable to trust herself in the current circumstance not to say or do something inherently stupid and make matters far more difficult.

"When you feel ready to sleep, I suggest drinking one of the red phials in my bag, it'll help," she promised, watching as Fenris looked down at her satchel by his feet. "You'll have a brutal hangover otherwise."

He remained silent.

"I'll leave you with that," she said, pointing to her bag. She hadn't intended to leave it, but found she didn't really trust herself to get so close to him to retrieve it. It'd be too easy to put her arms around him and undo everything she had just done to protect him. Everything her aching heart longed for her to undo, but if she claimed him now she'd never let him go.

And Fenris needs to be free, she thought passionately, needs it more than anyone else in the world.

"You'll be able to redress your arm tomorrow then," she continued, her voice thick, "or you can come see me if you like, I'll sort it for you."

Still, he said nothing.

"I'll be home," she muttered in passing, desperately hoping he would offer her a glance, a word, something in parting.

"Hawke?"

Her heart thumped awkwardly as his deep voice froze her in the doorway. She closed her eyes, rested her hand against the frame to steady herself and took a calming breath.

"I don't hate you," he assured, turning his head to look at her.

Hawke looked back, desperately torn. Was leaving the right thing to do? She didn't want to leave, but with everything that had happened, his hurt, anger, and alcohol consumption, wouldn't she just be taking advantage of him? How would that make her any better than a Magister like Danarius, putting her desire for him before his own best interest?

Not now. Not like this, she resolved.

"Good to know," Hawke replied with a faint smile, patting the door frame nervously.

Finally she gave Fenris a cursory nod of her head in goodbye and disappeared into the night.