Fic: A Little Bit of Ink
Jan. 16th, 2012 01:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
abstractconceptTitle: A Little Bit of Ink (Is Worth Blood, Sweat and Tears)
Pairings: M!Hawke/Fenris
Rating: Mature
Word Count: around 10,000
Content: Humor, romance, oral sex and rimming
Prompt: M!Hawke/Any, Love Letter, Hawke is in love, but for some reason he can't/doesn't want to speak his mind. . . Class and personality don't matter, I just want to see a Hawke of any kind putting his feelings on paper, so the full letter should be in the fill.
Summary: Hawke writes Fenris a love letter. The only problem is, Fenris can’t read.
A Little Bit of Ink
Fenris was not making progress.
Hawke wanted him to learn to read; he knew it was an invaluable skill and Fenris’ journey through life would be much easier if he could do it. And he thought Fenris wanted to learn as well—at least, sometimes he wanted to learn.
But it was difficult, and Fenris wasn’t the most patient man. Plus, he seemed to view writing as a tool of the aristocracy, of the Magisters, of the powers that be and the people who kept the others down. It did not help when Fenris learned there were not just a few, but many different languages he didn’t know. He complained bitterly that his ignorance grew more insurmountable because of his efforts rather than in spite of them.
And it really, really didn’t help that Anders kept pressing Fenris to read his manifesto.
“It’s all there,” the mage would say passionately, plunking a copy down on Hawke’s dining room table. “All there, in black and white. You can’t fail to grasp what I’m doing and why, not after you’ve seen it spelled out. They want to enslave us. I’ve given examples of it. You’d change your mind about everything if only you’d read it!”
Fenris, of course, did not want to change his mind about anything, so this logic was not persuasive. “Go away,” he’d snarl. “Your writing is dull and your conclusions are flawed and I’d much rather be reading about how to bake a quiche.”
This got Anders’ hackles up. “My conclusions are not flawed,” he insisted. “You’d know that, if you ever read the manifesto. If you ever could read the manifesto.” He huffed and crossed his arms and turned away. “I made it as clear and simple as humanly possible. I suppose there are just some things an illiterate slave will never be able to comprehend.”
At these sniffy words, Fenris stiffened. He bore down on the unsuspecting mage intending, Hawke suspected, to kindly relieve him of such troublesome things as arms and legs.
Since it was Hawke’s kitchen, he dealt with it. Just as Fenris lunged, Hawke got a hand in and pulled the elf toward him, holding him tightly. “Play nice,” he murmured. Fenris grunted at this. Only Hawke could diffuse the situation. “Anders,” he said in a warning tone.
Anders backed off. “Oh, fine. I’ll leave leave the poor, ignorant elf alone for the moment. I have plenty of other places to spread my message.” Hawke snorted. There would be many places visited in Anders’ attempt to spread his manifesto. Such places would be empty due to people hiding behind their doors or faking illness or simply running away as fast as they could. Which didn’t deter Anders at all. Either way, it was a chance to get rid of an undesirable problem for a while, so Hawke wished him well and practically launched him out the door.
“Wasn’t that a nice visit?” he said to Fenris with pasted-on cheer.
Fenris glowered. “I hate reading. I hate writing. And I’m done trying!” So saying, he snatched up a copy of Anders’ Manifesto and crunched it up into a wrinkled ball of paper, which he then flung straight into the fireplace.
“Not all words are worth hating,” Hawke tried to gently remind him. But he had to be careful. There were twisted, treacherous pathways and Maker help you if you took the wrong one. Not a time to be cheeky, really.
Fenris leaned back against the table, looking at Hawke speculatively. There were two roads ahead, and one of them was very bumpy indeed. And if Hawke was lucky, the other was even bumpier. He chose the second.
“Want to give up for tonight and go upstairs?”
The tension eased from Fenris’ shoulders. A reluctant smile came out from behind the clouds. “An acceptable alternative to the convoluted fight for literacy that I shall never win.”
“Don’t say that,” Hawke told him softly. “It’s . . . a battle not won in a day. It’s a siege. You will break through. Come, let’s go to bed.”
“I would like to feel your hand fisted in my hair as I reach climax,” Fenris admitted with a smirk.
Hawke outright grinned. “I’ll put you in my lap and let you ride my cock as hard as you like,” he said hoarsely.
Fenris leapt on the man. Between fierce kisses and buckles clinking as they were undone and soft sighs of clothing as it melted to the floor, Fenris gasped, “Deal.”
It was a good compromise.
oOoOoOo
Fenris was learning to love Hawke’s bed. Not just because of the standing offer to have sex anytime so long as Hawke was actually mostly conscious, but because of other things. Hawke had made them a special place. It was a place of no judgment, where anything might be tried—or at least discussed in good humor. It was a place where the past did not exist—no terrible memories were allowed to intrude. In turn, it was a place where the future was not discussed.
There was the bed. There were two men. There was time enough for anything, and a closed door meant ‘no’ to the outside world. It was all they needed.
They could talk if they liked. If Fenris was feeling edgy, Hawke did not press. He would merely pick up a book of poetry and read it to the elf, sitting naked in the window to give his skittish lover enough room to breathe. The nosy Baron next door complained frequently, but Hawke’s studied opinion was that the Baron would have a better view if his head wasn’t so far up his arse, and beyond that Hawke did not think on it much at all.
If they were in the mood, and they frequently were, they made love like mad things. Fenris liked this, because Hawke never, ever said, ‘Really? You want me to tie you up and spank you a bit and call you my sexy little slut? This doesn’t, say, cause a jarring cognitive disconnect?’ Because Hawke knew that Fenris did not ask for things he did not want, and Hawke never judged.
Hawke kissed his way up Fenris’ throat, licking it, nibbling it. Fenris enjoyed this in a state of passive bliss, lolling on the bed, vulnerable and so amazingly strong in his vulnerability.
Hawke moved on to the elf’s hands. Hawke sucked each finger, each sharp, unforgiving, slender bit of armor, learning to salivate at the tang of metal just as he would at the sweetness of flesh. Fenris watched with narrowed eyes, sank his fingers deeply into Hawke’s mouth, thrilling at the reddening lips that accepted him.
Hawke never removed those gloves. Sometimes Fenris did, but Hawke had not been invited to touch his fingers. And after that first night, Hawke has felt it best to wait for an invitation, just so things were very clear.
Hawke moved down the elf’s body, licking his collarbone, stopping to nip and suck at a nipple. Fenris shivered and growled his appreciation, fisting his hand in Hawke’s hair and forcing him to stay in place a while. Recently they had discussed a piercing on that round little nipple. Fenris was all over spikes and metal already, so what the hell, right? Whatever Fenris wanted. Hawke wouldn’t mind another addition. And, he suspected, with a sharp tug he might earn a delicious gasp or perhaps a mewl. It was something to think on.
And still, Hawke worked his way down, kissing and nuzzling every slowly-exposed inch of Fenris’ flesh. The lyrium markings on the elf’s abdomen were especially sensitive, and even a hot breath against them set Fenris twitching and moaning.
And then—yes, Fenris’ prick was hot and quivering against his stomach. Hawke licked it, tasted it, worked his way up and down, up and down, until Fenris’ toes curled, until Hawke could taste the bittersalt of pre-come, until Hawke nearly bruised Fenris’ hips, holding them so fiercely, as Fenris arched and cried out. They didn’t do it this way very often, in fact. Fenris preferred to have the open mouth, and how could Hawke begrudge him? Fenris was excellent, skilled and clever.
Fenris let go Hawke’s hair, falling back against the pillows, squirming, touching himself. His legs stiffened, even glowed, as he fought to fuck Hawke’s mouth harder. And then, finally, he stilled, shouted, then contort as orgasm ran him down.
Hawke was oblivious to having to clean up afterwards. He moved through the room in a daze while Fenris snored. How could you think, ‘Spit or Swallow’ when the only word ringing in your ears was, ‘Love?’ It didn’t fit in at all. But Fenris said it. He didn’t say, ‘I love you,’ or ‘I feel love,’ or any complete sentence; just the word. And if you questioned him, he became ferocious and unmanageable and Hawke had learned to let the subject drop.
But it was something, anyway. As much as one word could be. It was enough for now. And maybe someday, Fenris would let him say it back.
oOoOoOo
The next morning, Hawke navigated the kitchen, eyes bleary in the bright sunlight.
Fenris was still in bed, sleeping with a bloodymindedness usually reserved for chopping up blood mages. In his old life, Fenris had not been allowed to sleep as much as he wanted—ever. So now, when he slept, he slept as one with a vendetta. He slept like a champion.
Well, not this Champion, who was currently making Fenris breakfast, but like a champion in general.
Hawke loved doing little things like this. Fenris never stopped being surprised that someone cared about him. Hawke loved watching the look of amazement and sudden vulnerability bloom on that stern, noble face.
“Hawke!”
Hawke turned to find Varric. “What’s up?”
“I have a tiny issue,” Varric told him. “You know that place we took Bartrand? After the idol made him . . .”
“Even more insane and homicidal than usual?” Hawke supplied.
“Yeah, that,” Varric said.
“What about it?”
“Well, it seems the voices he’s been hearing told him to take a stroll.”
“What? Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Are you in?”
“Yes,” Hawke said with a sigh. “I should probably wake Fenris. It’s early, so he’ll be crabbier than usual.”
“That can happen? Without undoing the fabric of the universe or something?”
“Believe me.”
“So? Let one of the servants tell him when he wakes up.”
Hawke groaned. “I can’t. Sandal stuck something up his nose and Bodhan had to take him to Anders to get it out.”
“What? Like what, a bean?”
“How should I know? And why would you think that?” Hawke asked. “Have personal experience with this one, do you?”
“. . . Maybe once, on a dare. Oh, come on, you know there’s always a bean-sticker in the family,” Varric said.
“True. Did you know there’s a spell for that? It was one of the first Bethany ever learned. Carver was constantly sticking things up his nose.”
“Hawke, we’re getting off track. We’re not talking about your crazy brother, we’re talking about mine! And we’d best get him before he kills someone.”
Hawke got his coat. “All right. It’s always something. ‘Hawke, my mad brother is killing people again!’ ‘Hawke, a zealot is taking over the city!’ ‘Hawke, a blood mage is eating my donkey!’” he grumbled.
“If you ever get called in on a blood mage eating a donkey, you have to take me with you on that one,” Varric said.
“I still need to tell Fenris.” Hawke brightened. “I’ll leave him a note!”
“Fine.”
Hawke quickly went to the desk, then froze.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing . . .” Here was an unrivalled opportunity. Fenris would read this note, to know where Hawke had gone. Hawke would make the most of it. He couldn’t just scribble, ‘Running errands—getting milk and re-capturing Bartrand’s lunatic brother. Be back soon! XOXOXO, Hawke.’ It had to be something special. Something Fenris would remember. Something that challenged Fenris, but kept him reading.
“Look, Hawke, I know you’re a smart guy, but you don’t have a lot of formal education,” Varric said, looking over his shoulder. “If you need any help with the really hard words, like ‘out,’ or, you know, your name or something, just let me know.”
“Very funny. Just give me a minute.” Hawke had to do this right. He wanted Fenris to see reading could be enjoyable.
Twenty minutes later, Hawke was still writing feverishly, stopping only to consult slim volumes of poetry or moon phases or the correct spelling of a particular word.
Varric had given up his spluttering protests and now watched in amazement. “You’re going to an awful lot of trouble just to say you stepped out for a bit,” he noted.
“It has to be done right. It’s Fenris,” Hawke said. Varric just rolled his eyes. Finally Hawke finished his masterpiece and showed it to Varric. “What do you think?”
“Maker, Hawke, I don’t have time to read a novel! Mad dwarf on a rampage, remember?”
“Oh. Right.”
“You put in how we’re going to get Bartrand and you’ll be back, later, right? That’s all it needs.”
“Um. . .”
“Andraste on an albatross, Hawke! What have you been writing all this time?”
“I can add it,” Hawke sniffed. He jotted a quick note at the end. “There. Ready?”
“Yes!” Varric pushed Hawke to the front door. “You know, when I objected to you romancing Fenris on the grounds that he was crazy, it was out of concern that he’d eventually break your heart, not that he’d make you that way, too.”
“What can I say?” Hawke replied as they tromped out into the street. “It’s love.”
oOoOoOo
Fenris eventually woke up in after noon, scowling because it was too early. It was always too early. Fenris liked sleep. And usually Hawke would have woken him by now, bringing him coffee-flavored kisses and breakfast. Hawke loved to spoil him, and Fenris had discovered he quite liked this, as long as Hawke wasn’t doing it in public.
Fenris waited in bed for a while, but there were no voices downstairs, no clink of silverware. Finally he heaved a great sigh and got up. Hawke’s dressing gown was there, so he put it on and ventured downstairs.
Breakfast was laid out of the table, stone cold. There was a folded bit of parchment propped up next to it. He glared at it, but it ignored him with fine contempt. He moved it aside, sat down and ate the breakfast. He’d had worse, even if it wasn’t hot. Hell, there were days he’d been given nothing at all. Cold sausage was a vast improvement.
When he couldn’t put it off any longer, Fenris unfolded the note. He sighed heavily again. As he suspected, he didn’t understand much of it. There was his name, and Hawke’s name at the end, and everything in between was a bit of a mystery. Sure, he understood some of the words, but not many. Probably one in five. Not even enough to make something of an idea from context. Hawke’s usual blithering, it seemed.
Well, it probably wasn’t important anyway. Knowing Hawke, he’d been dragged off on some foolish venture and had taken pity on Fenris enough that he’d let him sleep in. Yes, surely that was it.
Fenris got up, cleaned the dishes, and went to get dressed. When he came back downstairs, Hawke still hadn’t returned, and the note was sitting on the table, looking at him accusingly with its beady little ink blots.
Fenris folded it up and tucked it away in his armor. He’d just take a walk, then. Maybe head down to the docks and see what kind of shipments had just come in, or stop by Anders’ clinic just to annoy him. Maybe he’d make plans with Varric for a game of cards later.
And, if Hawke still hadn’t returned, maybe he’d drop by the palace for a casual chat with Aveline and nonchalantly ask her to read the letter to him.
Just in case.
oOoOoOo
Hawke shivered, looking out through the bars of the dungeon. It was very cold, and their armor had been taken by the guards.
“So, how long before that elf of yours comes to our rescue?” Varric asked.
“He’s not my elf,” Hawke said primly. “He’s his own person, you know.”
Aveline shot Hawke a look. “Fine. How long before that elf of yours who’s completely his own person and not at all a slave anymore, thank you very much, reads your note?”
Hawke shrugged miserably. “He really hates reading.”
“What a damned idiot,” Isabela mumbled.
Hawke glared. “He isn’t stupid! He’s—actually quite cultured and has a lot of interesting life experience!”
“I wasn’t talking about him,” Isabela responded peevishly.
“Oh.”
“Who leaves a note for someone who’s illiterate?” Aveline demanded.
Hawke gave her a winning smile. “An optimist.”
Varric laughed, rubbing his arms to stay warm. “The glass is half full, huh? Well, luckily, the dungeon is, too. Everybody gather round, and I’ll keep you warm with my big dwarven muscles, my copious chest hair, and my smoldering tales of passion.”
They all huddled close to Varric, even though Aveline looked distinctly uncomfortable.
Isabela saw her look and gave her a wicked grin. “There are other ways of staying warm,” she said.
Aveline grunted.
“I hope the elf gets here soon, or there’s going to be bloodshed,” Varric told Hawke in an undertone.
“I’m sure he will. He’s very smart, you know.”
“At least that makes one of you.”
oOoOoOo
As the sun set, Fenris finally made his way to Aveline’s office. He tried to quash his misgivings. It could well be that Hawke’s mysterious emergency had called him out of the city, that he was traveling to Sundermount or even further, and he might not be back for days. It was a reasonable assumption. Strangely, it wasn’t a very comforting one. Perhaps Aveline could shed light on the whole thing.
He knocked on her door, but no one answered, so he opened it and glanced around. Aveline’s office was empty. There were plenty of papers scattered about—maybe one of them said where she’d gone.
Too bad he couldn’t read it if it did.
Frustrated, he went back out into the guard house and grabbed Donnic as he passed.
“Fenris! I can’t talk, I’m afraid. I’m going on duty,” Donnic said.
“Where’s Aveline?”
“Out with the Champion, of course,” Donnic said with a wry smile. “I don’t know where exactly. I’d like to talk more, but I have to go.”
“Cards later?” Fenris suggested.
“Not for a couple of nights at least, I’m afraid,” Donnic told him. “I’m going undercover. Have to help track down the leaders of this new cult,” he explained.
Fenris touched the note, but Donnic was gone before he could pull it out. “Well, don’t let me keep you,” he said glumly. He pulled the parchment out and looked at it again.
Perhaps he’d ask Varric.
But there was no one of use at the Hanged Man, only Merrill, who was giggling as she played cards with a shady-looking sailor.
“Have you seen Varric?” he asked her.
“He’s out. With Hawke,” Merrill said. “And Isabela. Having adventures and buckling swashes and so forth.”
The sailor grinned at this, stretching a scar that ran the length of his cheek. “I prefer unbuckling my swashes,” he said.
Merrill giggled. “Four serpents,” she said, putting her cards down. “How many do you have?” She looked expectantly at her opponent.
The sailor looked amazed. He set his cards down. It was something of a poor hand. Maybe he couldn’t concentrate with Merrill’s idiotic giggling going on. Fenris could relate.
“Oh, dear. Is that all your money?” Merrill said, eyes very wide. “I’m very sorry.”
“Maybe we could play for something else,” the man leered.
“Nooo, I don’t think so,” the Dalish told him with a shrug. “I just wanted the money.” She smiled brightly at him. “Goodbye.”
Fenris watched the man get up and wander away, looking dazed and disgruntled. “How much, exactly, did you win off him?”
“Isabela says it isn’t polite to say. But it’s enough to afford that Ruby of Senlive I’ve been wanting. I’m just sure it’s what the Eluvian needs.”
“Glad to hear it,” Fenris said sarcastically. He dropped onto the bench beside her as she counted her winnings. He was surprised to see how much coin she had. Perhaps he should try giggling vapidly as he played Wicked Grace. If nothing else, it might unsettle his opponents.
“Did you need something? A little blood magic, perhaps?” Merrill’s eyes twinkled.
“No.” Fenris didn’t want to do this, but at least Merrill knew how to read. She was always looking through new tomes of dark magic and history. He took a deep breath. “I need you to look at something for me,” he said, and shoved the note at her.
“Oh, I see,” she said. She unfolded the note. As she read, her cheeks pinked and her eyes widened. “Oh, my,” she said with a trill of laughter.
“What?” Fenris demanded, alarmed.
Merrill raised her hand to her mouth, still giggling. “It’s a love note,” she exclaimed. “From Hawke. It’s so romantic!”
Fenris snatched the paper back, feeling his own face heat up. “Yes—well—I—” he spluttered helplessly. “I should go,” he managed.
“I think it’s sweet!” Merrill called after him as he elbowed his way to the door. “You should buy him flowers! Or chocolates! And have his babies! Lots of babies!”
“Shut up, witch!” Fenris’s cheeks were flaming by the time he shot out the door, slammed it behind him, and leaned against it, heart hammering in his chest. Of all the embarrassing things to happen! Hawke had written him a love letter? Fenris took it out and unfolded it again, glaring at it suspiciously. Of course, he had only Merrill’s word, and Merrill knew he couldn’t read. Maybe she just said that to tease.
Why would Hawke write him a love letter—and then disappear?
oOoOoOo
By midnight Fenris was in Hawke’s library, books all over the place, candles blazing. He had spent half the night trying to decipher Hawke’s unfathomable note. It was all about oceans and stars and beauty. Why the hell was Hawke writing him about those, anyway? What did it all mean?
Every word seemed carefully chosen to leave Fenris breathless and blushing. Did Hawke really feel that way? Think that way? He could be very considerate and surprisingly gentle, but this was . . . still unexpected.
Worst of all, it didn’t seem to have anything whatever to do with wherever Hawke had disappeared to.
Unless there was some kind of code involved. Maybe when Hawke talked about a star, he meant an actual star? Following it or using it to find your position or something? Fenris let out a shaky breath. He wished he could consult Isabela; navigating by the night sky was certainly a pirate talent—but Hawke had taken her along. He pretty much always took Isabela when he had to leave Fenris. Fenris suspected Hawke was jealous, didn’t want him spending time with the pirate. Which was ridiculous; he wouldn’t look twice at Isabela so long as Hawke wanted him. But really, it was a bit flattering that Hawke wanted Fenris all for himself.
It had melted him to the core the first time some woman had flirted with Fenris, and Hawke gave him that worried look that said, “You’re mine, right?” It was a question never voiced, because magic—or rather Danarius—had destroyed whatever sweet sentiment it might have held. It was around that time that Fenris had started to reassure Hawke the best he could with a murmured, “I am yours.” It might not be enough for a man like Hawke, a man who could move a city, but maybe it could.
After all, Hawke got googly-eyed whenever he said it.
Fenris dragged his hands through his hair and went back to the note. Maybe if he could make it to the end of the letter, the very end, he might have something to be going on with. Maybe then he’d understand.
Fenris spent the rest of an increasingly frustrating night looking for it. What was the point? Had Hawke written it just to tell Fenris he loved him? And then walk out on him? Was it a cowardly goodbye, or something else completely?
Fenris called Bodahn in at one point, but the dwarf couldn’t make much more of it than Fenris had.
“That’s a love letter, right enough,” he’d said helpfully. “See, right there—love. So that’s what it is.”
Fenris snarled, eyeing the paper, trying to assert his dominance over it. Maybe he should do as a Mabari; grab it in his teeth and shake it until it rolled over. Maker, he was losing his mind. “But then what’s the rest of this rubbish? Stars and darkness and ocean tides? It’s all bloody mad, is what it is!”
“No, no,” Bodahn had assured him. “That’s how you know it’s a proper love letter, see? It’s a human thing, I think. You’ve got to have stars and light and pretty things like that, and maybe something about a suicide.”
“A suicide?” Fenris repeated in horror. He took the paper in both hands and read it frantically. “I don’t remember seeing anything remotely relating to suicide!”
“Well, nor did I, but it’s always a nice touch. Very posh, you see. ‘I cannot live without you, my one, true love, and I will meet you in our secret place, such as a garden, see? And there we will drink poison and die in each other’s arms, all proper and romantic.”
“That’s romantic?!” Fenris was quite alarmed now. “Do you know what happens to one’s bowels at the moment of death? They void, Bodahn. As in you crap yourself. I find that, personally, to be very unromantic.”
“Yes . . . well, I don’t make up the rules, sir.”
Fernis was close to hyperventilating. “Yes, fine. Er. I think I’ll just step outside for a moment. For air,” he explained.
Hawke wasn’t in the garden, thank the Maker. Though the stars were very bright. He wondered why stars burned. He wondered if Hawke really burned like the stars. He wondered a lot of silly things, and stood outside, motionless, staring at the sky, watching the plumes of his breath.
And then he went back in and took out his books again, turned up the lamps, and struggled his way through the rest of the note.
And finally found something that might be useful.
oOoOoOo
Fenris hauled Anders out of bed right around daybreak. “Get up. I need you.”
Anders groaned. “I always knew your hatred was merely a smokescreen to cover your searing lust for me,” he said with a yawn.
“What?” In shock, Fenris let go of the mage, who promptly curled back up on his cot.
“But you’re not my type, so go away.”
Fenris snorted. “You think I’m here to make a pass? You must still be dreaming.” He tugged at the mage, who whined and waved his arms in a go away motion.
“Or having a nightmare,” Anders agreed. He pulled the covers over his head.
Fenris sighed. Was he really going to do this? Show this dangerous twit this private, absurdly saccharine correspondence? But what choice did he have? He wasn’t going to be able to do this alone. “Get up,” Fenris growled. He yanked the covers off.
Anders sat up, glaring.
“Hawke’s in trouble,” Fenris growled.
The mage’s face changed instantly. “How do you know?”
“He didn’t come home last night.”
Anders smirked. “Maybe he met someone else,” he taunted.
Fenris raised his fist to strike, but then his face contorted. This was generally the point where Hawke would diffuse the situation, but Hawke was gone. And in trouble, Fenris was sure of it. And that meant Fenris had to have self-control. For Hawke. He lowered his hand.
For the first time, Anders looked serious. “You mean it. You really think something’s happened to him?”
“He left me a note,” Fenris said, as calmly as he could manage.
Anders got up and went over to a lamp and lit it. Fenris set the note on a nearby table and smoothed it out. They both leaned over it, reading.
“Look, did you come down here just to aggravate me?” Anders demanded after skimming the first few lines. “This is nothing but a stupid, soppy love letter, and it’s not even very well written.”
Despite the fact that Fenris had been thinking pretty much the same thing a few short minutes earlier, he took umbrage on Hawke’s behalf. “You’re just jealous,” he spat. “No one writes you romantic prose. Anyway, look at the end!”
Anders did, and shrugged. “It says when he expects to be back. So he’s late. So what?”
“He left that for me yesterday morning. And went somewhere with Aveline, Varric, and Isabela—and none of them have returned.”
“Huh.” Anders didn’t look convinced, but he also didn’t scoff. “Well . . . do we know where they went?”
“No.”
“Do we know anyone who does?”
“Donnic, probably, but he’s out on assignment and may be hard to track down,” Fenris said. It was so frustrating. He crossed his arms over his chest, frowning. “Look, Hawke doesn’t break his promises. Not to me. Not ever. That’s the whole point of this letter! I tell you, he’s in danger. And if you were really his friend, you’d help me find him.”
Anders heaved a sigh. “Just remember, I’m not doing it for you.”
“That’s fine.” Fenris shifted from one foot to the other. “Do you have any ideas?” he finally asked.
Anders looked smug. “You’re lucky you came to me,” he said. “You’d be completely lost otherwise.”
Fenris reminded himself that until he got Hawke back, he couldn’t punch the mage in his stupid face and yank out what very little amount of brain matter that was in his skull.
He hoped they could rescue Hawke very soon.
oOoOoOo
The look on Bethany’s face as she read the letter was priceless, even if it made Fenris feel incredibly awkward. “Oh, dear,” she said. “He really does have it bad, doesn’t he? I haven’t seen him like this since we were little and he put that worm in Miss Maple’s desk.”
“Worm?” Anders repeated.
Bethany looked up. “Well, he was only seven. He liked Miss Maple, and he liked worms. He assumed she would too.” She shook her head, smiling a little. “She really, really didn’t.”
Fenris could barely imagine Hawke as a child, but felt he was probably adorable and able to charm just about anyone apart from the apparently un-charmable Miss Maple. He cleared his throat. “Ah, do you have any idea where he might have gone?” he asked Bethany.
“Hmm? Oh, yes. He and the others went to find Varric’s brother, who seems to have escaped from the asylum. I believe they had a lead that indicated he was somewhere in the sewers beneath Darktown,” Bethany told them.
Fenris was gobsmacked. “You knew all that?” he said.
“Of course. He always visits me before he heads out on one of his adventures.”
“Then why did you insist on seeing the note?” Fenris demanded.
Bethany shrugged. “I wanted to read it,” she replied. “What can I say? I’m nosy.” She gave him an impish smile as he groaned. “If it helps, I rather wish I hadn’t read it,” Bethany told him. “That was the most overwrought tripe I’ve ever seen.”
“It was bad, wasn’t it?” Anders said. “I guess he’s not very good at prose.”
Fenris bristled. “Well, he’s very good at other things,” he snapped. “Like sex.” He felt a spark of triumph as both Bethany and Anders made faces at this. Fenris stared at Bethany. “I don’t know why he would tell you where he was going, and not me,” he added sulkily.
Bethany tilted her head. “Perhaps it’s because I don’t bite people’s heads off if they wake me before noon,” she suggested sweetly.
Fenris stared. “He told you that?”
Bethany smiled. Despite the fact that Fenris thought of the girl as innately innocent, her smile was disturbingly wicked. “Oh, he tells me everything,” she assured him.
She was even worse than Anders.
Damn mangy mages, anyway, Fenris thought. Aloud, he said, “Well, I suppose I’ve got to go get him. He’s late, and that means he’s in trouble.”
“Let me get my staff,” Bethany responded.
“You’re coming?” Fenris said, surprised.
“Of course. He’s my brother. And Anders showed me a secret way out of the gallows.”
Fenris hesitated. Hawke had taken everyone worthwhile along—he’d taken all the rogues, all the warriors. He’d only left the mages behind. Fenris glowered at them. They were the absolute dregs. And Bethany and Anders were looking at him expectantly, as though he had absolutely no choice.
He had absolutely no choice.
One way or another, he had to make certain Hakwe was safe. On top of that, he’d promised the man that he’d try harder to get on with his sister, because that was, apparently, something important to Hawke.
He couldn’t very well tell her to take a demon-infested flying leap now, could he? And Bethany was, after all, the lesser of two evils. When she wasn’t actively tweaking him, Fenris actually quite liked the woman, for whatever that was worth.
“Fine, we’ll wait while you get ready,” he said.
“Good. I’ll find my staff and ready couple of blood magic spells,” Bethany said. “I was only joking,” she added quickly at his face.
“That reminds me,” Anders put in, turning to Fenris, “I know you’d rather not, and I can’t actually blame you, but we may think about bringing Merrill. We still don’t know exactly what we’re facing, but if they were tough enough to capture Hawke, they’re dangerous adversaries.”
“I . . . can’t deny the logic of that,” Fenris grudgingly admitted.
“You know, it might be rather fun,” Bethany put in. “We rarely have a group with all the mages. It’ll be sort of like a girls’ night out.”
Fenris would have liked to taunt Anders about that, but he had more important things on his mind. Instead of tough warriors or a clever rogue at his back, Fenris’ first leadership role was over three mages—one of them an avowed blood mage, no less. And he really had enough to worry about without the idea of demons in his own ranks.
He groaned. How did he get himself into these things? It had to be love.
Only love could be this absurd.
oOoOoOo
So it was that three eager mages and one reluctant elf stormed the sewers, got attacked by some crazy dwarf with an ax, and laid waste to pretty much everything in their path.
There seemed to be dwarves everywhere. Twitchy dwarves, muttering dwarves, dwarves with entirely too many weapons and not enough mental health. Something was definitely wrong with them.
“Hold your fire!” Fenris yelled, but no one seemed to hear him.
Bethany froze their enemies in place, then Merrill blasted them with fire, then Bethany cast a spell that lifted the survivors into the air and slammed them back down on the ground.
“I SAID HOLD YOUR FIRE, FOR ANDRASTE’S SAKE!” Fenris roared.
Anders, standing beside Fenris, cast a healing spell on him.
Taken by surprise, Fenris flinched, then lashed out. He stopped himself just before he could manage to grab Anders by the throat and crush it. “Stop that! What the hell’s wrong with you?” the elf demanded. “Don’t cast spells on me without reason!”
“I was just healing you.”
“I don’t need healing!” Fenris snapped.
“Oh. You looked a bit peaky.”
“None of us need healing! They didn’t get a chance to touch us before the rest of you ignored my direct orders and wiped the floor with them.” Fenris glowered at his team, who looked less than remorseful. Bethany and Merrill even pressed the tips of their index fingers together and pretended to make a sizzling noise. “Oh, you’re proud of this, are you?” Fenris asked. “Let me put it this way; what if you just killed every single person who knows where Hawke is being kept?”
“Oh, don’t be silly. I expect Hawke knows where Hawke is being kept,” Merrill replied, using impeccable logic as always.
Before Fenris could explode, Anders put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Fenris is right. We should be more careful. Hawke’s life is at stake,” he said.
Fenris reflected bitterly that the only thing that could have made this whole thing worse was needing Anders’ support. “Look, we have a long trudge to the other end of the sewers, and we’re likely going to have to fight the whole way. And yes, of course I want you to fight hard. But we also need to question them. If you’ll follow my plan and do as I say, I promise I’ll get Hawke back,” Fenris told them. “Deal?”
Bethany looked ambivalent, and Merrill pouted. “Do you mean I can’t set fire to any of them anymore?”
“No. You may not,” Fenris replied through gritted teeth. Another group of dwarves spilled in from a door on the opposite side of the room.
One particularly stocky dwarf seemed to be the leader. His eyes were wild. “They don’t belong here!” he cried. “Kill them all!”
Fenris gave this a moment of consideration. “Fine,” he said. “Roast the flanks, but leave the chatty one alive,” he ordered.
“What are you going to do with that one?” Anders asked.
Fenris flexed his fingers, feeling the pain rip through his body, his glow casting a soft light on his allies. “I’m going to deal with that one myself,” he replied.
oOoOoOo
“I spy, with my little eye, something starting with . . . n,” Isabela said.
Aveline saw where she was looking, glanced down, gasped, and crossed her arms over her chest. Her undershirt was a bit thin, but neither Hawke nor Varric ever would have been brave enough to bring it up. She glowered at Isabela. “You little—”
“Enough!” Hawke commanded. His leadership had been tested to the absolute limits. It had withstood dragons and unpopular decisions and betrayal, but trying to sort out having these two women stuck in a small space together for days . . . well, it might not survive this. Particularly when Isabela seemed absolutely bent on pulling Aveline’s pigtails, as it were. “Let’s just change the subject.” Hawke could hear the weariness in his own voice.
“Maybe if I remove my shirt, it will improve matters,” Isabela mused.
“Go ahead,” Varric said. “We could play strip-diamondback. With imaginary cards,” he suggested.
“No, really,” Isabela insisted. “I’m being serious. I think I could help things along.”
“How in Andraste’s name would that improve anything?” Avaline demanded.
“I meant, maybe if I remove my shirt, it’ll distract the guard when he comes back. Then one of you can take him by surprise and grab the keys.”
Aveline looked troubled. She peeked out of the cell, but there wasn’t a soul in sight. The passageways were all dark. “I don’t think these dwarves will be particularly interested in your breasts,” she said. “There seems to be something . . . wrong with them.”
“There would have to be if they didn’t want to see my breasts,” Isabela joked.
Aveline arched a brow. “If they’ve ever been in the Hanged Man after a new shipment of whiskey they’ve probably seen them already.”
“I’ve used this plan in a dozen other situations and it’s always worked,” Isabela told them.
“I don’t know,” Hawke said doubtfully. “Do you really think you can lure him up to the bars?”
“And will anyone be quick enough to grab him if you do?” Varric added. “We’re all cold and hungry and sluggish. I’m not my usual manly, fast self.”
“I am,” Isabela assured him. “Er, that is, not manly, but I am fast.”
“I’ll say,” Aveline muttered.
“Do you have a better idea?” Isabela said, exasperated.
She had a point. Hawke knew he’d left Fenris nothing to go on. Bethany wouldn’t be expecting Hawke again before the end of the week—she might not even know he was missing yet. Merrill had some idea they’d all gone off together, but not where. The chance of rescue was pitifully slim. And one more day in the cramped cell and Isabela and Aveline might really come to blows.
They’d just have to rescue themselves.
“I think it’s a fantastic plan,” Hawke said. “It sounds exciting. I’m behind it one hundred percent!”
“Hawke, you are badly overdoing the enthusiastic boss thing,” Varric pointed out.
Hawke sighed. “Well, I’m doing my best, but really, I’m tired,” he replied, leaning back against the cold dungeon wall. “All right. So we wait for one of the dwarves to show up, and Isabela can flash them.”
Varric grinned. “Might stop her from flashing Aveline, anyway,” he muttered.
Hawke sighed again. “One can only hope.”
oOoOoOo
“How many are there?”
Fenris carefully looked around the corner. There was a large room with vaulted ceilings and an enormous statue at the front. There were also lots of torches and he could see well. The dwarves had excavated an area and put up the statue, and they seemed to be worshipping it—or worshiping something else. Because standing in front of the statue was another dwarf, one with blond hair and piercing blue eyes.
Bartrand. Holding court. Telling the crazies how to be crazier.
Fenris cursed silently, and pulled back. “At least twenty.”
“I’m running a bit low on energy,” Bethany said, worried. “I don’t think I can handle twenty. We need rest.”
“I don’t think we can risk staying in one place,” Anders put in. “Not with that big fellow we saw earlier prowling the place.”
“He wasn’t even a dwarf,” Merrill said, sounding indignant.
“Yes, how dare they?” Anders said dryly. “It’s so rude of insane kidnappers to employ someone like that.”
“I think it may have been part kossith,” Fenris said tensely.
“That doesn’t make sense,” Bethany protested. “Why would a dwarf and a kossith . . . how would they?” she added.
“I don’t know,” Fenris answered. “But I could swear I saw horns.”
The group looked at each other silently. Bethany had taken an axe to the shoulder and no one had enough energy left to heal it. Luckily, it was a shallow cut, a thin line of blood where the sharp metal grazed her as she dodged the blow.
“This is my fault,” Fenris sighed. The mages looked at him, startled. “I’m not used to supplying a company made entirely of mages. I ought to have brought more lyrium potions. We still have plenty of stamina potions left,” he added bitterly. And without their power, the mages had become more of a liability than an asset. Only Anders was skilled enough with his staff to make a passable fighter, but the women were thankfully very fast on their feet and they’d mostly avoided injury so far.
“So what do we do?” Merrill asked.
Fenris looked from the open cavern to the dark side passages. The kossith dwarf had disappeared down one of them. And they couldn’t know whether there were others awaiting them in the darkness.
“I’d rather wait as long as we can, then face them in the main chamber,” Bethany opined.
“You wouldn’t be fighting at full strength and you know it,” Fenris argued. “It’s certain death.”
Bethany looked uneasy. “But at least it would be a well-lit death,” she said quietly. “Fenris, I don’t want to go down one of those dark, winding passages where we won’t even to be able to see them coming until they’re on top of us.”
“The narrowness of the passages is to our advantage,” Fenris told her. “This way they’ll come one at a time. They won’t have a choice.” Bethany still didn’t look happy. He reached out and rather awkwardly squeezed her hand. “I’ll go first. And I promise I’ll get you all through this.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded.
They made their way to the entrance of a passage. Anders marked it in case they somehow circled around and got lost.
“Good thinking,” Fenris muttered. “Stay at the back,” he ordered. “You’re dangerous with that staff and I think you’ll be better protection than Merrill.” Anders raised his eyebrows and Fenris scowled. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
They fell into line, Merrill muttering complaints. “If you would just let me do a bit of blood magic, I could—”
“No blood magic,” the group said as one.
In the darkness, Fenris felt Bethany grab his arm. “What is it?” he hissed.
“I—thought I saw something,” she whispered.
They stood very still. Fenris looked all over, but couldn’t see anything but darkness. “Where?”
“Ahead.”
“Hmm.”
“Probably nothing,” Anders whispered.
Fenris held up a hand. Another minute of waiting wouldn’t hurt—it would help them all regain energy. Willingly going to a potential threat, however, would do them no good at all.
A shadow moved. Bethany was right. Now that their eyes adjusted to the blackness, Fenris made out a large figure lumbering across the passage ahead of them. And it really did have horns.
“What should we do?” Bethany barely seemed to breathe the words.
If there was a wasp in the room, Fenris preferred to know where. He motioned the group to stick close. “We follow it,” he answered.
oOoOoOo
“Someone’s coming!” Isabela hissed. “Get ready!”
Aveline and Hawke hid in the darkness on either side of the bars. If the guard approached from one side or the other, they’d be ready to reach through the bars and grab him. Varric crouched on the floor. He’d fashioned a sort of lasso out of Isabela’s shirt—as he’d put it, she didn’t really need it for this, did she? He was ready to catch an unwary foot in the loop if possible.
All in all, Hawke thought they were prepared for anything.
. . . . maybe not anything, as it turned out.
He heard a squeak and a crash, and several pairs of feet coming closer. The outer door opened.
“Isabela?” he heard Bethany gasp.
Hawke popped up. “Bethany? Anders and Merrill and . . . Fenris?” Hawke shuffled his feet. “Oh, hey, rescue. That’s great isn’t it? Isn’t that great, everyone?” He wilted a little under Fenris’ absolute glower.
“Is this what you imbeciles were up to while the four of us—obviously the only intelligent, competent people you know—were working ourselves to the bone, fighting mad dwarves, disarming traps, risking our lives to rescue you?” Fenris demanded.
Hawke rubbed the back of his neck. “It was all part of a daring escape plan,” he protested.
“Was it? Was it really? Getting naked with Isabela? Is that why you always leave me behind whenever you take her along on one of your infamous ‘adventures?’” Fenris asked, hands planted on his hips.
“What? No! Why would you think that?” Hawke said.
“What else am I supposed to think? I wake up to find you gone, you don’t come home for days, you’ve never had any difficulty getting away from various captors before, and now when I finally track you down you’re sitting about in your smallclothes with a shirtless pirate!”
“No, no, I can explain,” Isabela put in, taking what was left of her shirt back from Varric. “I wasn’t taking my shirt of for him, I was taking it off for you.”
“That isn’t going to work on me,” Fenris replied dryly.
“No, I just meant—for anyone who walked in the door,” Isabela insisted.
“Just like whisky shipment night at the Hanged Man,” Aveline said cheerfully.
Isabela gave her a dirty look. “It was supposed to be a distraction. And then the others would grab the guard and take his keys.”
“I don’t think that actually would have worked,” Anders said. “These dwarves have been ingesting some form of lyrium like it’s recreational. They believe it allows them to talk to some god or other. When they heard Bartrand had possessed the idol and began hearing voices, they became convinced he had some sort of direct line to whatever mad god they believe in. So they took him—we think they made him a sort of high priest or something. They’re down here smuggling in as much lyrium as they can, and making themselves more insane every day.”
“How did you learn all that?” Hawke said, staring.
“Oh, Fenris plotted and managed to capture a few of them. They were pretty incoherent, but we think we got the general gist in the end. My point is, I don’t think they’re very interested in boobies at the moment,” Anders added.
“Well, it worked, anyway,” Isabela said. The shirt didn’t exactly work, but Bethany held up their armour, which they’d apparently found before they located the captives.
“What do you mean, ‘it worked?’” Aveline said incredulously. “It didn’t work at all!”
“I took off my shirt and then we got rescued. Cause and effect, Aveline. Cause and effect,” the pirate replied breezily.
The guardswoman lunged at her, and Hawke just managed to get between them in time. “All right, that’s enough. Look, Aveline. I have your armor. Don’t you want your armor?”
Aveline scowled at him. “What about it?” she grumbled.
“Well, it’s . . . shiny,” Hawke said hopefully. But despite Aveline’s protestations, she put the armor on and stopped trying to throttle Isabela. Fenris, on the other hand, was still looking put out. “Look, Fenris, you know perfectly well I’d never cheat on you. Didn’t you read my letter? Every word I wrote was true.”
“Well . . .”
“Oh, yes, the letter,” Isabela said with great relish. “I want to read this famous love letter of yours.”
“No.” Fenris looked away, haughty.
“It’s a good thing I’m so skilled at picking pockets,” Isabela replied absently, unfolding the thing.
Fenris was outraged. “When did you—”
“While you were busy glaring and Hawke—and my breasts,” she said, scanning the page. “Oh, Hawke. This is adorable. It’s plucked-wings-of-your-lips level of prose.”
“Shut up,” Hawke said, nettled.
“But it’s so sweet. Aveline, listen to this:
Dear Fenris,
Because this is likely the only correspondence I’ll write that you will actually read, I intend to use it to my advantage. I’m not sure the written word can adequately express how I feel, but I will try.
I am utterly and wholly devoted to you. I love your fierce heart, your sulks and your moods, your strength, your loyalty, your anger, your arrogance and your insecurities. And as much as I love everything you are, I also love everything I become because of you.
You are my stars, my sun and my moon.
Whenever I look at you, there is a sunrise in my heart, chasing all darkness and shadow before it until I am renewed, born again like a new day. You are the creation of a glorious dawn, full of possibility and promise.
You burn within me like a star glittering on high, beckoning me to reach higher and dream larger. You have no idea how many of my accomplishments are due entirely to wanting to impress you. You lift my aspirations to their zenith.
You challenge me. You are as mysterious as the moon, cool and distant and ever changing, turning away from me and hiding yourself in shadow, then coming around, baring everything, at once vulnerable and yet proud and almost regal in your vulnerability. And like the moon, I feel your pull; it’s in my very blood.
And just as the tides are drawn inexorably to the shore, I will return to you.
Probably around two-ish.
Love, Hawke.
Isn’t that the sappiest thing you’ve ever read?” Isabela finished.
Aveline’s face was pained. “It was rather dreadful,” she said.
“I’ve read worse,” Fenris put in.
“You don’t read at all,” Aveline countered. “What could you have possibly read that’s any worse?”
“Anders’ manifesto,” Fenris said immediately.
“Can’t argue with that,” Isabela said.
“It’s true,” Aveline said.
“At least Hawke’s writing isn’t dull,” Merrill put in.
“Hey!” Anders protested. “I’m standing right here, you know.”
“Maybe you could liven it up,” Varric suggested with a shrug. “You could, I don’t know, put in a few explosions.”
Anders looked thoughtful. “That might help. Maybe I will.”
Hawke put an arm around Fenris. If the elf was defending him against charges of putrid prose, he couldn’t be too angry. “Well, now that my heroic lover and his crackerjack team have rescued us and returned our armor, what say we go kick some ass, get Bartrand and return him to the asylum?”
Everyone agreed to this and made their way out of the cell.
Hawke held Fenris back just for a moment as the others left. “So . . . was it really that bad?”
Fenris looked up at him, tilting his head in consideration. “I’m no paragon of good taste, I’ll admit,” he said slowly. Then he smiled. “But either way I . . . thought it beautiful.”
Hawke beamed.
Fenris pulled him down for a kiss, and then they left the dungeons, arm in arm. Anders had regained some power and the passages ahead were lit with a soft glow.
“So, three mages, eh? That must have been a nightmare,” Hawke remarked.
Fenris shrugged nonchalantly. “It wasn’t so bad.”
Hawke looked at the elf in shock. “Really?”
Fenris smiled a little. “I think they’re trainable,” he replied.
oOoOoOo
“What happened next?” Hawke asked Fenris, spellbound.
“I tried Varric’s suggestion; I crept up behind the creature and tried to pick his pocket—but the keyring was chained to something. And reaching into his pocket alerted him of our presence.”
Hawke stretched, watching Fenris get ready for bed. “Shit.”
“Yes. So he turned around, got me by the throat and shook me like a rag doll,” Fenris said, sitting on the bed.
“What did you do?”
“Dangled there and tried not to die,” Fenris quipped. “Then the others started beating him.”
“You’re joking.”
Fenris shook his head. “If it hadn’t been such a perilous situation it would have been amusing; three powerful mages reduced to whacking the enemy with large sticks. Really, Hawke, you lead me to strange places. But they distracted him, and then I ran him through.”
“You know, if you go around saving my life all the time, I’m going to get the mistaken impression that you like me or something,” Hawke teased.
“Nonsense,” Fenris replied airily. “I only keep you around out of habit. And because I need someone to pay off my gambling debts.”
Hawke laughed.
Fenris began to undress. Hawke held a hand up. “What’s wrong?”
Hawke went to the window. The salacious Baron was on his balcony with a spyglass. Hawke opened his own window a crack. “SHOWS ARE TWENTY SOVERIEGNS PER TICKET!” he shouted. He slammed the window shut and drew the curtains.
Fenris smiled crookedly, undressing. “I was hoping we could look out at the stars. Those stars that burn . . . that glitter on high?”
Hawke reddened. “Oh, yes. Um. They were mostly metaphorical,” he pointed out.
Fenris laid back on the bed. He looked glorious to Hawke, his naked body hoary even without the starlight. Fenris’ eyes twinkled. “No stars tonight?”
“I could have a skylight put in,” Hawke offered breathlessly. “I’ll cover you in starlight, I promise.”
“That does sound fun,” Fenris admitted. “But right now, I’d prefer to be covered in you.”
Hawke didn’t need further invitation. He slid onto the bed and turned Fenris’ face to kiss him roughly. Fenris kissed as hard as he did anything else, tangling his long fingers in Hawke’s hair.
Fenris chuckled huskily, indulging Hawke as the man kissed Fenris’ throat. “Less gentle,” he murmured.
“Hmm?” Hawke said, lips now pressed softly to Fenris’ temple.
“Don’t be gentle,” Fenris whispered.
Hawke pulled back to stare into Fenris’ eyes in the darkness. “What?”
“I don’t want a poem tonight,” Fenris growled in his most bedroomy voice. “Just for tonight, I want you to show me—with your hands and your mouth and your body.”
Breathless, Hawke nodded hard. He pinned Fenris down on the bed, nipping his shoulder, ghosting his breath over the elf’s stiffening nipples, dancing his tongue over the tender place where his thigh met his abdomen. “More,” Fenris snarled.
With a smile all edges and appetite, Hawke threw him onto his stomach. “Like this?” he asked, pushing Fenris’ legs apart.
“Just like that,” Fenris gasped as Hawke’s tongue breached him, slick and hot and entirely too intimate. Fenris groaned, but Hawke planted one large hand on his hip, holding him down, licking him ferociously. It wasn’t until Fenris was rocking against the bed, so tightly wound even his toes were clenched, that Hawke finally had mercy.
He lifted the elf’s hips and thrust his prick deep into Fenris’ eager body.
Fenris cried out.
Hawke rode him harder, harder, the bed bouncing, Fenris’ pink ass high in the air and begging for more. Fenris tried to muffle his hoarse shouts of pleasure in a pillow until—Hawke reached around, taking him in hand.
Fenris’ gave an elegant little shudder, and the silvery scrawl on his body seemed to move minutely, like gliding snakes, as he flexed and relaxed, his climax spent.
Several moments later, Hawke followed him into bliss, then collapsed atop him. Fenris grunted and struggled and pushed at Hawke until they were in a more comfortable position.
Resting his head on Fenris’ chest, Hawke could almost hear him purring with contentment. “I’m could sleep for a week,” he said with a yawn.
Fenris sighed. “I can’t sleep. I’m all keyed up. Perhaps I ought to go downstairs and get some warm milk.”
“I’m afraid I’m out,” Hawke answered.
“Perhaps I’ll do the shopping tomorrow and pick some up,” Fenris remarked.
“And eggs. We need eggs.”
Fenris smiled. “I’ll make a list,” he said.
oOoOoOo
The next morning Hawke rolled over to find Fenris’ side of the bed empty. He skimmed a hand over the bedspread, feeling his stomach clench. He couldn’t help but get anxious whenever Fenris got up early—for one thing, it was out of character for him, but for another, Hawke always flashed back to that painful night Fenris had left and hadn’t returned to his bed again for three years.
There was a bit of folded parchment on the bedside table. With Hawke’s name on it. The writing was a bit lopsided, but legible enough. Hawke read it and got up, grinning. He tossed on some clothes and hurried downstairs to throw together some breakfast, suddenly starving.
Bodahn was in the kitchen making him coffee. “Can I say how happy I am to see you again, sir? We were very worried.”
“Thank you, Bodahn, but I can assure you that there was nothing to worry about. Fenris never would have let anything happen to me,” Hawke assured him, taking the steaming mug as it was offered. He inhaled happily.
“Speaking of Mr. Fenris, he stepped out,” Bodahn informed him. “He was—”
“Oh, I know all about it,” Hawke interrupted.
“You do?” Bodahn looked at him for a moment. “And does this have to do with that, er, very wide smile on your face this morning, sir? Because it is a lovely morning, it really is, but generally when you’re smiling that way, it’s because of something Mr. Fenris has done.”
“That’s true,” Hawke said. “And it is.” He considered showing Bodahn the note, but decided against it.
“Well, I’ll just finish up in here, sir,” the servant told him.
He couldn’t help but read the note one last time. The letters were a bit wobbly and done with an uncertain hand, and the note was very short, but Hawke doubted anything in the world could make him happier. They simply read;
I love you.
Hawke walked on air the rest of the day.
Pairings: M!Hawke/Fenris
Rating: Mature
Word Count: around 10,000
Content: Humor, romance, oral sex and rimming
Prompt: M!Hawke/Any, Love Letter, Hawke is in love, but for some reason he can't/doesn't want to speak his mind. . . Class and personality don't matter, I just want to see a Hawke of any kind putting his feelings on paper, so the full letter should be in the fill.
Summary: Hawke writes Fenris a love letter. The only problem is, Fenris can’t read.
Fenris was not making progress.
Hawke wanted him to learn to read; he knew it was an invaluable skill and Fenris’ journey through life would be much easier if he could do it. And he thought Fenris wanted to learn as well—at least, sometimes he wanted to learn.
But it was difficult, and Fenris wasn’t the most patient man. Plus, he seemed to view writing as a tool of the aristocracy, of the Magisters, of the powers that be and the people who kept the others down. It did not help when Fenris learned there were not just a few, but many different languages he didn’t know. He complained bitterly that his ignorance grew more insurmountable because of his efforts rather than in spite of them.
And it really, really didn’t help that Anders kept pressing Fenris to read his manifesto.
“It’s all there,” the mage would say passionately, plunking a copy down on Hawke’s dining room table. “All there, in black and white. You can’t fail to grasp what I’m doing and why, not after you’ve seen it spelled out. They want to enslave us. I’ve given examples of it. You’d change your mind about everything if only you’d read it!”
Fenris, of course, did not want to change his mind about anything, so this logic was not persuasive. “Go away,” he’d snarl. “Your writing is dull and your conclusions are flawed and I’d much rather be reading about how to bake a quiche.”
This got Anders’ hackles up. “My conclusions are not flawed,” he insisted. “You’d know that, if you ever read the manifesto. If you ever could read the manifesto.” He huffed and crossed his arms and turned away. “I made it as clear and simple as humanly possible. I suppose there are just some things an illiterate slave will never be able to comprehend.”
At these sniffy words, Fenris stiffened. He bore down on the unsuspecting mage intending, Hawke suspected, to kindly relieve him of such troublesome things as arms and legs.
Since it was Hawke’s kitchen, he dealt with it. Just as Fenris lunged, Hawke got a hand in and pulled the elf toward him, holding him tightly. “Play nice,” he murmured. Fenris grunted at this. Only Hawke could diffuse the situation. “Anders,” he said in a warning tone.
Anders backed off. “Oh, fine. I’ll leave leave the poor, ignorant elf alone for the moment. I have plenty of other places to spread my message.” Hawke snorted. There would be many places visited in Anders’ attempt to spread his manifesto. Such places would be empty due to people hiding behind their doors or faking illness or simply running away as fast as they could. Which didn’t deter Anders at all. Either way, it was a chance to get rid of an undesirable problem for a while, so Hawke wished him well and practically launched him out the door.
“Wasn’t that a nice visit?” he said to Fenris with pasted-on cheer.
Fenris glowered. “I hate reading. I hate writing. And I’m done trying!” So saying, he snatched up a copy of Anders’ Manifesto and crunched it up into a wrinkled ball of paper, which he then flung straight into the fireplace.
“Not all words are worth hating,” Hawke tried to gently remind him. But he had to be careful. There were twisted, treacherous pathways and Maker help you if you took the wrong one. Not a time to be cheeky, really.
Fenris leaned back against the table, looking at Hawke speculatively. There were two roads ahead, and one of them was very bumpy indeed. And if Hawke was lucky, the other was even bumpier. He chose the second.
“Want to give up for tonight and go upstairs?”
The tension eased from Fenris’ shoulders. A reluctant smile came out from behind the clouds. “An acceptable alternative to the convoluted fight for literacy that I shall never win.”
“Don’t say that,” Hawke told him softly. “It’s . . . a battle not won in a day. It’s a siege. You will break through. Come, let’s go to bed.”
“I would like to feel your hand fisted in my hair as I reach climax,” Fenris admitted with a smirk.
Hawke outright grinned. “I’ll put you in my lap and let you ride my cock as hard as you like,” he said hoarsely.
Fenris leapt on the man. Between fierce kisses and buckles clinking as they were undone and soft sighs of clothing as it melted to the floor, Fenris gasped, “Deal.”
It was a good compromise.
Fenris was learning to love Hawke’s bed. Not just because of the standing offer to have sex anytime so long as Hawke was actually mostly conscious, but because of other things. Hawke had made them a special place. It was a place of no judgment, where anything might be tried—or at least discussed in good humor. It was a place where the past did not exist—no terrible memories were allowed to intrude. In turn, it was a place where the future was not discussed.
There was the bed. There were two men. There was time enough for anything, and a closed door meant ‘no’ to the outside world. It was all they needed.
They could talk if they liked. If Fenris was feeling edgy, Hawke did not press. He would merely pick up a book of poetry and read it to the elf, sitting naked in the window to give his skittish lover enough room to breathe. The nosy Baron next door complained frequently, but Hawke’s studied opinion was that the Baron would have a better view if his head wasn’t so far up his arse, and beyond that Hawke did not think on it much at all.
If they were in the mood, and they frequently were, they made love like mad things. Fenris liked this, because Hawke never, ever said, ‘Really? You want me to tie you up and spank you a bit and call you my sexy little slut? This doesn’t, say, cause a jarring cognitive disconnect?’ Because Hawke knew that Fenris did not ask for things he did not want, and Hawke never judged.
Hawke kissed his way up Fenris’ throat, licking it, nibbling it. Fenris enjoyed this in a state of passive bliss, lolling on the bed, vulnerable and so amazingly strong in his vulnerability.
Hawke moved on to the elf’s hands. Hawke sucked each finger, each sharp, unforgiving, slender bit of armor, learning to salivate at the tang of metal just as he would at the sweetness of flesh. Fenris watched with narrowed eyes, sank his fingers deeply into Hawke’s mouth, thrilling at the reddening lips that accepted him.
Hawke never removed those gloves. Sometimes Fenris did, but Hawke had not been invited to touch his fingers. And after that first night, Hawke has felt it best to wait for an invitation, just so things were very clear.
Hawke moved down the elf’s body, licking his collarbone, stopping to nip and suck at a nipple. Fenris shivered and growled his appreciation, fisting his hand in Hawke’s hair and forcing him to stay in place a while. Recently they had discussed a piercing on that round little nipple. Fenris was all over spikes and metal already, so what the hell, right? Whatever Fenris wanted. Hawke wouldn’t mind another addition. And, he suspected, with a sharp tug he might earn a delicious gasp or perhaps a mewl. It was something to think on.
And still, Hawke worked his way down, kissing and nuzzling every slowly-exposed inch of Fenris’ flesh. The lyrium markings on the elf’s abdomen were especially sensitive, and even a hot breath against them set Fenris twitching and moaning.
And then—yes, Fenris’ prick was hot and quivering against his stomach. Hawke licked it, tasted it, worked his way up and down, up and down, until Fenris’ toes curled, until Hawke could taste the bittersalt of pre-come, until Hawke nearly bruised Fenris’ hips, holding them so fiercely, as Fenris arched and cried out. They didn’t do it this way very often, in fact. Fenris preferred to have the open mouth, and how could Hawke begrudge him? Fenris was excellent, skilled and clever.
Fenris let go Hawke’s hair, falling back against the pillows, squirming, touching himself. His legs stiffened, even glowed, as he fought to fuck Hawke’s mouth harder. And then, finally, he stilled, shouted, then contort as orgasm ran him down.
Hawke was oblivious to having to clean up afterwards. He moved through the room in a daze while Fenris snored. How could you think, ‘Spit or Swallow’ when the only word ringing in your ears was, ‘Love?’ It didn’t fit in at all. But Fenris said it. He didn’t say, ‘I love you,’ or ‘I feel love,’ or any complete sentence; just the word. And if you questioned him, he became ferocious and unmanageable and Hawke had learned to let the subject drop.
But it was something, anyway. As much as one word could be. It was enough for now. And maybe someday, Fenris would let him say it back.
The next morning, Hawke navigated the kitchen, eyes bleary in the bright sunlight.
Fenris was still in bed, sleeping with a bloodymindedness usually reserved for chopping up blood mages. In his old life, Fenris had not been allowed to sleep as much as he wanted—ever. So now, when he slept, he slept as one with a vendetta. He slept like a champion.
Well, not this Champion, who was currently making Fenris breakfast, but like a champion in general.
Hawke loved doing little things like this. Fenris never stopped being surprised that someone cared about him. Hawke loved watching the look of amazement and sudden vulnerability bloom on that stern, noble face.
“Hawke!”
Hawke turned to find Varric. “What’s up?”
“I have a tiny issue,” Varric told him. “You know that place we took Bartrand? After the idol made him . . .”
“Even more insane and homicidal than usual?” Hawke supplied.
“Yeah, that,” Varric said.
“What about it?”
“Well, it seems the voices he’s been hearing told him to take a stroll.”
“What? Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Are you in?”
“Yes,” Hawke said with a sigh. “I should probably wake Fenris. It’s early, so he’ll be crabbier than usual.”
“That can happen? Without undoing the fabric of the universe or something?”
“Believe me.”
“So? Let one of the servants tell him when he wakes up.”
Hawke groaned. “I can’t. Sandal stuck something up his nose and Bodhan had to take him to Anders to get it out.”
“What? Like what, a bean?”
“How should I know? And why would you think that?” Hawke asked. “Have personal experience with this one, do you?”
“. . . Maybe once, on a dare. Oh, come on, you know there’s always a bean-sticker in the family,” Varric said.
“True. Did you know there’s a spell for that? It was one of the first Bethany ever learned. Carver was constantly sticking things up his nose.”
“Hawke, we’re getting off track. We’re not talking about your crazy brother, we’re talking about mine! And we’d best get him before he kills someone.”
Hawke got his coat. “All right. It’s always something. ‘Hawke, my mad brother is killing people again!’ ‘Hawke, a zealot is taking over the city!’ ‘Hawke, a blood mage is eating my donkey!’” he grumbled.
“If you ever get called in on a blood mage eating a donkey, you have to take me with you on that one,” Varric said.
“I still need to tell Fenris.” Hawke brightened. “I’ll leave him a note!”
“Fine.”
Hawke quickly went to the desk, then froze.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing . . .” Here was an unrivalled opportunity. Fenris would read this note, to know where Hawke had gone. Hawke would make the most of it. He couldn’t just scribble, ‘Running errands—getting milk and re-capturing Bartrand’s lunatic brother. Be back soon! XOXOXO, Hawke.’ It had to be something special. Something Fenris would remember. Something that challenged Fenris, but kept him reading.
“Look, Hawke, I know you’re a smart guy, but you don’t have a lot of formal education,” Varric said, looking over his shoulder. “If you need any help with the really hard words, like ‘out,’ or, you know, your name or something, just let me know.”
“Very funny. Just give me a minute.” Hawke had to do this right. He wanted Fenris to see reading could be enjoyable.
Twenty minutes later, Hawke was still writing feverishly, stopping only to consult slim volumes of poetry or moon phases or the correct spelling of a particular word.
Varric had given up his spluttering protests and now watched in amazement. “You’re going to an awful lot of trouble just to say you stepped out for a bit,” he noted.
“It has to be done right. It’s Fenris,” Hawke said. Varric just rolled his eyes. Finally Hawke finished his masterpiece and showed it to Varric. “What do you think?”
“Maker, Hawke, I don’t have time to read a novel! Mad dwarf on a rampage, remember?”
“Oh. Right.”
“You put in how we’re going to get Bartrand and you’ll be back, later, right? That’s all it needs.”
“Um. . .”
“Andraste on an albatross, Hawke! What have you been writing all this time?”
“I can add it,” Hawke sniffed. He jotted a quick note at the end. “There. Ready?”
“Yes!” Varric pushed Hawke to the front door. “You know, when I objected to you romancing Fenris on the grounds that he was crazy, it was out of concern that he’d eventually break your heart, not that he’d make you that way, too.”
“What can I say?” Hawke replied as they tromped out into the street. “It’s love.”
Fenris eventually woke up in after noon, scowling because it was too early. It was always too early. Fenris liked sleep. And usually Hawke would have woken him by now, bringing him coffee-flavored kisses and breakfast. Hawke loved to spoil him, and Fenris had discovered he quite liked this, as long as Hawke wasn’t doing it in public.
Fenris waited in bed for a while, but there were no voices downstairs, no clink of silverware. Finally he heaved a great sigh and got up. Hawke’s dressing gown was there, so he put it on and ventured downstairs.
Breakfast was laid out of the table, stone cold. There was a folded bit of parchment propped up next to it. He glared at it, but it ignored him with fine contempt. He moved it aside, sat down and ate the breakfast. He’d had worse, even if it wasn’t hot. Hell, there were days he’d been given nothing at all. Cold sausage was a vast improvement.
When he couldn’t put it off any longer, Fenris unfolded the note. He sighed heavily again. As he suspected, he didn’t understand much of it. There was his name, and Hawke’s name at the end, and everything in between was a bit of a mystery. Sure, he understood some of the words, but not many. Probably one in five. Not even enough to make something of an idea from context. Hawke’s usual blithering, it seemed.
Well, it probably wasn’t important anyway. Knowing Hawke, he’d been dragged off on some foolish venture and had taken pity on Fenris enough that he’d let him sleep in. Yes, surely that was it.
Fenris got up, cleaned the dishes, and went to get dressed. When he came back downstairs, Hawke still hadn’t returned, and the note was sitting on the table, looking at him accusingly with its beady little ink blots.
Fenris folded it up and tucked it away in his armor. He’d just take a walk, then. Maybe head down to the docks and see what kind of shipments had just come in, or stop by Anders’ clinic just to annoy him. Maybe he’d make plans with Varric for a game of cards later.
And, if Hawke still hadn’t returned, maybe he’d drop by the palace for a casual chat with Aveline and nonchalantly ask her to read the letter to him.
Just in case.
Hawke shivered, looking out through the bars of the dungeon. It was very cold, and their armor had been taken by the guards.
“So, how long before that elf of yours comes to our rescue?” Varric asked.
“He’s not my elf,” Hawke said primly. “He’s his own person, you know.”
Aveline shot Hawke a look. “Fine. How long before that elf of yours who’s completely his own person and not at all a slave anymore, thank you very much, reads your note?”
Hawke shrugged miserably. “He really hates reading.”
“What a damned idiot,” Isabela mumbled.
Hawke glared. “He isn’t stupid! He’s—actually quite cultured and has a lot of interesting life experience!”
“I wasn’t talking about him,” Isabela responded peevishly.
“Oh.”
“Who leaves a note for someone who’s illiterate?” Aveline demanded.
Hawke gave her a winning smile. “An optimist.”
Varric laughed, rubbing his arms to stay warm. “The glass is half full, huh? Well, luckily, the dungeon is, too. Everybody gather round, and I’ll keep you warm with my big dwarven muscles, my copious chest hair, and my smoldering tales of passion.”
They all huddled close to Varric, even though Aveline looked distinctly uncomfortable.
Isabela saw her look and gave her a wicked grin. “There are other ways of staying warm,” she said.
Aveline grunted.
“I hope the elf gets here soon, or there’s going to be bloodshed,” Varric told Hawke in an undertone.
“I’m sure he will. He’s very smart, you know.”
“At least that makes one of you.”
As the sun set, Fenris finally made his way to Aveline’s office. He tried to quash his misgivings. It could well be that Hawke’s mysterious emergency had called him out of the city, that he was traveling to Sundermount or even further, and he might not be back for days. It was a reasonable assumption. Strangely, it wasn’t a very comforting one. Perhaps Aveline could shed light on the whole thing.
He knocked on her door, but no one answered, so he opened it and glanced around. Aveline’s office was empty. There were plenty of papers scattered about—maybe one of them said where she’d gone.
Too bad he couldn’t read it if it did.
Frustrated, he went back out into the guard house and grabbed Donnic as he passed.
“Fenris! I can’t talk, I’m afraid. I’m going on duty,” Donnic said.
“Where’s Aveline?”
“Out with the Champion, of course,” Donnic said with a wry smile. “I don’t know where exactly. I’d like to talk more, but I have to go.”
“Cards later?” Fenris suggested.
“Not for a couple of nights at least, I’m afraid,” Donnic told him. “I’m going undercover. Have to help track down the leaders of this new cult,” he explained.
Fenris touched the note, but Donnic was gone before he could pull it out. “Well, don’t let me keep you,” he said glumly. He pulled the parchment out and looked at it again.
Perhaps he’d ask Varric.
But there was no one of use at the Hanged Man, only Merrill, who was giggling as she played cards with a shady-looking sailor.
“Have you seen Varric?” he asked her.
“He’s out. With Hawke,” Merrill said. “And Isabela. Having adventures and buckling swashes and so forth.”
The sailor grinned at this, stretching a scar that ran the length of his cheek. “I prefer unbuckling my swashes,” he said.
Merrill giggled. “Four serpents,” she said, putting her cards down. “How many do you have?” She looked expectantly at her opponent.
The sailor looked amazed. He set his cards down. It was something of a poor hand. Maybe he couldn’t concentrate with Merrill’s idiotic giggling going on. Fenris could relate.
“Oh, dear. Is that all your money?” Merrill said, eyes very wide. “I’m very sorry.”
“Maybe we could play for something else,” the man leered.
“Nooo, I don’t think so,” the Dalish told him with a shrug. “I just wanted the money.” She smiled brightly at him. “Goodbye.”
Fenris watched the man get up and wander away, looking dazed and disgruntled. “How much, exactly, did you win off him?”
“Isabela says it isn’t polite to say. But it’s enough to afford that Ruby of Senlive I’ve been wanting. I’m just sure it’s what the Eluvian needs.”
“Glad to hear it,” Fenris said sarcastically. He dropped onto the bench beside her as she counted her winnings. He was surprised to see how much coin she had. Perhaps he should try giggling vapidly as he played Wicked Grace. If nothing else, it might unsettle his opponents.
“Did you need something? A little blood magic, perhaps?” Merrill’s eyes twinkled.
“No.” Fenris didn’t want to do this, but at least Merrill knew how to read. She was always looking through new tomes of dark magic and history. He took a deep breath. “I need you to look at something for me,” he said, and shoved the note at her.
“Oh, I see,” she said. She unfolded the note. As she read, her cheeks pinked and her eyes widened. “Oh, my,” she said with a trill of laughter.
“What?” Fenris demanded, alarmed.
Merrill raised her hand to her mouth, still giggling. “It’s a love note,” she exclaimed. “From Hawke. It’s so romantic!”
Fenris snatched the paper back, feeling his own face heat up. “Yes—well—I—” he spluttered helplessly. “I should go,” he managed.
“I think it’s sweet!” Merrill called after him as he elbowed his way to the door. “You should buy him flowers! Or chocolates! And have his babies! Lots of babies!”
“Shut up, witch!” Fenris’s cheeks were flaming by the time he shot out the door, slammed it behind him, and leaned against it, heart hammering in his chest. Of all the embarrassing things to happen! Hawke had written him a love letter? Fenris took it out and unfolded it again, glaring at it suspiciously. Of course, he had only Merrill’s word, and Merrill knew he couldn’t read. Maybe she just said that to tease.
Why would Hawke write him a love letter—and then disappear?
By midnight Fenris was in Hawke’s library, books all over the place, candles blazing. He had spent half the night trying to decipher Hawke’s unfathomable note. It was all about oceans and stars and beauty. Why the hell was Hawke writing him about those, anyway? What did it all mean?
Every word seemed carefully chosen to leave Fenris breathless and blushing. Did Hawke really feel that way? Think that way? He could be very considerate and surprisingly gentle, but this was . . . still unexpected.
Worst of all, it didn’t seem to have anything whatever to do with wherever Hawke had disappeared to.
Unless there was some kind of code involved. Maybe when Hawke talked about a star, he meant an actual star? Following it or using it to find your position or something? Fenris let out a shaky breath. He wished he could consult Isabela; navigating by the night sky was certainly a pirate talent—but Hawke had taken her along. He pretty much always took Isabela when he had to leave Fenris. Fenris suspected Hawke was jealous, didn’t want him spending time with the pirate. Which was ridiculous; he wouldn’t look twice at Isabela so long as Hawke wanted him. But really, it was a bit flattering that Hawke wanted Fenris all for himself.
It had melted him to the core the first time some woman had flirted with Fenris, and Hawke gave him that worried look that said, “You’re mine, right?” It was a question never voiced, because magic—or rather Danarius—had destroyed whatever sweet sentiment it might have held. It was around that time that Fenris had started to reassure Hawke the best he could with a murmured, “I am yours.” It might not be enough for a man like Hawke, a man who could move a city, but maybe it could.
After all, Hawke got googly-eyed whenever he said it.
Fenris dragged his hands through his hair and went back to the note. Maybe if he could make it to the end of the letter, the very end, he might have something to be going on with. Maybe then he’d understand.
Fenris spent the rest of an increasingly frustrating night looking for it. What was the point? Had Hawke written it just to tell Fenris he loved him? And then walk out on him? Was it a cowardly goodbye, or something else completely?
Fenris called Bodahn in at one point, but the dwarf couldn’t make much more of it than Fenris had.
“That’s a love letter, right enough,” he’d said helpfully. “See, right there—love. So that’s what it is.”
Fenris snarled, eyeing the paper, trying to assert his dominance over it. Maybe he should do as a Mabari; grab it in his teeth and shake it until it rolled over. Maker, he was losing his mind. “But then what’s the rest of this rubbish? Stars and darkness and ocean tides? It’s all bloody mad, is what it is!”
“No, no,” Bodahn had assured him. “That’s how you know it’s a proper love letter, see? It’s a human thing, I think. You’ve got to have stars and light and pretty things like that, and maybe something about a suicide.”
“A suicide?” Fenris repeated in horror. He took the paper in both hands and read it frantically. “I don’t remember seeing anything remotely relating to suicide!”
“Well, nor did I, but it’s always a nice touch. Very posh, you see. ‘I cannot live without you, my one, true love, and I will meet you in our secret place, such as a garden, see? And there we will drink poison and die in each other’s arms, all proper and romantic.”
“That’s romantic?!” Fenris was quite alarmed now. “Do you know what happens to one’s bowels at the moment of death? They void, Bodahn. As in you crap yourself. I find that, personally, to be very unromantic.”
“Yes . . . well, I don’t make up the rules, sir.”
Fernis was close to hyperventilating. “Yes, fine. Er. I think I’ll just step outside for a moment. For air,” he explained.
Hawke wasn’t in the garden, thank the Maker. Though the stars were very bright. He wondered why stars burned. He wondered if Hawke really burned like the stars. He wondered a lot of silly things, and stood outside, motionless, staring at the sky, watching the plumes of his breath.
And then he went back in and took out his books again, turned up the lamps, and struggled his way through the rest of the note.
And finally found something that might be useful.
Fenris hauled Anders out of bed right around daybreak. “Get up. I need you.”
Anders groaned. “I always knew your hatred was merely a smokescreen to cover your searing lust for me,” he said with a yawn.
“What?” In shock, Fenris let go of the mage, who promptly curled back up on his cot.
“But you’re not my type, so go away.”
Fenris snorted. “You think I’m here to make a pass? You must still be dreaming.” He tugged at the mage, who whined and waved his arms in a go away motion.
“Or having a nightmare,” Anders agreed. He pulled the covers over his head.
Fenris sighed. Was he really going to do this? Show this dangerous twit this private, absurdly saccharine correspondence? But what choice did he have? He wasn’t going to be able to do this alone. “Get up,” Fenris growled. He yanked the covers off.
Anders sat up, glaring.
“Hawke’s in trouble,” Fenris growled.
The mage’s face changed instantly. “How do you know?”
“He didn’t come home last night.”
Anders smirked. “Maybe he met someone else,” he taunted.
Fenris raised his fist to strike, but then his face contorted. This was generally the point where Hawke would diffuse the situation, but Hawke was gone. And in trouble, Fenris was sure of it. And that meant Fenris had to have self-control. For Hawke. He lowered his hand.
For the first time, Anders looked serious. “You mean it. You really think something’s happened to him?”
“He left me a note,” Fenris said, as calmly as he could manage.
Anders got up and went over to a lamp and lit it. Fenris set the note on a nearby table and smoothed it out. They both leaned over it, reading.
“Look, did you come down here just to aggravate me?” Anders demanded after skimming the first few lines. “This is nothing but a stupid, soppy love letter, and it’s not even very well written.”
Despite the fact that Fenris had been thinking pretty much the same thing a few short minutes earlier, he took umbrage on Hawke’s behalf. “You’re just jealous,” he spat. “No one writes you romantic prose. Anyway, look at the end!”
Anders did, and shrugged. “It says when he expects to be back. So he’s late. So what?”
“He left that for me yesterday morning. And went somewhere with Aveline, Varric, and Isabela—and none of them have returned.”
“Huh.” Anders didn’t look convinced, but he also didn’t scoff. “Well . . . do we know where they went?”
“No.”
“Do we know anyone who does?”
“Donnic, probably, but he’s out on assignment and may be hard to track down,” Fenris said. It was so frustrating. He crossed his arms over his chest, frowning. “Look, Hawke doesn’t break his promises. Not to me. Not ever. That’s the whole point of this letter! I tell you, he’s in danger. And if you were really his friend, you’d help me find him.”
Anders heaved a sigh. “Just remember, I’m not doing it for you.”
“That’s fine.” Fenris shifted from one foot to the other. “Do you have any ideas?” he finally asked.
Anders looked smug. “You’re lucky you came to me,” he said. “You’d be completely lost otherwise.”
Fenris reminded himself that until he got Hawke back, he couldn’t punch the mage in his stupid face and yank out what very little amount of brain matter that was in his skull.
He hoped they could rescue Hawke very soon.
The look on Bethany’s face as she read the letter was priceless, even if it made Fenris feel incredibly awkward. “Oh, dear,” she said. “He really does have it bad, doesn’t he? I haven’t seen him like this since we were little and he put that worm in Miss Maple’s desk.”
“Worm?” Anders repeated.
Bethany looked up. “Well, he was only seven. He liked Miss Maple, and he liked worms. He assumed she would too.” She shook her head, smiling a little. “She really, really didn’t.”
Fenris could barely imagine Hawke as a child, but felt he was probably adorable and able to charm just about anyone apart from the apparently un-charmable Miss Maple. He cleared his throat. “Ah, do you have any idea where he might have gone?” he asked Bethany.
“Hmm? Oh, yes. He and the others went to find Varric’s brother, who seems to have escaped from the asylum. I believe they had a lead that indicated he was somewhere in the sewers beneath Darktown,” Bethany told them.
Fenris was gobsmacked. “You knew all that?” he said.
“Of course. He always visits me before he heads out on one of his adventures.”
“Then why did you insist on seeing the note?” Fenris demanded.
Bethany shrugged. “I wanted to read it,” she replied. “What can I say? I’m nosy.” She gave him an impish smile as he groaned. “If it helps, I rather wish I hadn’t read it,” Bethany told him. “That was the most overwrought tripe I’ve ever seen.”
“It was bad, wasn’t it?” Anders said. “I guess he’s not very good at prose.”
Fenris bristled. “Well, he’s very good at other things,” he snapped. “Like sex.” He felt a spark of triumph as both Bethany and Anders made faces at this. Fenris stared at Bethany. “I don’t know why he would tell you where he was going, and not me,” he added sulkily.
Bethany tilted her head. “Perhaps it’s because I don’t bite people’s heads off if they wake me before noon,” she suggested sweetly.
Fenris stared. “He told you that?”
Bethany smiled. Despite the fact that Fenris thought of the girl as innately innocent, her smile was disturbingly wicked. “Oh, he tells me everything,” she assured him.
She was even worse than Anders.
Damn mangy mages, anyway, Fenris thought. Aloud, he said, “Well, I suppose I’ve got to go get him. He’s late, and that means he’s in trouble.”
“Let me get my staff,” Bethany responded.
“You’re coming?” Fenris said, surprised.
“Of course. He’s my brother. And Anders showed me a secret way out of the gallows.”
Fenris hesitated. Hawke had taken everyone worthwhile along—he’d taken all the rogues, all the warriors. He’d only left the mages behind. Fenris glowered at them. They were the absolute dregs. And Bethany and Anders were looking at him expectantly, as though he had absolutely no choice.
He had absolutely no choice.
One way or another, he had to make certain Hakwe was safe. On top of that, he’d promised the man that he’d try harder to get on with his sister, because that was, apparently, something important to Hawke.
He couldn’t very well tell her to take a demon-infested flying leap now, could he? And Bethany was, after all, the lesser of two evils. When she wasn’t actively tweaking him, Fenris actually quite liked the woman, for whatever that was worth.
“Fine, we’ll wait while you get ready,” he said.
“Good. I’ll find my staff and ready couple of blood magic spells,” Bethany said. “I was only joking,” she added quickly at his face.
“That reminds me,” Anders put in, turning to Fenris, “I know you’d rather not, and I can’t actually blame you, but we may think about bringing Merrill. We still don’t know exactly what we’re facing, but if they were tough enough to capture Hawke, they’re dangerous adversaries.”
“I . . . can’t deny the logic of that,” Fenris grudgingly admitted.
“You know, it might be rather fun,” Bethany put in. “We rarely have a group with all the mages. It’ll be sort of like a girls’ night out.”
Fenris would have liked to taunt Anders about that, but he had more important things on his mind. Instead of tough warriors or a clever rogue at his back, Fenris’ first leadership role was over three mages—one of them an avowed blood mage, no less. And he really had enough to worry about without the idea of demons in his own ranks.
He groaned. How did he get himself into these things? It had to be love.
Only love could be this absurd.
So it was that three eager mages and one reluctant elf stormed the sewers, got attacked by some crazy dwarf with an ax, and laid waste to pretty much everything in their path.
There seemed to be dwarves everywhere. Twitchy dwarves, muttering dwarves, dwarves with entirely too many weapons and not enough mental health. Something was definitely wrong with them.
“Hold your fire!” Fenris yelled, but no one seemed to hear him.
Bethany froze their enemies in place, then Merrill blasted them with fire, then Bethany cast a spell that lifted the survivors into the air and slammed them back down on the ground.
“I SAID HOLD YOUR FIRE, FOR ANDRASTE’S SAKE!” Fenris roared.
Anders, standing beside Fenris, cast a healing spell on him.
Taken by surprise, Fenris flinched, then lashed out. He stopped himself just before he could manage to grab Anders by the throat and crush it. “Stop that! What the hell’s wrong with you?” the elf demanded. “Don’t cast spells on me without reason!”
“I was just healing you.”
“I don’t need healing!” Fenris snapped.
“Oh. You looked a bit peaky.”
“None of us need healing! They didn’t get a chance to touch us before the rest of you ignored my direct orders and wiped the floor with them.” Fenris glowered at his team, who looked less than remorseful. Bethany and Merrill even pressed the tips of their index fingers together and pretended to make a sizzling noise. “Oh, you’re proud of this, are you?” Fenris asked. “Let me put it this way; what if you just killed every single person who knows where Hawke is being kept?”
“Oh, don’t be silly. I expect Hawke knows where Hawke is being kept,” Merrill replied, using impeccable logic as always.
Before Fenris could explode, Anders put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Fenris is right. We should be more careful. Hawke’s life is at stake,” he said.
Fenris reflected bitterly that the only thing that could have made this whole thing worse was needing Anders’ support. “Look, we have a long trudge to the other end of the sewers, and we’re likely going to have to fight the whole way. And yes, of course I want you to fight hard. But we also need to question them. If you’ll follow my plan and do as I say, I promise I’ll get Hawke back,” Fenris told them. “Deal?”
Bethany looked ambivalent, and Merrill pouted. “Do you mean I can’t set fire to any of them anymore?”
“No. You may not,” Fenris replied through gritted teeth. Another group of dwarves spilled in from a door on the opposite side of the room.
One particularly stocky dwarf seemed to be the leader. His eyes were wild. “They don’t belong here!” he cried. “Kill them all!”
Fenris gave this a moment of consideration. “Fine,” he said. “Roast the flanks, but leave the chatty one alive,” he ordered.
“What are you going to do with that one?” Anders asked.
Fenris flexed his fingers, feeling the pain rip through his body, his glow casting a soft light on his allies. “I’m going to deal with that one myself,” he replied.
“I spy, with my little eye, something starting with . . . n,” Isabela said.
Aveline saw where she was looking, glanced down, gasped, and crossed her arms over her chest. Her undershirt was a bit thin, but neither Hawke nor Varric ever would have been brave enough to bring it up. She glowered at Isabela. “You little—”
“Enough!” Hawke commanded. His leadership had been tested to the absolute limits. It had withstood dragons and unpopular decisions and betrayal, but trying to sort out having these two women stuck in a small space together for days . . . well, it might not survive this. Particularly when Isabela seemed absolutely bent on pulling Aveline’s pigtails, as it were. “Let’s just change the subject.” Hawke could hear the weariness in his own voice.
“Maybe if I remove my shirt, it will improve matters,” Isabela mused.
“Go ahead,” Varric said. “We could play strip-diamondback. With imaginary cards,” he suggested.
“No, really,” Isabela insisted. “I’m being serious. I think I could help things along.”
“How in Andraste’s name would that improve anything?” Avaline demanded.
“I meant, maybe if I remove my shirt, it’ll distract the guard when he comes back. Then one of you can take him by surprise and grab the keys.”
Aveline looked troubled. She peeked out of the cell, but there wasn’t a soul in sight. The passageways were all dark. “I don’t think these dwarves will be particularly interested in your breasts,” she said. “There seems to be something . . . wrong with them.”
“There would have to be if they didn’t want to see my breasts,” Isabela joked.
Aveline arched a brow. “If they’ve ever been in the Hanged Man after a new shipment of whiskey they’ve probably seen them already.”
“I’ve used this plan in a dozen other situations and it’s always worked,” Isabela told them.
“I don’t know,” Hawke said doubtfully. “Do you really think you can lure him up to the bars?”
“And will anyone be quick enough to grab him if you do?” Varric added. “We’re all cold and hungry and sluggish. I’m not my usual manly, fast self.”
“I am,” Isabela assured him. “Er, that is, not manly, but I am fast.”
“I’ll say,” Aveline muttered.
“Do you have a better idea?” Isabela said, exasperated.
She had a point. Hawke knew he’d left Fenris nothing to go on. Bethany wouldn’t be expecting Hawke again before the end of the week—she might not even know he was missing yet. Merrill had some idea they’d all gone off together, but not where. The chance of rescue was pitifully slim. And one more day in the cramped cell and Isabela and Aveline might really come to blows.
They’d just have to rescue themselves.
“I think it’s a fantastic plan,” Hawke said. “It sounds exciting. I’m behind it one hundred percent!”
“Hawke, you are badly overdoing the enthusiastic boss thing,” Varric pointed out.
Hawke sighed. “Well, I’m doing my best, but really, I’m tired,” he replied, leaning back against the cold dungeon wall. “All right. So we wait for one of the dwarves to show up, and Isabela can flash them.”
Varric grinned. “Might stop her from flashing Aveline, anyway,” he muttered.
Hawke sighed again. “One can only hope.”
“How many are there?”
Fenris carefully looked around the corner. There was a large room with vaulted ceilings and an enormous statue at the front. There were also lots of torches and he could see well. The dwarves had excavated an area and put up the statue, and they seemed to be worshipping it—or worshiping something else. Because standing in front of the statue was another dwarf, one with blond hair and piercing blue eyes.
Bartrand. Holding court. Telling the crazies how to be crazier.
Fenris cursed silently, and pulled back. “At least twenty.”
“I’m running a bit low on energy,” Bethany said, worried. “I don’t think I can handle twenty. We need rest.”
“I don’t think we can risk staying in one place,” Anders put in. “Not with that big fellow we saw earlier prowling the place.”
“He wasn’t even a dwarf,” Merrill said, sounding indignant.
“Yes, how dare they?” Anders said dryly. “It’s so rude of insane kidnappers to employ someone like that.”
“I think it may have been part kossith,” Fenris said tensely.
“That doesn’t make sense,” Bethany protested. “Why would a dwarf and a kossith . . . how would they?” she added.
“I don’t know,” Fenris answered. “But I could swear I saw horns.”
The group looked at each other silently. Bethany had taken an axe to the shoulder and no one had enough energy left to heal it. Luckily, it was a shallow cut, a thin line of blood where the sharp metal grazed her as she dodged the blow.
“This is my fault,” Fenris sighed. The mages looked at him, startled. “I’m not used to supplying a company made entirely of mages. I ought to have brought more lyrium potions. We still have plenty of stamina potions left,” he added bitterly. And without their power, the mages had become more of a liability than an asset. Only Anders was skilled enough with his staff to make a passable fighter, but the women were thankfully very fast on their feet and they’d mostly avoided injury so far.
“So what do we do?” Merrill asked.
Fenris looked from the open cavern to the dark side passages. The kossith dwarf had disappeared down one of them. And they couldn’t know whether there were others awaiting them in the darkness.
“I’d rather wait as long as we can, then face them in the main chamber,” Bethany opined.
“You wouldn’t be fighting at full strength and you know it,” Fenris argued. “It’s certain death.”
Bethany looked uneasy. “But at least it would be a well-lit death,” she said quietly. “Fenris, I don’t want to go down one of those dark, winding passages where we won’t even to be able to see them coming until they’re on top of us.”
“The narrowness of the passages is to our advantage,” Fenris told her. “This way they’ll come one at a time. They won’t have a choice.” Bethany still didn’t look happy. He reached out and rather awkwardly squeezed her hand. “I’ll go first. And I promise I’ll get you all through this.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded.
They made their way to the entrance of a passage. Anders marked it in case they somehow circled around and got lost.
“Good thinking,” Fenris muttered. “Stay at the back,” he ordered. “You’re dangerous with that staff and I think you’ll be better protection than Merrill.” Anders raised his eyebrows and Fenris scowled. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
They fell into line, Merrill muttering complaints. “If you would just let me do a bit of blood magic, I could—”
“No blood magic,” the group said as one.
In the darkness, Fenris felt Bethany grab his arm. “What is it?” he hissed.
“I—thought I saw something,” she whispered.
They stood very still. Fenris looked all over, but couldn’t see anything but darkness. “Where?”
“Ahead.”
“Hmm.”
“Probably nothing,” Anders whispered.
Fenris held up a hand. Another minute of waiting wouldn’t hurt—it would help them all regain energy. Willingly going to a potential threat, however, would do them no good at all.
A shadow moved. Bethany was right. Now that their eyes adjusted to the blackness, Fenris made out a large figure lumbering across the passage ahead of them. And it really did have horns.
“What should we do?” Bethany barely seemed to breathe the words.
If there was a wasp in the room, Fenris preferred to know where. He motioned the group to stick close. “We follow it,” he answered.
“Someone’s coming!” Isabela hissed. “Get ready!”
Aveline and Hawke hid in the darkness on either side of the bars. If the guard approached from one side or the other, they’d be ready to reach through the bars and grab him. Varric crouched on the floor. He’d fashioned a sort of lasso out of Isabela’s shirt—as he’d put it, she didn’t really need it for this, did she? He was ready to catch an unwary foot in the loop if possible.
All in all, Hawke thought they were prepared for anything.
. . . . maybe not anything, as it turned out.
He heard a squeak and a crash, and several pairs of feet coming closer. The outer door opened.
“Isabela?” he heard Bethany gasp.
Hawke popped up. “Bethany? Anders and Merrill and . . . Fenris?” Hawke shuffled his feet. “Oh, hey, rescue. That’s great isn’t it? Isn’t that great, everyone?” He wilted a little under Fenris’ absolute glower.
“Is this what you imbeciles were up to while the four of us—obviously the only intelligent, competent people you know—were working ourselves to the bone, fighting mad dwarves, disarming traps, risking our lives to rescue you?” Fenris demanded.
Hawke rubbed the back of his neck. “It was all part of a daring escape plan,” he protested.
“Was it? Was it really? Getting naked with Isabela? Is that why you always leave me behind whenever you take her along on one of your infamous ‘adventures?’” Fenris asked, hands planted on his hips.
“What? No! Why would you think that?” Hawke said.
“What else am I supposed to think? I wake up to find you gone, you don’t come home for days, you’ve never had any difficulty getting away from various captors before, and now when I finally track you down you’re sitting about in your smallclothes with a shirtless pirate!”
“No, no, I can explain,” Isabela put in, taking what was left of her shirt back from Varric. “I wasn’t taking my shirt of for him, I was taking it off for you.”
“That isn’t going to work on me,” Fenris replied dryly.
“No, I just meant—for anyone who walked in the door,” Isabela insisted.
“Just like whisky shipment night at the Hanged Man,” Aveline said cheerfully.
Isabela gave her a dirty look. “It was supposed to be a distraction. And then the others would grab the guard and take his keys.”
“I don’t think that actually would have worked,” Anders said. “These dwarves have been ingesting some form of lyrium like it’s recreational. They believe it allows them to talk to some god or other. When they heard Bartrand had possessed the idol and began hearing voices, they became convinced he had some sort of direct line to whatever mad god they believe in. So they took him—we think they made him a sort of high priest or something. They’re down here smuggling in as much lyrium as they can, and making themselves more insane every day.”
“How did you learn all that?” Hawke said, staring.
“Oh, Fenris plotted and managed to capture a few of them. They were pretty incoherent, but we think we got the general gist in the end. My point is, I don’t think they’re very interested in boobies at the moment,” Anders added.
“Well, it worked, anyway,” Isabela said. The shirt didn’t exactly work, but Bethany held up their armour, which they’d apparently found before they located the captives.
“What do you mean, ‘it worked?’” Aveline said incredulously. “It didn’t work at all!”
“I took off my shirt and then we got rescued. Cause and effect, Aveline. Cause and effect,” the pirate replied breezily.
The guardswoman lunged at her, and Hawke just managed to get between them in time. “All right, that’s enough. Look, Aveline. I have your armor. Don’t you want your armor?”
Aveline scowled at him. “What about it?” she grumbled.
“Well, it’s . . . shiny,” Hawke said hopefully. But despite Aveline’s protestations, she put the armor on and stopped trying to throttle Isabela. Fenris, on the other hand, was still looking put out. “Look, Fenris, you know perfectly well I’d never cheat on you. Didn’t you read my letter? Every word I wrote was true.”
“Well . . .”
“Oh, yes, the letter,” Isabela said with great relish. “I want to read this famous love letter of yours.”
“No.” Fenris looked away, haughty.
“It’s a good thing I’m so skilled at picking pockets,” Isabela replied absently, unfolding the thing.
Fenris was outraged. “When did you—”
“While you were busy glaring and Hawke—and my breasts,” she said, scanning the page. “Oh, Hawke. This is adorable. It’s plucked-wings-of-your-lips level of prose.”
“Shut up,” Hawke said, nettled.
“But it’s so sweet. Aveline, listen to this:
Dear Fenris,
Because this is likely the only correspondence I’ll write that you will actually read, I intend to use it to my advantage. I’m not sure the written word can adequately express how I feel, but I will try.
I am utterly and wholly devoted to you. I love your fierce heart, your sulks and your moods, your strength, your loyalty, your anger, your arrogance and your insecurities. And as much as I love everything you are, I also love everything I become because of you.
You are my stars, my sun and my moon.
Whenever I look at you, there is a sunrise in my heart, chasing all darkness and shadow before it until I am renewed, born again like a new day. You are the creation of a glorious dawn, full of possibility and promise.
You burn within me like a star glittering on high, beckoning me to reach higher and dream larger. You have no idea how many of my accomplishments are due entirely to wanting to impress you. You lift my aspirations to their zenith.
You challenge me. You are as mysterious as the moon, cool and distant and ever changing, turning away from me and hiding yourself in shadow, then coming around, baring everything, at once vulnerable and yet proud and almost regal in your vulnerability. And like the moon, I feel your pull; it’s in my very blood.
And just as the tides are drawn inexorably to the shore, I will return to you.
Probably around two-ish.
Love, Hawke.
Isn’t that the sappiest thing you’ve ever read?” Isabela finished.
Aveline’s face was pained. “It was rather dreadful,” she said.
“I’ve read worse,” Fenris put in.
“You don’t read at all,” Aveline countered. “What could you have possibly read that’s any worse?”
“Anders’ manifesto,” Fenris said immediately.
“Can’t argue with that,” Isabela said.
“It’s true,” Aveline said.
“At least Hawke’s writing isn’t dull,” Merrill put in.
“Hey!” Anders protested. “I’m standing right here, you know.”
“Maybe you could liven it up,” Varric suggested with a shrug. “You could, I don’t know, put in a few explosions.”
Anders looked thoughtful. “That might help. Maybe I will.”
Hawke put an arm around Fenris. If the elf was defending him against charges of putrid prose, he couldn’t be too angry. “Well, now that my heroic lover and his crackerjack team have rescued us and returned our armor, what say we go kick some ass, get Bartrand and return him to the asylum?”
Everyone agreed to this and made their way out of the cell.
Hawke held Fenris back just for a moment as the others left. “So . . . was it really that bad?”
Fenris looked up at him, tilting his head in consideration. “I’m no paragon of good taste, I’ll admit,” he said slowly. Then he smiled. “But either way I . . . thought it beautiful.”
Hawke beamed.
Fenris pulled him down for a kiss, and then they left the dungeons, arm in arm. Anders had regained some power and the passages ahead were lit with a soft glow.
“So, three mages, eh? That must have been a nightmare,” Hawke remarked.
Fenris shrugged nonchalantly. “It wasn’t so bad.”
Hawke looked at the elf in shock. “Really?”
Fenris smiled a little. “I think they’re trainable,” he replied.
“What happened next?” Hawke asked Fenris, spellbound.
“I tried Varric’s suggestion; I crept up behind the creature and tried to pick his pocket—but the keyring was chained to something. And reaching into his pocket alerted him of our presence.”
Hawke stretched, watching Fenris get ready for bed. “Shit.”
“Yes. So he turned around, got me by the throat and shook me like a rag doll,” Fenris said, sitting on the bed.
“What did you do?”
“Dangled there and tried not to die,” Fenris quipped. “Then the others started beating him.”
“You’re joking.”
Fenris shook his head. “If it hadn’t been such a perilous situation it would have been amusing; three powerful mages reduced to whacking the enemy with large sticks. Really, Hawke, you lead me to strange places. But they distracted him, and then I ran him through.”
“You know, if you go around saving my life all the time, I’m going to get the mistaken impression that you like me or something,” Hawke teased.
“Nonsense,” Fenris replied airily. “I only keep you around out of habit. And because I need someone to pay off my gambling debts.”
Hawke laughed.
Fenris began to undress. Hawke held a hand up. “What’s wrong?”
Hawke went to the window. The salacious Baron was on his balcony with a spyglass. Hawke opened his own window a crack. “SHOWS ARE TWENTY SOVERIEGNS PER TICKET!” he shouted. He slammed the window shut and drew the curtains.
Fenris smiled crookedly, undressing. “I was hoping we could look out at the stars. Those stars that burn . . . that glitter on high?”
Hawke reddened. “Oh, yes. Um. They were mostly metaphorical,” he pointed out.
Fenris laid back on the bed. He looked glorious to Hawke, his naked body hoary even without the starlight. Fenris’ eyes twinkled. “No stars tonight?”
“I could have a skylight put in,” Hawke offered breathlessly. “I’ll cover you in starlight, I promise.”
“That does sound fun,” Fenris admitted. “But right now, I’d prefer to be covered in you.”
Hawke didn’t need further invitation. He slid onto the bed and turned Fenris’ face to kiss him roughly. Fenris kissed as hard as he did anything else, tangling his long fingers in Hawke’s hair.
Fenris chuckled huskily, indulging Hawke as the man kissed Fenris’ throat. “Less gentle,” he murmured.
“Hmm?” Hawke said, lips now pressed softly to Fenris’ temple.
“Don’t be gentle,” Fenris whispered.
Hawke pulled back to stare into Fenris’ eyes in the darkness. “What?”
“I don’t want a poem tonight,” Fenris growled in his most bedroomy voice. “Just for tonight, I want you to show me—with your hands and your mouth and your body.”
Breathless, Hawke nodded hard. He pinned Fenris down on the bed, nipping his shoulder, ghosting his breath over the elf’s stiffening nipples, dancing his tongue over the tender place where his thigh met his abdomen. “More,” Fenris snarled.
With a smile all edges and appetite, Hawke threw him onto his stomach. “Like this?” he asked, pushing Fenris’ legs apart.
“Just like that,” Fenris gasped as Hawke’s tongue breached him, slick and hot and entirely too intimate. Fenris groaned, but Hawke planted one large hand on his hip, holding him down, licking him ferociously. It wasn’t until Fenris was rocking against the bed, so tightly wound even his toes were clenched, that Hawke finally had mercy.
He lifted the elf’s hips and thrust his prick deep into Fenris’ eager body.
Fenris cried out.
Hawke rode him harder, harder, the bed bouncing, Fenris’ pink ass high in the air and begging for more. Fenris tried to muffle his hoarse shouts of pleasure in a pillow until—Hawke reached around, taking him in hand.
Fenris’ gave an elegant little shudder, and the silvery scrawl on his body seemed to move minutely, like gliding snakes, as he flexed and relaxed, his climax spent.
Several moments later, Hawke followed him into bliss, then collapsed atop him. Fenris grunted and struggled and pushed at Hawke until they were in a more comfortable position.
Resting his head on Fenris’ chest, Hawke could almost hear him purring with contentment. “I’m could sleep for a week,” he said with a yawn.
Fenris sighed. “I can’t sleep. I’m all keyed up. Perhaps I ought to go downstairs and get some warm milk.”
“I’m afraid I’m out,” Hawke answered.
“Perhaps I’ll do the shopping tomorrow and pick some up,” Fenris remarked.
“And eggs. We need eggs.”
Fenris smiled. “I’ll make a list,” he said.
The next morning Hawke rolled over to find Fenris’ side of the bed empty. He skimmed a hand over the bedspread, feeling his stomach clench. He couldn’t help but get anxious whenever Fenris got up early—for one thing, it was out of character for him, but for another, Hawke always flashed back to that painful night Fenris had left and hadn’t returned to his bed again for three years.
There was a bit of folded parchment on the bedside table. With Hawke’s name on it. The writing was a bit lopsided, but legible enough. Hawke read it and got up, grinning. He tossed on some clothes and hurried downstairs to throw together some breakfast, suddenly starving.
Bodahn was in the kitchen making him coffee. “Can I say how happy I am to see you again, sir? We were very worried.”
“Thank you, Bodahn, but I can assure you that there was nothing to worry about. Fenris never would have let anything happen to me,” Hawke assured him, taking the steaming mug as it was offered. He inhaled happily.
“Speaking of Mr. Fenris, he stepped out,” Bodahn informed him. “He was—”
“Oh, I know all about it,” Hawke interrupted.
“You do?” Bodahn looked at him for a moment. “And does this have to do with that, er, very wide smile on your face this morning, sir? Because it is a lovely morning, it really is, but generally when you’re smiling that way, it’s because of something Mr. Fenris has done.”
“That’s true,” Hawke said. “And it is.” He considered showing Bodahn the note, but decided against it.
“Well, I’ll just finish up in here, sir,” the servant told him.
He couldn’t help but read the note one last time. The letters were a bit wobbly and done with an uncertain hand, and the note was very short, but Hawke doubted anything in the world could make him happier. They simply read;
I love you.
Hawke walked on air the rest of the day.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2012-01-16 10:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-16 11:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-16 11:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-17 04:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-17 01:33 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-17 02:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-17 02:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-17 05:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-17 05:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-17 10:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-17 10:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-18 04:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-17 02:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-18 04:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-09 06:54 am (UTC)I was just wondering if you not being in fandom meant you were going published if so where can I find what you are writing? I am sorry if this is bad but I have enjoyed your storuse so often that I would be sad to think of you not writing. however also would jump quickly to buy(when I have the money) anything you might put out. I am not saying this tp flatter you into coming back but to be very honest with you how I feel.
Either way. I truly hope you are writing something that we might someday get to read.
thank you for your time,
Gigi
( sorry very tired and in pain. So today like every other day.)
no subject
Date: 2012-04-11 10:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-12 03:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-04-24 10:33 pm (UTC)I am going to track your post so that I am so I don't miss it.
Love and such.
Gigi
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Date: 2012-04-22 07:04 pm (UTC)Would you mind, if I some day get myself to actually post something on my journal, if I recced this there?
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Date: 2012-04-24 03:59 pm (UTC)I'd be very flattered if you recced this!