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He stands alone, and all else seems so very, very far away. Voices, footsteps, every single noise seems to blend into one, a cacophony of sound. Blood drops from his fingers, onto the already stained planks of the Hanged Man. Drop, and red petals bloom wide. There are people moving around him, he knows, and doesn’t react when one bumps into him, apologizes. It’s as if he’s watching from behind, a ghost of himself. Separate from his body, from all that tethers, until she gently places touch at his arm. “Fenris,” she says. He turns his head, slightly, white wisps of hair crossing his forehead. His gaze remains fixed on the floor. “What were you thinking of doing?”
He’s quiet for a moment, re-learning how to speak, choosing what words to say. His head raises slightly, but he still can’t bring himself to face her. “I had only planned on returning to the estate,” he tells her. A drop. The bloom. Hawke steps closer to him.
“By yourself?” she asks softly, words meant for his ears alone. The guards are hauling another body to the pile. He watches this one, and this one alone. He forces himself to look at Danarius, the gaping hole in his chest. He affirms it to himself, over and over again. He memorizes grey, lifeless eyes, pale skin. His hand squeezes into his fist, the pointed tips of his gauntlet biting into his palm. His other hand tightens its hold around the hilt of his sword, which he’s been unable to let go of since the fighting stopped. It’s slipping, again. That whirling cacophony is growing louder, an overwhelming ocean, drowning him in its sound. “Fenris.” He realizes he’s been holding his breath, and slowly lets it go.
“I apologize. You asked –?” His stomach churns.
“I was wondering if you wanted some company,” she says, and her fingertips are still so light against his skin. She doesn’t intrude. She still moors him. His markings ache all but for where she touches him.
“Oh.” There’s blood on her trousers, an already healed gash across her midsection. His fault? There’s bloody streaks across her neck, from where she’s touched herself. His eyes reach her chin, and he casts them back down once again. “I would appreciate… company,” he says.
“I’ll let Aveline and the others know we’re leaving,” she says. Hawke briefly rubs her knuckles up and down his arm, an affectionate thing. As she goes, he closes his eyes. He knows he should sheathe his sword. He’s not quite ready to let go of it yet. His bones still tremble with the feeling of slicing through flesh, of the lyrium burning down with overuse. His free hand trembles for a different reason. There’s still a weight in his palm, heavy and beating. He begs himself not to forget the feeling. To know it always. He opens his eyes as he pulls free the fist, looks at the pinprick marks bubbling more blood to soak him with.
“Fenris,” she says, and he’s grateful to how she always announces herself. Hawke’s hand slips into his, over his palm. He closes his hand around hers without realizing, holds it carefully there. “May I heal this for you?” A small nod, and it’s only when he feels her warmth does he realize how little energy for magic she must have left. His stomach churns once again. “There,” and he knows she must be smiling, “all better. Ready to go?” Another thing he is grateful for is her normalcy. She treats him no differently than she does any other day. He has stopped mistaking her kindness for pity. He nods as he slowly lets her hand go.
He follows her firmly planted footsteps. She holds the door of the Hanged Man open for him. He knows he should sheathe his sword. The middle of the afternoon, and there are people crowding everywhere. He follows her firmly planted footsteps. She marks her trail and people automatically part to allow her to pass. Both of them being bloodied and carrying their weapons helps as well. He allows his thoughts to drift, carry him far. It’s only when Hawke finally stops, her feet turning in his direction, does he realize. He reaches into one of his pockets, and hands her his key.
“Would you like to wash up? I could heat some water,” she says.
“No, thank you. I can – myself, if you don’t mind,” he says. Hawke shakes her head.
“I’m going to quickly run to mine to clean and change. Probably also grab us some dinner and a pack of cards. I’ll only be a few minutes. Okay?” He nods silent acknowledgement over his shoulder, listens to the sound of her moving back to the entrance. She closes the door tightly behind her. There is a drawer of her clothes in his dresser. She has used his bath countless times before. She gives him a chance to be alone, as he needs – safe in the knowledge that it will not be forever. The stiff line of his shoulders falls, the sword clattering out of his hand. He scrabbles at the clasps of his gauntlets, sheds his armor as quickly as he can. All the while, he heads towards the bathroom.
His fingers slip over turning dials, the pipes groaning before water begins pouring in. He doesn’t wait for it to warm. He submerges himself entirely, still in his leggings, tunic. He gasps breath as he sits back on his knees. His hands squeeze around the edges of the tub when he leans forward, back prickling cold with gooseflesh, and holds his head under. From his fingertips, down white porcelain, a red swirling stain invades the steady stream of water. He stays there for as long as he can, listening to his heart in his ears, drumming against the water pressure.
Fenris sits back, pulling up his legs. He rests his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands, takes a heaving inhale. The exhale is slow, turning to a shudder as the sobs begin to wrench away at him.
Hawke practically kicks the door shut with a resounding slam. She winces slightly at it, cowering as she turns. She straightens up when she sees Fenris standing on the landing of his entrance, stopping amidst the motion of dragging a towel through his hair. He’s half bent over, the towel covering his face, his hands at his head. “Sorry,” she says as she begins to climb the steps, the bag in her hand, “that was harder than I meant it to be.” A small grunt of forgiveness, and Fenris well knows that it was meant on purpose, to let him know of her return.
She’s wearing lighter shoes, casual clothing. Not the Champion of Kirkwall. Just Hawke. She puts the bag on his table, begins pulling out an assortment of food. The towel comes to rest around his neck, his hair still damp. “I know it’s early for supper still, but that’s why I brought so much desert,” she says. “I got those pastries from the shop you like.” A small twitch of his ears betrays his interest. He’s left his sword, his armor, where he had discarded them. They both step over the pieces, say nothing of it. She’s shuffling the deck in her hands as she goes to sit on the edge of his bed.
One leg is bent underneath her, while the other dangles off the edge, her foot pressing into the floor. Finishing shuffling, she pats the empty space in front of her. “Come on, I’m going to teach you how to play Go Fish,” she says. He drops the towel onto the back of a chair before he takes his place across from her. He sits cross-legged, and wraps his hands around his ankles. “It’s very easy. I’m a master at this game. Bethany and Carver always refused to play with me and accused me of cheating. It’s basically about making pairs…” As she hands out the cards, she explains in full, tells him he’ll get the hang of it once they start playing.
Sure enough, after a few rounds, he does. Hawke deftly robs him of most of his cards, creating a stack of pairs in front of her. They play again, and again, usually with the same results. They talk about nothing as they pick at food, light the fire place. They find themselves back at the bed, playing again, as soon as they’re finished.
“Do you have any threes?” he asks.
“Go fish,” she says. He looks from the deck in the middle, his cards, hers, and frowns.
“I agree with Carver and Bethany. You’re cheating.” Hawke snorts with laughter.
“A lot of it is just luck, I swear,” she says, holding a hand over her heart. He narrows his eyes at her over his cards. She’s leaning back in laughter, having adopted his crossed legs. He takes a card from the deck, adds it to his hand. She fans her cards, hums dramatically.
“Do you have… a… king?” Fenris stares at the three kings in his hand. She shrieks with laughter as he darts forward, meaning to grab the cards from her hand. Cards fold under their knees, their feet, Hawke generally trying and failing to get away. She ends up backed against the wall, one leg bent against her, the other trapped underneath him. His cards are scattered, one hand around her wrist, the other pressed into the mattress. Her eyes are so blue. Her free hand moves upwards, curling warm against his cheek, with a smile to match.
“Hello,” she says.
“Hello,” he says. She doesn’t call attention to it, but it’s recognition that he’s finally held her gaze. He moves to sit next to her, back against the headboard, shoulder against shoulder. They stretch their legs out long, pay no mind to the cards scattered and bent all around. “Thank you. For this.”
“Mhn.” She shakes her head, smile renewed, “I should be the one thanking you. This was nice.”
“Hawke. Thank you,” he tells her, lacing their hands together.
“You’re welcome,” she says. “Are you feeling better?”
“I am…” he trails off.
“But,” she helpfully continues, giving his hand a small squeeze.
“I am,” he sighs deeply, “but at the same time I am not. I know I should be celebrating the fact that Danarius is dead.” He looks at the palm of his free hand, now clean of blood. “Yet, it doesn’t yet feel…” he clenches his hand into a fist. “When I first arrived in Kirkwall, I was unable to sleep. One moment of letting my guard down, and that would be when Danarius would strike. It was the same when we took this estate. I… I thought he might come back to reclaim it. What sleep I did have was filled with – my own fear.” He lets his hand fall to his lap, lets the fist loose.
“When the boat pulled away from Seheron’s shore, with Danarius still aboard…” even now the smile springs unbidden to his lips at the memory of his shock, fury, and complete panic at leaving his precious investment behind. “I felt light, as if a weight had been lifted, and I – and I have told you this before.”
“Go on,” she encourages gently.
“During my time with the Fog Warriors, I had fooled myself into thinking Danarius had truly left me and would not find me. When he walked into the camp,” he tilts his head towards Hawke, his thumb moving over her knuckle, “he didn’t need chains to bind me. Now I have held his heart in my hand, yet I still fear Danarius walking through that door and ordering my return, just as I always have. I’ll sleep tonight, and wake to find slavers pointing their swords at my throat.”
“One day, you’ll wake up and realize that you haven’t thought about Danarius in ages and the fact that he’s gone, really gone, will feel real. I can’t promise that day will be soon, but, it will come. In the meantime I could… you sleep. I’ll keep watch,” she says.
The pastries flake in his hand. She laughs when he shakes the crumbs off his shirt. They sit opposite each other, in the winged back chairs by the fireplace. They talk quietly with each other, and it always feels easy with her. Conversation lulls, renews, and it’s never forced. Silence is comfortably shared, and they wash dishes together. True to her word – he sleeps, she keeps watch. He curls underneath the covers, turns towards the wall. The fire burns low. When his breathing finally evens, his body relaxing, Hawke moves.
She collects his armor, his sword. One by one, she cleans each piece. Each twisting knot, every fold. She cleans away the blood for him. What cloths she uses, she keeps. She dries them by the fire. She looks over his room, some place to keep them. If he ever needs assurances, he’ll have it with these. Her search is stopped by a sudden noise. At first she thinks it may just be the shifting of embers. “No… please…” She closes distance quickly, half kneels on the bed, leaning over and wraps her arms around Fenris’s shaking form. So deep does he dream, he doesn’t wake to her touch. She leans over, her forehead gently knocking against his temple.
“It’s alright,” Hawke murmurs, “Fenris, it’s just a dream. You’re dreaming, you’re dreaming. You have your sword with you, don’t you? You’re strong, you know that. So it’s going to be okay.” She keeps her weight against him as she runs a hand through his hair. “I’m here too.” His clenched fist is slowly letting go of the bunched together sheets. “You’re safe. I’m here.”