Chapter Text
Marian Hawke and her band of merry followers sauntered their way to the Alienage to help a man named Anso with some trivial dispute retrieving property (or something of the sort she couldn't bother to remember). Aveline, Varric, and Bethany approached the Vhenadahl in the middle of the Alienage after leaving the abandoned house when they were ambushed.
Unfazed, half expecting it, Marian unsheathed her twin daggers from her back and jumped into battle with Varric's arrows firing from behind and Aveline's battle cry erupting into the night. Bethany's magic was heavy in the air while Marian danced left and right, cutting down slaver after slaver in a blur of rapidly moving blades. Marian recognized the slavers immediately, realizing the Alienage would be the perfect trap for poor unsuspecting elven citizens of Kirkwall and she fought with even more of a fury than before. Marian had fought many enemies just in the city of Kirkwall alone but slavers particularly made her blood boil.
When she had seen the last of them within her sight fall, she turned towards the stairs and immediately her gaze fell upon a stranger with a furious look on his face. A man tried speaking to her, recognizing Hawke as the leader and saying something about making a mistake but she was too distracted watching the stranger approach from around the corner.
A tall, statuesque elf with tanned skin and intricate, white tattoos stood facing the party with a determined and menacing look in his striking green eyes when the remaining slaver turned to the peculiar stranger. The elf's tattoos suddenly erupted in blue light that shimmered throughout his body and his hand struck through the slaver's chest, pulling his still-beating heart with it.
Her heart pounded wildly in her's in response.
Who is this man? Does he wish to harm me?
The stranger's brilliant jade eyes poured into Hawke's seemingly dull, dark eyes and then something seemed to click. It was subtle and fast but devastating. In a daze, Hawke looked in awe as the world seemed to slow and the man's tattoos glowed bright blue in response. She wondered fleetingly if she even bothered to breathe as she stared in admiration and shock. He was so... beautiful. She knew absolutely nothing of this elf but she felt as if she had known him for years in that moment.
“I apologize,” his low, slightly quivering voice was directed towards Hawke but she was utterly lost. Her hands felt slick against her daggers, the fast rhythm of her heart continued to distract her and her voice felt tight within her throat. He continued on with his explanation, while she barely kept up.
Maker, what is wrong with me? What is happening?
“My name is Fenris,” he began. Fenris... Why does he look so familiar?
Hawke found herself accompanying the ex-slave from Tevinter to his former Master's Hightown estate. When she had found the courage to speak, she had explained to Fenris that she was happy to help him if slavers were after him and that all he really had to do was ask her. That was just the kind of person Marian was.
Little did she know helping him would bring her into a brutal fight with rage demons and shades alike but she ultimately did not mind. After the arcane horror had fallen and Fenris realized his master was not there, his expression became furious.
It turned out that Fenris really hated mages. Really, really hated mages. He began ranting to Hawke about how dangerous mages were while her sister, Bethany, shifted uncomfortably next to her. She flashed Bethany a reassuring and brief smile and responded neutrally, wishing to avoid a disagreement because in truth the elf scared her.
They parted ways and that night, as she lay next to Bethany in their Uncle Gamlen's small, rundown home in the dregs of Lowtown, she couldn't sleep. His eyes, his gaze so intense and fierce burned into her memory and she felt her heart quicken again. Hawke knew this wasn't like her at all; not many had piqued her interest before and for her to be so fascinated with someone so easily within a matter of seconds was simply unnatural.
---
“Wait, let me get this straight. How old are you again?” Varric's voice boomed across the table at the Hanged Man while her companions looked on eagerly. Marian looked down at her hands on her lap uncomfortably and hesitantly, reached to take a long sip of ale from her mug.
“Eighteen,” she mumbled into her flagon of ale.
“Eighteen,” Anders repeated somewhat uncomfortably.
“So how old does that make your sister?” Isabela demanded.
“Seventeen, she and Carver-” the mention of her deceased brother sent a pang of guilt and despair to her and she smiled sadly before continuing. “They were twins. Just about a year younger than me.”
Varric sympathetically clinked his mug against her's and they all downed the rest of their drinks. Hawke felt that unmistakable gaze on her and dared herself to look up. Fenris was sitting at the end of the table looking directly at her. As soon as they locked eyes, he immediately diverted his gaze back to his cards.
Hawke inevitably lost this round of Wicked Grace and then the next two when she decided to bail out and leave. Her companions were grumpy and tired after losing to Isabela knowing she had cheated and barely acknowledged her as she hopped out of her chair and went out into the streets.
It was three in the morning by the time Hawke exited the tavern and met with the a surprising blast of cold air and furious rain. She scowled to herself and began walking towards her Uncle's home. Knowing her mother, she would be angry and would get a lecture about respectable girls not drinking in taverns at all hours of the night with questionable friends.
She had passed the closed market stalls when she felt the presence of someone behind her despite the hard pattering of rain that had soaked through her entirely. Her pulse quickened as she stood still, hearing the inevitable swish of someone's feet faintly wading through the partially flooded streets. A few moments later after feigning indifference, she continued around a corner waiting for her follower to approach. She brought out a dagger and stood back against the hard, stone wall when the figure walked around.
In a flash her quick hands had grasped the stranger by their throat, shoving the stalker into the wall when her blade met their exposed neck and she demanded, “Who are you? Why are you following me?”
Unable to see her follower's face, she was shocked to feel a slight vibration against her hand when a flash of unmistakable blue enveloped her. His hands were on her, her dagger falling to the ground without a moment's notice, when his unforgiving hands had yanked her arms and had her now pinned to the wall. His breath was hot against her neck when she could make out his intense green eyes finally.
“Fenris,” she managed to breathe out, her body becoming all too warm in the cold night with him pressed up angrily against her. With the mention of his name, his tight grip on her arms softened and he leaned back as if awaking from a trance.
“Forgive me, I-” he spilled out, his usually calm and determined voice was now uncertain. “I wanted to see you home safe.”
“Why do you care?” she had asked without thinking, although she was genuinely curious. Fenris had been accompanying Hawke and her companions on various missions for a few months now and he had never cared before about her walking home alone.
“You are so young,” he muttered, a hint of discomfort in his deep voice. One of his slowly dimming hands rubbed the back of his neck and he looked down at his bare feet.
“We both know I can walk myself home. I am terribly sorry if my age is so appalling but it never seemed to matter to you before. I'm perfectly capable,” she said, more than a little annoyed.
Who is he anyway to be uncomfortable around me? I haven't done anything wrong except tell them of my age.
“That you are. I just wanted to see you safe,” he responded, tense voice calming and losing it's harsh edge. “Learning how young you are was just a surprise. I am seven years older than you, Hawke, and most of your companions are considerably older too.”
Hawke stood silent and studied him. His white, cropped hair clung to his tanned forehead and his breath was ragged and warm. He was staring at her too, she noticed, but still her gaze did not falter.
Her hand softly went to his cheek and he jumped in surprise, distinct green flickering to her eyes in shock.
“Maker, you are so cold,” she noted and then pulled her hand back. He looked bewildered and confused at her but her gaze was soft and touch, gentle. Suddenly, this strange elf didn't seem so scary to her anymore. He cared about her safety and she cared about how cold he was.
“Come, we may as well finish the journey to my dearest Uncle's loving home,” Hawke broke the heavy silence with a smirk and beckoned him forward, picking up her fallen dagger and looking back to make sure he followed.
He shifted and then looked up to Hawke somewhat nervously but obliged and then walked in silence as the rain continued on relentlessly. It was only about another ten minute walk to the home and they were about two minutes away when a bolt of lightning struck about three feet from Hawke, the harsh white blinding her, the thunderous boom echoing off of the stone walls which knocked her backwards.
Hawke's body shook violently for a moment, unaware of the frantic hands on her alight with lyrium. She was soaked to her very core with her long, dark hair plastered awkwardly to her face and neck. Shivering into the hard gravel beneath her, heart hammering faster with every breath she took, she was scooped into strong and protective arms. Wanting to protest and stand on her own, she decided against it once a wave of unmistakable nausea hit her. She was suddenly so dizzy and so... weak. She was not herself and she hated it. However awkward and unusual it may have been, Hawke could not deny that being held by Fenris made her cheeks grow red and did strange things to her.
Fenris carried Hawke the rest of the way to Gamlen's in silence. She dared to peek up at him but his expression was indifferent and straightforward. Without care, Fenris tossed open the door and laid Hawke on the cheap, destroyed rug in front of a quickly dying fire. He added more kindling, quickly stoking the fire back to life.
Hawke was able to move now, nervously untying the laces to her boots and dark leather coat, desperate to rid herself of the sopping clothing that clung to every curve of her skin. Fenris was watching her fumble with the clasps to her leathers when he relented and undid them for her. Hawke watched his nimble fingers easily clutch at the clasp on her shoulder, all too aware of how close he was. She shimmied out of them and kicked them to dry in front of the fire leaving her in her simple, ivory cotton shift she wore under her armor. His eyes were transfixed as she wrung her long, dark brown hair out and combed her fingers through it. She felt his gaze but dared not meet his expression and instead spoke as if to the fire.
“You should stay. It's about an hour's walk from here to Hightown and I refuse to let you walk out in the dead of the night during a storm,” she spoke cautiously, somewhat guarded against his potential reaction, but smiled gently and assuredly at him. To validate her point, thunder ominously roared across Kirkwall while the rain turned to hail and pounded into the walls around them.
“That is reasonable,” Fenris responded, amused. His eyes grew wide staring down at her wrist and his brows furrowed.
“What is it?”
“Your wrist... There is a new scar,” he stated in surprise. Risking a glance down she found bright red, twisting vine-like marks forming a distinct shape of an F. The skin around it was scorched and red; apparently she was struck by the lightning after all. She had noticed fleeting pain but was too stunned and nervous to care until now.
“Huh... It looks like an F. I guess I was struck by the lightning, I'm surprised I didn't notice until now. No wonder I was immobile,” she found herself lightly joking but his brows were still furrowed.
“That is an F?” he asked seriously. She looked confused but nodded nonetheless.
“Yes, I mean it looks like one. Do you only read Arcanum?” she asked seriously.
“I...” his voice trailed off and instead he said, “we should rest.”
Hawke let the subject drop and instead stood carefully before gaining her balance and fetching a thick blanket and a couple pillows from a corner designated for extra linens for the winter. She handed a pillow to him and without word, set the blanket next to his still armored body before taking her place by the fire again and curling into herself, old pillow barely providing support against the cold and hard wood floor.
She heard movement next to her, realizing Fenris was removing his armor and respectfully kept her distance. All the while, her heart was racing still from her near-death experience and the presence of Fenris in her home staying the night with her. She smiled to herself, still surprised in the first place that he was even here with her but so thankful.
She felt his body next to her but far from touching, and then the blanket was soon around the both of them. She shivered against it and sighed out, hearing a similar reaction from Fenris. Despite her racing heart, she was physically exhausted and soon succumbed to sleep when she felt Fenris's breath near her.
---
Anders had his eyes fixed on Hawke every chance he could get. Fenris looked on and for reasons he could not fathom he was deeply bothered by it. The mage was clear of his affections for Hawke but she didn't seem to comment on it no matter how obvious it really was.
A mage. Of course Hawke should want to be with a mage, she has been surrounded by them and supporting them her whole life. The thought made Fenris scowl aloud, which caused Merrill to look up to him, concern written in her bright eyes.
“Is something the matter, Fenris?” Merrill asked him sincerely. It only made him scowl more.
“No, witch.”
That earned him a brief glare from Hawke which seemed to anger him even more. Merrill instead began walking ahead with Hawke, linking her arm with hers and commenting on how Feynriel will find a much better life with the Dalish.
They set up camp for the evening after having a run in with raiders, leaving the party annoyingly covered in gore. Merrill and Hawke set off to bathe with some soap and sleep clothes to a nearby stream while Fenris glared into the fire. He was still chewing on some dried fruit when Anders looked at him curiously.
“Why have you been fuming silently all day? You've barely said one word,” the mage noted, somewhat amused. Fenris growled.
“It's none of your concern, mage.”
“No, but you've been quite rude to Hawke. That is my concern,” he responded easily. With that, he faltered.
I did not mean to be rude to her... She knows I don't deal with mage stuff easily so why would she bring me to Maker-damned Sundermount?
“That is not my intention,” was all he said.
A shriek erupted into the night, bringing both Anders and Fenris to their feet.
“I'll go, stay and watch the camp,” Fenris ordered.
Without a second thought, Fenris had reached for his sword, bare feet expertly avoiding the tree roots, twigs, and sharp leaves as he followed the direction Hawke and Merrill had gone.
He heard splashing and laughter and stopped dead in his tracks when he reached the stream, hidden behind a wall of trees. Merrill was perched on the grass next to the water in her fresh nightclothes while Hawke was standing completely nude, half of her covered and immersed in the water.
Her long, wet hair hung low and clung to her body. Pale, Ferelden skin gleamed in the moonlight as she cupped water over her shoulders to remove the soap that lingered there. Her breasts were barely hidden behind long hair that fell over her shoulders and Fenris couldn't possibly look away. He heard Anders approach when he sucked in a sharp breath and exhaled slowly.
“Maker,” Anders breathed out, lust clear in his tone, which infuriated Fenris to his very core.
“Avert your eyes, Abomination,” he spat out though meaning to keep his voice quiet. Anders smirked and looked on once more at Hawke's beautiful, curvaceous body.
“Then maybe you should too,” he suggested with a laugh before Anders turned back toward camp. Red-faced and flustered, he followed to find Anders waiting by the fire.
“It is so very obvious how you feel about her,” Anders noted casually. Fenris glared at Anders, eyes burning into him.
“The same could be said about you.”
“Of course, Hawke is beautiful and kind. She cares about mages and freedom, she is passionate and determined,” Anders began and then added, “You are possessive. You care not for mages and let her know on a daily basis while seeming to forget who her family is. You are constantly brooding and glaring, I cannot see why you want her when she is so very different from you.”
Fenris felt his pulse rise, his blood boil. Cocky, presumptious mage. He thinks he can have her, he thinks he has claim to Hawke.
“I do NOT have feelings for Hawke,” he was enraged and failed to notice the women approach camp. Anders looked past him at a newly clothed Hawke as she approached while Merrill looked about nervously. Fenris dared spare a look in her direction and saw her expression change briefly. She was usually so lighthearted and confident. Instead now she just looked... disappointed.
She smiled, though it failed to reach her eyes and said, “You have nothing to worry about Fenris.”
Without giving him a chance to react, Anders was at his feet telling Hawke of some nearby herbs that could be useful for potions and salves. Merrill glanced in his direction before rolling out her bedroll and quickly falling asleep on the opposite side of Fenris across the fire. Fenris swallowed a hard lump in his throat and lay back against his bedroll. It was futile to attempt sleep now but he would pretend nonetheless.
“- and you are always so very kind to me. I don't know what I would do without you, Marian,” Fenris heard Anders speak softly to Hawke. He grunted and tried to ignore Anders blatant flirtations to their leader but it angered him deeply.
He heard Hawke chuckle to herself and mutter something he couldn't hear.
“Maker, you are tempting,” Anders stated. Seething and infuriated, Fenris chanced a look behind him to see the mage brushing a strand of Hawke's still damp hair behind her ear. He felt his blood boil and he couldn't bear to see any more.
Why do I even care? I have made it clear that I have no feelings for the rogue, she has every right to flirt with whomever she wants.
“Goodnight Anders,” Hawke said simply, loud enough for Fenris to hear and then to his surprise and with a hint of a smile in her voice she added, “and goodnight Fenris.”
---
Fenris stood in his large, empty mansion he squatted in and found himself downing an entire bottle of wine. He was lonely, although he would never admit it to his companions. When he was not with Hawke on some odd quest, he was usually alone and drinking himself into a stupor. He saw no interest in being around others and could only stand being around Hawke and her abominable friends because she was nice to him.
His ears perked at the sound of the creaky entrance door opening gently and then a call.
“Fenris?”
Her voice did something very strange to his heart. He felt the lyrium hum beneath his skin and to his surprise, it felt... pleasant. Usually his lyrium responding to stimuli brought on a dull ache more than anything.
“I'm here,” he found himself responding automatically.
She entered dressed in her form-fitting, dark leathers with her hair in a loose braid that fell over her left shoulder. She had a sack hanging over her arm, no doubt filled with supplies. When she saw him, her barely red-stained lips smiled and he almost, almost found himself smiling back at her.
“So are you coming with us into the Deep Roads, or what?” Hawke asked with a wink, black and full lashes fluttering against her lid. He felt something in him stir and he shifted awkwardly.
“I thought your sister was going to accompany you instead?”
“Mother begged for Bethany to stay with her and besides, I need another warrior fighting beside me. Who better than my favorite broody elf?” she stated casually with a smirk. He scowled despite himself approving of Hawke enjoying his presence on the battlefield, and nodded.
“As you wish.”
---
“Nug humping bastard!” Varric slammed his fist into the now sealed entrance where Bartrand had locked them in.
“How are we going to get out of here?” Merrill asked worriedly, turning to Hawke for answers. Hawke for the first time looked unsure of herself. Her large, deep brown eyes automatically flicked back and forth between Varric, Merrill, and Fenris standing to her for answers.
“We... find another way out, of course,” she stated as if it was obvious. “First, we make camp. Maker knows we need a rest after not sleeping for an entire day.”
“Varric, we won't die in here will we?” Merrill turned to the dwarf, her green eyes looked terrified.
“No Daisy, Hawke will get us out of here,” he assured her with a hint of a smile he couldn't quite make. No one had really seen Varric look so angry before but for Merrill, he was calm. He was her rock, protecting her from thugs in Lowtown and answering her naive questions.
They found themselves laying their bedrolls out and passing around a bottle of wine Fenris had brought in his pack of “necessities”.
“This is quite a necessity now, Broody,” Varric muttered.
“Wine is a top priority for our borderline alcoholic, elf,” Hawke answered playfully, seemingly desperate to keep the peace. Fenris glared his vibrant eyes at her and before she would have turned away, but now she defiantly stared back into his eyes, causing heat to rise to his tan cheeks.
“Well if we make it out of this, at least we will be rich,” Merrill perked up as she usually did and Hawke smiled brightly at her.
“I can finally buy back my ancestral home. Maker knows how desperate I am to never step foot near Gamlen's house again,” she responded with a shiver.
They all slept uneasily that night, especially Hawke. She was determined to get out of there but she didn't know how. It was now her responsibility to navigate the deep roads with next to no knowledge of Dwarven ruins.
Eventually, after engaging horde after horde of darkspawn in combat, supplies quickly draining within the week they spent searching for an exit out of the Maker-forsaken ruins, they found themselves facing an ancient rock wraith. Hawke had managed to become the monster's favorite ragdoll as it tossed her around the place with just a flick. She ignored the dull ache in her shoulders, knees and sides and continued attacking the creature.
Merrill was the true savior of the day, her furious spells bringing the thing to its knees. The crew all sighed with relief while Hawke fell forward and clutched at the side of her abdomen.
“Hawke!” Varric and Merrill shouted simultaneously rushing to her side. Her breaths were quick and broken, body shaking and hands desperately trying to hold back the blood that was now mercilessly pouring from her side.
Merrill ripped open the side of her leather in a fury and shouted for health poultices and lyrium potions. Hawke's eyelids began to droop as her pulse began to slow, not even noticing the surprising cool touch of someone's hands placing her head in their lap and pressing their palms to her cheeks.
“Marian!” Carver called out to her, broad smile gleaming across the field. “Let's spar!”
She was walking toward him, no floating, and brushed her hands across the tall grass as she approached her brother.
“Father says he will teach me now! Mama says he is good with a sword but I don't believe it because he is a mage.”
The sky above was light blue with thick clouds soaring across the sky at an alarmingly fast pace. The air felt heavy around her and she looked to the left to see her family's modest farmhouse with her Mama and Father standing in front, playing with Bethany.
“Something isn't right, Carver,” she spoke but the words couldn't form. He cocked his head at her, confused. They were so young... She didn't remember being this young.
“Carver?” she asked frantically, feeling a deep pain in her right side. “What's happening?!”
“Carver, what's happening? Where's Papa?!”
“Sh,” a soft voice with a distinct and familiar accent soothed her. Unbelievable pain shocked her as she shifted and let out a desperate whimper.
“Where did Carver go?” she found herself asking.
“He's passed on, lethallan.”
Her heart stilled momentarily, memories flooding back to her. The ogre that gored Carver burned itself into her mind and she winced. Her eyes flashed open, seeing an uncharacteristically worried looking Fenris peering down at her from above, holding her head still in his lap. Merrill and Varric stood next to her.
Hawke took a deep breath, recognizing the cool air and realizing they were out of the Deep Roads.
“Maker, we survived?” she asked mostly to herself. Varric chuckled and nodded at her.
“You almost didn't you reckless rogue,” he replied lighthearted. She smiled despite the pain in her heart from the memories and her side from the injury.
“Please let's get out of here. I cannot wait to tell Bethany about our spoils,” she smiled at her crew and they helped her stand and supported her all the way back to Kirkwall.