snarkysedai

Coming Home - Fenris x f!mage Hawke, compaion to Waiting for Home

2017-01-04T21:48:00Z

AO3 link to Coming Home
Fanfiction.net link to Coming Home

A bath was truly the only thing that Marian Hawke wanted, at that particular moment.

Food could wait; she had eaten what passed for lunch, anyway, even if it had been hours and miles ago and she had been through emotional turmoil and some intense physical activity since then. It could wait, because she filthy, and grimy, and still had blood on her from Adamant and also probably some demon ichor still, which wasn't lovely at all, either the idea of it or the reality of it.

And she was messy in…other respects, too. Somehow, she had wound up with bruises on her neck, as well, and if that wasn’t obvious (and a Fenris trademark special after time spent apart; it was almost as if the man felt he had to physically mark her to show the world “Look, this is Marian Hawke and she’s mine so hands off, you assholes!) and if she weren’t damnably sure to get all the commentary over it…

Ah well. It was nice knowing Dorian, at least, while she did. She didn’t expect him to live through the next few days, even if the man did prefer the company of men over women. One flirt, plus the man being a mage and from Tevinter, and Fenris would hold his heart in his hands. Quite literally. And Dorian, for one, wasn’t a man who was known to let sleeping dogs lie, or let love-marks go unmentioned.

But, all-in-all, Marian needed that bath. And so after she finally managed to convince Fenris that yes, she was there, really there, and she wasn’t going anywhere, and had told him several times that she was sorry and nearly had herself convinced that he might forgive her for running off with the barest minimum of a note (eventually forgive, although she didn’t deserve it, not after this, not after nearly staying behind and dying and leaving him forever, and Maker’s breath, he would find that out sooner or later, because if she didn’t tell him then Varric, the damnable gossip, would) and… well, she needed the bath, and she promised him he could attend her while she was getting it, and so that should be good and happy between the two of them, yes?

Assuming he didn’t decide to go for round two once she was in there. As much as she enjoyed the idea of sex with her husband, Maker’s Light, she needed a bath.

Most of the Inquisitor’s Inner Circle, forward guards, and assorted hangers-on had arrived at Skyhold by that point, and, as Hawke could remember, from returning to Skyhold from Crestwood, everyone wanted a bath and a meal. The smells of cooking food wafted through the entire Keep and those not already gifted with magic were rushing back and forth for baths. Everyone wanted baths; there were not enough inns and taverns and places to camp between Adamant and Skyhold to serve everyone who wanted, and thus the majority of the troops went without. Now it was Bathtime at Skyhold, and that idea alone was enough to make Hawke giggle. The fact that she was running on fumes and spit at that point did not add to her mental stability.

The best part about being a mage was the ability to create ice from the water vapor in the air, and then use minute amounts of fire to melt the ice and have a tub full of water as hot as you’d like in mere moments, without the need to haul buckets of water or depend on dwarven ingenuity to assure that you’ll get what you’re after. Soaps for body and hair, towels, washing clothes, a change of smalls and a fresh, clean robe (and where in Thedas did she get a clean robe? Oh; must have been left in her room from when she was there last. Not her best by any means, but clean was clean, and she doubted she needed that level of enchantment on her robes if she were just bathing and eating and probably getting ravished by Fenris another half dozen times. Although, come to think of it, she might need the enchantments to be able to survive Fenris; the man got greedy, at times, she thought, smugly.)

For his part, Fenris leaned against the wall, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his eyes not leaving her. Hawke rolled her eyes theatrically at him and grinned as she pulled off her dirty, dusty things. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, already knowing his answer.

“Admiring the view,” he admitted, that little smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Does this mean I’m forgiven, suddenly?”

“I wouldn’t consider yourself forgiven just yet.” Hawke put her hand to her head, dramatically, and feigned swooning.

“Alas, that my own husband would use me in such a manner!” His scowl was answered with a cackle of laughter; his scowls were the best, and her playful dramatics always pulled them out of him. “Really, Fenris, you’re going to have to forgive me sooner or later, and it’s been a whole, what, four hours? Four hours, Fenris! Since I got back. You certainly know how to hold a grudge.”

He grunted in return, eyes sliding off her and looking into himself, off in the distance. Not the response she was hoping for. “Hey, Fenris, stay with me, okay?” He shrugged, obviously uncomfortable, but brought his eyes back, eventually to her face. “I’m here. I’ll get a bath, we’ll eat something, and then we’ll drink ourselves stupid with Varric and probably not end up back in our room until either really late or tomorrow, right?”

“You certainly have an odd idea of how to be welcomed back,” he rumbled, but his shoulders relaxed and his stance eased, so Hawke settled into the large, stonework tub with a groan of relief, feeling the surrounding heat of the water soak into her skin and bones.

“Hawke,” Fenris said, suddenly, and it jolted her up and out of the water. She was never “Hawke” in private, unless he was angry or concerned about something. “Hawke” was nearly a title to him, especially the way he signed his name, now, despite being married for nearly four years.

“Wha--?”

“Hawke, where is your mabari?” He sounded wary, and a jolt of sadness went through her as surely as surprise had done a moment ago. Maker’s breath, she needed to relax.

“Weezl… There was a lot of fighting, at Adamant,” she began, dashing at the tears that already started in her eyes. “We got separated, when… When I went into the Fade. Fell into the Fade, with the others. And… I couldn’t find him, after.”

“Oh, Marian,” he breathed. She sniffled, hard, trying to push back the tears, trying to stop crying. She had cried over him every day since returning from that wretched place and not finding him, and she needed…. she needed…. “Marian, I am sorry. I should not have brought it up.”

“He was a good boy,” she said, and that summed up all of it and summed up none of it at all. He had been a good boy; loyal, loving, and always by her side for years. Mabari tended to not be a long-lived breed, because of their use in the Ferelden forces, and this year would have been his eighteenth, anyway.

“Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,” Fenris recited, softly. Hawke could not translate it, but the tone was one of sadness, and she could not stand to hear the meaning, now. She needed to push the thoughts out of her mind, needed to focus on something that didn’t involve the death of her friend and companion.

“What’s the news, Fenris?”

“You’d know that better than I, Marian,” he replied. “Now finish your bath, so we can eat. No talking about things we cannot change.”

“Yes, ser,” she replied, faking a smile and trying to add a bit of snark to her voice. Better to not think on Weezl, and better to let sleeping dogs lie, sometimes.

Bathing done, and Fenris getting plenty of good shots of her being naked, she toweled off and dressed as they discussed their next step.

“We will eat wherever you wish,” he kept assuring her.

“Fenris, I’ve been eating travel rations for weeks, now. All I wish is for a hot, properly prepared meal, preferably covered with some sort of gravy and enough of it to make me fat. And something to drink that isn’t weak tea or water. Ale, wine, whiskey, for a start. I don’t suppose you brought any of that rum Isabella left for us, last time she was by to visit?”

“I wasn’t exactly planning on alcohol when I left,” he told her, dryly. “But if you wish, we can eat at the tavern. Cabot makes a surprisingly good stew and the ale there is better than The Hanged Man’s… well, anything, really. I wasn’t aware that taverns could be that clean and respectable.”

“You, ser, haven’t lived. I have been neglect in my duties towards you.” She combed out her damp hair with her fingers and closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of being actually clean for the first time in weeks. No blood, no demon ichor… “Fenris, I smell good, now, right?”

Two steps and two heartbeats and he was holding her in his arms, his face nuzzling into her hair and his hands roving over her. He took a deep breath, inhaling her scent, and his fingers closed in on her, hard enough that she was afraid he would leave bruises even through the robes. “You smell… good enough to eat, Marian,” he replied, his voice thick. She knew that tone.

She laughed softly, trying to head off the situation. She had needed a bath, earlier, and now she needed food. “So, better than I did earlier, and you still weren’t put off from me.”

“Better than earlier,” he agreed, dragging his lips down her cheek to her throat.

“Fen-RIS,” she scolded, playfully swatting at him. “I’m hungry.”

“So am I,” he assured her, parting his lips to suckle at his favorite spot on her neck. How had he missed that spot earlier, she wondered? She would look like a leper, for sure. Maker’s tits, she wasn’t going to hear the end of this.

“Fenris,” she tried again, her voice slightly more serious. “I haven’t hardly eaten. You don’t want me to starve to death, do you? Then how will I keep you up all night with my inane ramblings?”

“Be quiet,” he told her, sliding lips back up to her mouth. He pressed quick kisses against her lips several times. “You talk too much, Marian,” he said, not the first time he had made the accusation, not even the first time in similar circumstances.

“Food, or else I’m sleeping in Varric’s room tonight.” He pulled away from her slightly and looked a little bit horrified, which brought a cheeky grin to her face. “Food, Fenris.”

“Food,” he agreed, huffing slightly. “You smell like…. A forest. After the rain.”

“New soap,” she replied. “I’d heard somewhere that elves like to frolic in forests. Rain optional.”

“I never frolicked with Merrill,” he replied, gruffly. “Why would I frolic now?”

“You never frolicked with Merrill because you hated her. You need to let your inner elf out, some time.”

“Will you frolic with me, if I agree to this?” he deadpanned.

“I might be talked into it. It depends on if clothing is optional.”

“Are you planning on others being there? Other than you and I?”

“It depends on if clothing is optional,” she said, again.

“Andraste’s ass, Hawke, if you don’t slow down you’re going to make yourself sick,” Varric said, watching in slightly horrified fascination as Hawke started in on her second bowl of stew.

“Varric,” she warned.

“You’re going to get fat if you keep eating like that.”

“I’m eating for two, now,” she replied, haughtily. Varric and Fenris stared at her, both with a mix of horror and wonder on their faces.

“… eating… for two?” Fenris asked, slowly, confused.

“Congratulations, Hawke family,” Varric finally managed to choke out. Hawke laughed and shook her head.

“Varric, you should look up ‘gullible’ in the dictionary. It’s got your face beside it.”

“I think I missed the joke,” Fenris finally managed.

“Hawke was joking that she was pregnant. ‘Eating for two’?” Fenris looked even more horrified than before, not sparing Varric from his glare.

“Hawke, you are not pregnant,” he protested.

“I’m just looking for an excuse to get to steal your stew,” she promised.

“Hawke.”

“Fenris.”

“You’re not… pregnant. You’re not.” Maker, but that man could put layers of meaning into his words.

“No, Fenris,” she replied, sighing.

“Not yet,” he said. Varric chuckled. If she didn't put an end to this, there would be manly high-fives and discussions about how to keep her barefoot and in the kitchen.

“I would throw this bread at you, but that seems like a waste of perfectly good bread.” She slumped in her chair a little bit. “Maker’s breath, Varric, did you leave your sense of humor in the fade, as well?”

“Not much to laugh at lately, Hawke, and you know it.”

“Try looking in a mirror sometime,” she grumped, before taking a big bite of the delicious potato and carrots that made up the bulk of the stew. She chewed thoughtfully. “At least you didn’t leave Bianca in the Fade, right?”

“Thank the Maker for small miracles.”

Fenris had been sitting, seemingly patiently, the entire conversation. However, there had obviously been too many mentions of the Fade. “Hawke, what is this about going into the Fade?” She winced and kept her eyes closed, then ran a hand through her hair, trying to hold off the conversation, hoping against hope that Varric would step up and, storyteller that he was, make her out to be the hero he always painted her as.

“I’m not touching this one, Hawke,” he said, softly.

“Your betrayal is noted, ser dwarf.”

“Hawke,” Fenris said, low and warning, and she sighed and nearly threw her spoon against the bowl.

“Fenris, I really wanted to put this off until after I was through eating.” She shrugged uncomfortably and took a long drink of the ale in front of her before continuing. “It’s not a happy story and it doesn’t have much of a happy ending, you understand?”

“I know that something happened and you left Warden Alistair there to die. What happened, Hawke? Why are you –we—fighting against Corypheus again? We left him dead, there in the old prison!”

She was quiet for a moment, then said, in a soft voice, “Let’s not talk about things we can’t change tonight, Fenris. Give me the rest of the night to pretend things are normal and that Adamant didn’t happen, and it can be real again in the morning. Just a night, Fenris, please?”

“A night,” he agreed, sullenly. “If you need it, you have your night. But you have to tell me, in the morning, Hawke. I have to know what we’re up against so I can protect you.”

She darted a glare towards Varric, but the dwarf just held up his hands. “He was going to find out sooner or later, Hawke,” he said, defensively, and she shrugged again, feeling the tension growing in her neck and back.

“He didn’t have to find out tonight, though. If you want him to know so badly, why don’t you take him back to your palatial suite and tell him, while I finish up your meals and get rip-roaringly drunk? You can fetch me in an hour or so, I’ll need help to get back to my room.”

Varric and Fenris shared a glance, and then as one:

“I just got you back, I’m not going to let you stay here by yourself and get drunk, Hawke.”

“You’re full of bad ideas tonight, aren’t you? If you want to get drunk, we’ll go to my room and do it the proper way.”

She rolled her eyes and fixed them both with a look. “Fine. We’ll go to Varric’s suite and get drunk. But I’m eating this bowl of stew first, and there’s no more talking. Maker’s Light, Varric, you’d better have snacks up there, too.”

“You,” Hawke slurred, dragging her fingers across Fenris’s jawline. “Are so. Handsome. Elf.” She traced her fingers up his ear and gently pinched the tip of it. Fenris moaned and leaned into her hand slightly.

“Maker’s breath, when I said to get a room, I didn’t mean mine,” Varric said, from the huge chair in front of the hearth. Hawke and Fenris were seated on the floor, backs against the wall, slumped on each other.

It was… rather late. Or early, depending on how you counted those things, and there had been a lot of wine, and some brandy, and whiskey from somewhere. Hawke felt flimsy enough that she could barely move, and Fenris had gotten more and more handsy as the evening had progressed and the wine bottles emptied. Varric had moved from “cheerful drunk” to “happy drunk” to “morose drunk,” which told her, if she could think straight about it, that Adamant had bothered him as much as it had bothered her. He was now the kind of introspective and broody that Fenris could be on a good day; not normal for Varric at all, unless he was writing about it

“Marian,” Fenris said, and his words were as slurred as her own. “You are so beautiful and you smell so good. You smell like home, Marian.” He nuzzled his face against her neck and breathed out, clutching her tightly against him with one arm and the other arm holding just as tightly onto his prize of a bottle of wine. It wasn’t great wine; in fact, this far into their cups, it was probably some of the worst wine that Skyhold had to offer. However, this far into their cups, they weren’t exactly in a position to be judgmental re: quality of wine.

“Fenris,” she murmured, resting her cheek on the top of his head and playing with his ear. “I’m sorry I left with just a note. That was… that was horrid of me. That was… it was horrid, Fenris.” She wasn’t sure if she was talking about leaving with only that terse note or if she was talking about all the events after she left. Perhaps it was a mix of both.

“You’re not leaving again, Marian,” he told her, although it was rather muffled by alcohol and his insistence on keeping his mouth as close to her skin as possible. Varric hadn’t commented on the bruises on her neck yet, but she was fairly certain that when he eventually became sober, he would be up there on the “top commenters” list. Right up there with Dorian. Dorian. That reminded her…

“Fenris, you can’t kill Dorian,” she said, urgently, trying to untangle herself from him.

“I wasn’t planning on killing anyone right now,” he assured her, nipping at her skin lightly. So he was drunk enough for that, even in front of Varric.

“’M’serious, Fenris. You can’t kill Dorian.”

“Dorian’s alright. For a Tevinter mage,” Varric said. He was lying across the chair, now, with his legs over the chair arm.

“There are no Tevinter mages here. Hawke checked.”

“No… no magisters. He’s not a magister. He’s a mage. And from Tevinter. And you can’t kill him, Fenris, that would be rude.”

“I’m not killing any magisters right now, Hawke. Be quiet,” he told her, losing contact with the wine bottle and trying valiantly, if rather unsuccessfully, to slip his hand up the hem of her robe.

“Not now, you oaf, later.” She slapped ineffectually at his hand. “Later, Fenris, you can’t kill him. He’s funny.”

“You’re funny,” he promised, seeking her lips with his own. Hawke sighed before turning her head just so, brushing their lips together. She tried, while she was still sober enough to remember.

“Are you two going to charge for this show?” Varric asked, seeming to come out of his brood enough to pay attention to his guests.

“If you don’t want to watch, I suggest you go to bed, Varric,” Fenris broke away from Hawke long enough to say. “Go fondle your weapon on your own.”

“You’re really unfair, you know, elf. You always get all the pretty ones.”

Hawke glanced up, confused. “What other pretty ones did he get?” She looked towards Fenris, brows knitting in confusion. “What other pretty ones did you get, Fenris?”

“There was this one time,” Varric began, then chuckled. “This one time, we went to The Crooked Gull, down by the docks. Me ‘n the elf and Blondie and Choir Boy. No girls allowed.”

“Varric,” Fenris growled.

“It’s funny, elf. Anyway, we went there, and this woman...” Varric shook his head, face going red. “She tried to find out how far the elf’s markings went. Beautiful woman, for a human. Tall and well built. Probably a whore, but half the women in the taverns by the docks were, so that’s not a big deal. Never try to separate that man from that red ribbon, ‘s’all I’m saying.”

“It’s Hawke’s ribbon,” he complained.

“It’s Hawke’s ribbon and you two were ‘on a break,’ right, elf? And being particularly broody about it that day.”

“I miss Kirkwall,” she said, and it was her turn to rest her head against Fenris’s chest. “I miss… those days. Even… I miss Anders, sometimes. And… and Merrill. Even stupid Carver, before the Deep Roads and him being a Templar. I miss them.”

“You miss living with Gamlen in that shack in Lowtown?” Varric laughed uproariously then, and even Fenris chuckled.

“I miss the simple. Simple city. Simplicity. I miss the simplicity of it. All I had to worry about was getting enough coin together for dinner and not getting caught by the Templars. And now…”

That put paid to Varric’s laughing. “Now. Yeah.”

“Marian,” Fenris said, his attention back on the fact that the woman in his arms hadn’t been there the past few months. “Marian, I have the best idea. We should have babies.”

“Maker’s breath, Fenris, you’ve had enough. I’m cutting you off.” He looked horrified for a minute, not really following what she was saying. “I’m cutting off your wine, Fenris,” she clarified. She was drunk, but not that drunk.

“I love you, though, Marian,” he said, earnestly. “I am yours.”

“I know, Fen.” She kissed the top of his head. “And not a word tomorrow about this, Varric. Today. Later today. Andraste’s ass, what time is it?”

“Time for you to get Broody to bed, I think. I like the idea of Hawkelings, but not so much the idea of them being made in my sitting room, if you get my drift.”

“Ah, Varric, you always know how to set a woman’s heart aflame,” Hawke quipped. She struggled to get to her feet, pulling the hem of her robe down into a more respectful length and trying to stop Fenris from getting handsy and pulling her back down on top of him. “Fenris, we need to go back to our room. We can be drunk there as well as we can here and it’ll be more comfortable.”

“Go on, kids,” Varric told them, somehow getting to his feet with a lot more grace than either she or Fenris were doing. “You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here.”

Everything hurt.

Everything hurt, but especially her head, and her mouth kept filling with saliva, hot saliva, like she was going to—Yep, she was going to vomit. And again, and, yes, again.

Maker’s mercy, what had she done the previous night?

On her bed, a half-dressed Fenris (and not the exciting half) was groaning and telling her to quiet down, he had a headache. A headache! Just a headache? She vomited into the garderrobe once again, eyes clenched shut tightly and trying, trying to not pay attention to the smell. Maker have mercy on her, she would never drink again, until the next time she drank again.

“It’s what you get,” Fenris said, woefully and unrepentantly not as hungover as she was, “for eating three bowls of stew and a whole loaf of bread before getting drunk.” She hated him then, with the hate of a thousand fiery suns. Taking the offered glass of water, she rinsed her mouth and spit, then poured the remaining over her head, enjoying the cool feeling as it washed over her face.

Then she threw up again.

“You remember,” she said, panting. “You remember last night, Fenris?”

“Vaguely, and with some remorse,” he said. Ah, good. Not so pain-free, after all.

“And you said you wanted babies, Fenris?”

“Did I? I can’t imagine why I would say such a thing.”

“This is what you’d have to put up with for several months, Fenris.”

“Perish the thought, then, Marian. Although I suspect I would be slightly less hungover than I am now, which might make it easier to deal with.” She pressed the cool glass against her forehead.

“I’m not sure it would be easier to deal with for me,” she said, dryly. Maker’s breath, was she really discussing this with him?

“It’s entirely up to you, Marian,” he called into the garderrobe to her. She scowled freely. Entirely up to her. As if.

“Fenris, if it were entirely up to me we wouldn’t be discussing this right now, you would have brought it up months ago.”

“Perhaps I simply didn’t have the courage to bring it up months ago, Marian.”

“Fenris?”

“Yes, Marian?”

A pause, and then a slight whimper. “I think I need more water, and some bread, and some chicken broth.”

“And some tea?”

“So long as I don’t have to smell it. And some elfroot.”

“I’ve always wondered,” he said, and he was obviously lying back on the bed again. “Why do you just do not Heal yourself from this wretched condition? Rejuvenate yourself? It is within your power to do so.”

She snorted, slightly. “And lose the ability to learn my lesson? No, ser.”

“Marian.”

“Fenris.”

“I’ve known you ten years and you’re still drinking yourself sick the next morning.”

“Only on my worst days.”

“Seeing me again after months apart was one of your worst days?”

“Realizing how badly I had messed up by not bringing you with me. Although I will still contend, in the light of day, that you were much safer anywhere but Adamant, no matter what.”

“I will get your bread and broth and tea, Marian.”

“I love you. You know that, right?”

Now it was his turn to snort. “You’d better.”

It was mid-afternoon before Hawke felt human enough again to leave their rooms. Her head hurt less, her mouth felt less like leather, and her stomach was more settled. Fenris, the wretch, always seemed to be able to get over hangovers as if they were nothing. It was probably all those years of being holed up in that old mansion of Danarius’s, with little coin and not much to do other than be pestered by Hawke and drink a seemingly endless wine cellar, she thought, slightly spitefully. At least he was willing to take care of her, and, indeed, seemed great delight in the idea of simply lying beside her in bed while she got over the worst of feeling like crap.

By the time they decided they needed to check on Varric, Hawke was ready to get out of there, around other people, because she knew she owed Fenris some answers and didn’t want to provide them. Also, he seemed fixated on the idea of “babies” and she didn’t want to talk about that. Not so soon after Adamant, and not with the impending trip to Weisshaupt looming ahead of them. Not while the world was at war against Corypheus, and not while she felt so unworthy of his affections as she was feeling right then.

In the light of day, Hawke felt guilty. She had left Fenris, and had given him little indication that she was going to return. Her husband, Maker’s Light, how could she do such a thing? Perhaps it was temporary insanity, or she was overwhelmed with fear she couldn’t control—she couldn’t remember the reasons and perhaps they didn’t matter, now that Fenris was with her and they were together and things were agreed upon, if “things” included “no being madder than necessary” and “drinking until the small hours is not the best idea.” Hawke was good at deciding things, but leaving without him was a horrible decision and she was pretty much inclined to indulge him in most anything he wanted to assuage her own guilt.

Right then, Fenris seemed to mainly want to see Hawke talking to people. He always had enjoyed observing her interactions with others, even if it had meant that she involved herself with them, as he viewed, unnecessarily. It was common for him to hang back and watch her talk, rarely taking part in the conversations himself. Part of her had been concerned that it was ingrained on him from his days of being a slave, but even as the years persisted he did it, and Hawke decided, regardless of where he learned it, it was now part of his personality.

Their first stop was picking up Varric, and there Hawke was forced to narrate what happened at Crestwood and the Western Approach and Adamant. That took a while, a long while, and her headache just got worse and worse. Fenris sat there in silence, for the most part, occasionally asking pertinent questions, for more description here or better detail there.

It was hard, and long, thirsty work, and when she got towards the end, when she had volunteered to stay in the Fade, to help the others escape…

“Hawke,” he said, making a strangled noise that broke her heart. “No, why would you do that?”

“Think of how Leliana feels right now. Think about how the Hero of Ferelden feels, or will feel, when she finds out her friend is dead?” Hawke slumped back, closing her eyes tightly, balling her hands into fists. “I… Corypheus was my mistake, Fenris.”

“Yours only? Who else was with you in that prison, Hawke? I was there. Varric. Carver. Aveline. Sebastian. Even the abomination and the blood mage were there, and none of us had a good, compelling reason to do anything but what we did.”

“I even suggested freeing the thing and working with it,” Varric said, disgruntled at the memory.

“But it was my blood, my father—“

“Don’t give me that, Hawke. Take credit for your accomplishments and take blame for your problems; that’s how you’ve always lived, how you’ve lived since I’ve known you. Corypheus was not your fault, and staying behind in the Fade…” His voice wavered and he looked away, and her heart broke a little more. Oh, she owed him big time. “Hawke,” he said, strangled. “Hawke.” The last was a bare whisper.

“But I’m here, Fenris. I didn’t stay behind. I’m here, and Alistair… He was a good man. A good Warden, who was there to save Ferelden and the rest of Thedas when the world needed him. Twice. Maker’s breath, I should have… I should have stayed. The man was a hero, and I’m just…”

“You’re Hawke,” he said, fiercely. “You are my Hawke. And I would not have forgiven you for staying behind.”

She smirked bitterly. “You wouldn’t have been able to find me in order to get onto me about it,” she told him.

“Don’t bet on it, Hawke.” Oh, he was angry. There would be words, later, and in private. She suppressed a sigh. Freedom was nice while it lasted; perhaps the Inquisitor would have to find another to go to the Wardens and she could…. Go home? No, she couldn’t just abandon Varric like that. A glance towards Fenris, the slightest slanting of her eyes, and she realized that where she went was pretty much going to be up to him for the time being. She suppressed another sigh. It could be worse; he could stick her with Carver.

“It was a tough call, elf,” Varric said, coming to her defense. “It was a tough call and a tough situation. You can’t know what you would have done unless you were there, facing it. That Nightmare… that was one huge son of a bitch. We all owe Alistair our lives. If the Inquisitor chose Hawke to stay, I’d hate it, I’d have yelled and cussed and thrown things around, but in the end, I’d have had to accept it, because it was a lose-lose situation.”

“Varric, that’s absurd,” Fenris growled, turning to him. “Nothing is worth losing Hawke for. Nothing.”

“You know, you sound like Anders right now.” Fenris looked at her, startled. “He said… Towards the end, he said to me, one time, that he would drown us all in blood to keep me safe. That’s… Fenris, our lives… They’re pretty much constant danger and threats and fighting. You can’t keep me safe from everything.”

“I can keep you safe from enough, Hawke.” He stood up, angry, and stalked out of Varric’s quarters, slamming the door behind him.

“Varric,” Hawke hissed. “Why did you do this? You put the idea into his head to ask these inane questions. I could have kept him quiet for a few more days, at the least, until I could figure out how to word things so that he wouldn’t be so angry. He’s never going to forgive me this, and I’m going to blame you.”

“Don’t blame me because you didn’t want to explain to your husband the dangers you refused to let him face by your side. I’m not on your team for that one, Hawke. That was a stupid choice. I sent that letter to both of you because the Inquisition needed both of you, and we didn’t have enough time to send for him before you needed to go to Crestwood to meet up with Alistair. I should have written him as soon as you got here, to let him know where you were.”

“Varric!”

“It’s the Maker’s own truth, Hawke. Your life isn’t your own. Maybe it never was. You deserve every bit of his anger at your decisions right now. You know I love you like a sister; better, closer than my own blood. And you know I’m not going to lie to you to placate your sense of… whatever the Void you’re trying to placate. Self-defeat? Self-righteousness? Shit, I’m getting too old for this.”

Hawke could only sit there and stare at Varric in shock. Was that how he felt this entire time? A faint tinge of red crept onto her cheeks and she tore her eyes away, biting on her bottom lip. Minutes passed by in quiet, with Hawke desperately trying to not think about it and doing nothing but.

“I… fucked up, Varric.”

“No shit, Hawke, you fucked up.”

“Do you think he’ll forgive me?”

“Probably. You forgave him over and over. He’ll forgive you. I’d suggest you find someone else to go to Weisshaupt, though.”

Hawke shook her head. “I can’t do that. I promised the Inquisitor, and Maker knows she’s stretched far enough. She can’t afford to send someone else because my husband doesn’t want me going.”

“She’s got a name, you know. Ellana Lavellan, of Clan Levellan, in the Free Marches.”

Hawke stared at him in silence for a moment, and Varric shrugged, uncomfortable.

“Listen, you hate people calling you Champion, right? And ‘scion of the Amell family’? I know you hate that one. Well, remember that she’s a woman, too, just like you are, and that she’s more than just the Inquisitor. She’ll understand, Hawke. Send someone else. There are plenty of recruits around here looking to make a name for themselves. Hell, even Blackwall might be willing to go, given that he’s a Warden and all. If nothing else, Nightingale will make sure that some ravens get there, although we may not hear back. But go home. Go back to Kirkwall, with your elf, and set things right. Make little Hawkelings; I’ve always wanted to be an uncle, and Bartrand can’t give me nieces and nephews where he is now, can he? My love stories don’t have happy endings, but this one isn’t my story, Hawke, it’s yours. Give it a happy ending.”

“Varric…”

“Hawke.”

She sighed heavily and rubbed her temples with the tips of her fingers. “I can’t not go to Weisshaupt, but I promise, after that, we will go straight to Kirkwall. And I won’t go somewhere without Fenris again. I can’t… I can’t not fulfill my obligation in this, but I will bring Fenris with me, I swear.”

“It’s the best I’m going to get, isn’t it?”

She shrugged, not really apologetically. “It’s the best I can offer, right now.”

“Maker help me, Hawke, if you don’t do what you’ve said you will…”

“If I don’t,” she replied, “Fenris will probably have my ass worse than you’d ever be able to.” She brushed strands of hair out of her face. “And in return, you help me keep Fenris’s mind off my stupid decisions while we’re here.”

“Only because it’s you, Hawke.”

She smiled, then, a brittle smile. “Thanks, Varric.”

She wouldn’t go to Fenris.

Their relationship was not like that. When he was ready, he would come find her, and she would make sure he knew she was there, and that he had all the space he needed to brood.

Despite the vestiges of the wicked hangover she still had, Hawke dragged Varric, also wickedly hungover, into The Herald’s Rest, where they played endless games of Wicked Grace and Diamondback, fleecing everyone they could out of their coin with a promise to split the winnings. They had done it for years, back in Kirkwall, sometimes with Isabella, even, and no one was the wiser, not even Fenris.

Alcohol was strictly off limits, because Hawke was going to need her head clear to deal with her broodiness of a husband, so she stuck strictly to water. It was easier to win when you were sober, too.

It was dark by the time he finally came in, and he never approached her directly. Instead, he crept up, step by step. She knew he was there, and he knew that she knew, but she would let him come to her on his own time. Meanwhile, she laughed and joked and talked, and played hand after hand of Wicked Grace, waiting for him. When it was closer to midnight than it was dinner time, she smiled regretfully and announced she was playing her last hand. After, she split her winnings with Varric and sauntered vaguely towards the front door of the tavern, bidding everyone a very good night.

He ghosted behind her as she climbed the stairs to their rooms, her shadow as he had been so often before. Hawke knew that Fenris would speak in his own time, and that time would probably be within the privacy of their rooms and the safety of whatever wasn’t out in public. It gave her time to think, about what she was going to say and how she was going to say it and what she was going to do.

Neither of them spoke in their rooms. Hawke set about getting ready for bed: changing into her sleeping shirt, brushing out her hair, washing her hands and her face. The same tasks she did every night at home, back near Kirkwall, in their little cabin.

She got into bed, and he soon followed, dressed only in his smalls; it was more comfortable for him to sleep that way, he had always said. She lay back, propped up on her pillow, hands folded on her stomach and staring up at the ceiling as the last of the candle beside her bed drowned in a pool of wax.

“Fenris,” she began, slowly and decisively.

“Marian,” he replied, questioningly.

“I… I am sorry, Fenris.”

“I accept your apology, Marian.”

She laughed ruefully and held out her hand for him. He took her hand and squeezed it just slightly. “I… I guess we’re going to need a bigger house, then, aren’t we?”

“Are we now?”

“For all the babies, of course. I’m not getting any younger, Maker knows.”

“I see. And where are these babies going to come from?” She let go of his hand and playfully swatted him against the chest. “Well, in that case, best we get started.”

Tonight, she was still Marian Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall and Fierce Vanquisher of Evildoers. Tomorrow, she would be Marian Hawke, (31), retired.

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Waiting for Home - Fenris x f!mage Hawke

2017-01-04T21:35:38Z

AO3 link to Waiting for Home
Fanfiction.net link to Waiting for Home

It was strange, he mused, as he walked freely through the gates of Skyhold, that it wasn’t bigger, or more imposing. He had been hearing about the Inquisition and their Inquisitor for weeks now, as he made his way from Kirkwall to Skyhold, and he expected the fortress to be huge and imposing, not this beautiful castle high up in the mountains, as it actually was. And now he was here, too, in this place, and he would get answers. He would find out where his Hawke was, even if he had to kill this Inquisitor. Find Hawke. Be whole again. That was his plan, and a fine plan it was, as far as he was concerned. Varric was also at Skyhold, and so finding him would be a bonus, but only if he found Hawke as well.

He had to find Hawke.

It was strange, how none of the guards stopped him. A tall, armored elf wearing a huge Blade of Mercy on his back, tattooed with lyrium; surely someone like him wasn’t so common a sight? Surely this Inquisition had better guards than these men and women? He was tempted to stop and ask them if there was anyone they actually did stop, but he was in a hurry. Hawke might be in there; he hoped Hawke was in there, prayed fervently that she was. Fenris needed Hawke like he needed air and water, and he had come from Kirkwall, by ship and by foot, to find her.

He had to find Hawke.

Inside Skyhold proper, the part that was contained by the curtain walls and protected by gates and two portcullises, there was a loudness, a cacophony that was due to hundreds of people crowded into one place. Living here, working here. He could hear, vaguely, the sound of a smithy somewhere, and soldiers drilling (both battle mages and actual infantry; he knew too well the sounds both made when they prepared for war.) Off to his right he could see the stables, and felt a vague surprise at the presence of creatures other than just horses. Fenris stopped mid-step, jaw dropping and staring in fascination at something that was large and white and had some sort of horns on it. Whatever in Thedas that was, he was certain he didn’t want to be on the wrong end of a charge by it. With a shake of his head, Fenris reminded himself of his goal:

He had to find Hawke.

Since, presumably, none of the guards wanted to do their job and ask the strange elf his business, Fenris decided he would have to approach one of the guards and get directions. Surely someone knew where Hawke (or, barring no Hawke, Varric) was; someone had to have some idea of what was going on around here.

“Excuse me,” he said, to the nearest guard. The man had been eyeing him for a few minutes, but had not seemed interested in approaching Fenris. Either he was very confident or he was a fool; Fenris was obviously a threat, or a potential threat, and the guard should have recognized that and worked to protect the Inquisition. “Can you tell me where Hawke is? She is a beautiful human woman, shorter than me, with long black hair and blue eyes. She is a mage. Or perhaps Varric Tethras; he is a dwarf, with a crossbow?”

“Varric, is it?” The guard eyed Fenris up and down before getting a look of awe on his face. “You’re that elf, aren’t you? The one from the book?”

“What book?” Fenris asked, suspiciously.

“The Tale of the Champion! The one Varric wrote! Everyone here’s read it. And you’re looking for Hawke. Maker’s breath, Darrel!” He called to another guard, gesturing him over. “Darrel, it’s that Fenris, from the book! Here for truth! Run and get my copy and see if he’ll sign it!” Indeed, Darrel went running. Fenris arched a brow in disbelief. Him, sign a book?

“Is Hawke here or not?” he asked gruffly, curling his gauntleted hands into fists. “Or Varric, since you seem to know him?”

“They’re with the Inquisitor, at Adamant. Wait, no, that’s not right; they’re coming back from Adamant Fortress, now. Should be here in a week, with good time, last I heard. Varric and the Inquisitor, at least; I can’t rightly say that the Champion was with them. There were confusing reports, but I know we won.”

“She hates that title,” Fenris said, automatically. “Who did you win against, man?”

“You haven’t heard? Been living under a rock, then?” At Fenris’s growl, the man held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Peace, man. We’re fighting against this magister, name of Corypheus.” Fenris choked on his own air and spit and stared at the man for a moment.

“Corypheus. You are certain of the name?” Maker’s Light, Corypheus was dead. Fenris was there, he was there, they had killed him!

“We’re all certain. He attacked us at Haven and has been the one behind all this mess. The Inquisitor had to go out to Adamant Fortress to stop something about demons and… oh, just a whole mess of things.”

“I… see,” Fenris said. It wasn’t true; he didn’t see. He didn’t understand how Corypheus could be back, when he clearly knew the thing had died, and he didn’t understand why the Inquisitor had to go all the way to this fortress, wherever it was, with his Hawke. His Hawke, just as he was hers. “And Varric is with them, you said?”

“Aye, and the rest of the Inquisitor’s Inner Circle, too. Don’t suppose you’d be interested in any of them, of course. If you’d like, I can take you into the Keep proper and see if you can’t get an audience with the Lady Nightingale; she’ll have all the new intelligence. Ravens go out twice daily, you see.”

“That would be most kind of you,” Fenris replied, gratefully. Darrel ran back up, carrying a couple of books and a lead pencil, and thrust them at the elf.

“Sign it?” he asked, between gasping breaths. Fenris had never signed a book before, so he opened it to the title page and wrote his name in his blocky print: “Fenris Hawke.” Then he handed it back to Darrel, who grinned broadly, before writing his name in the other one and handed it to the talkative guard.

“Thank you, Ser!” Darrel said, obviously delighted.

“Indeed, thank you, Ser Fenris,” said the talkative guard. “I’m Reg, by the way. Darrel, Ser Fenris needs to meet with the Lady Nightingale. I’m going to take him, so let Cor know. I’ll be back in a bit.”

“It were nice meeting you, Ser Fenris,” Darrel told him, earnestly.

“The pleasure was mine, Darrel.” The pleasure was not his, truly; impatience was his, at the moment. Impatient to see Hawke, to touch her, to feel her solid against him, to know why she left the way she did, how could she possibly think of leaving him, to find out if she planned on coming back to him. However, one thing Hawke had taught him was that civility went a long way, especially with guards and servants, and that sometimes a kind word or sentiment was remembered much longer than coin.

The guard, Reg, kept up a regular flow of chatter and gossip all the way up what seemed interminable stairs. Fenris was glad all that walking about Kirkwall at the time had gotten him acquainted with the idea of a highly inappropriate number of stairs, as Skyhold seemed to be little but in some places. Some of the stairs weren’t exactly confidence-inspiring, either, and parts of the Keep seemed rather like it was falling down. Reg pointed out various places of interest to him, including the tavern “The Herald’s Rest,” where he could get some good stew and surprisingly good ale; the throne room, which was, apparently, well-decorated, and then they were going up more and more stairs and passing through the library, which Fenris was interested in nearly as much as he was the idea of the tavern (breakfast having been more than half a day ago, and the idea of some fine ale or wine, something he hadn’t been able to touch since departing Kirkwall, was rather appealing, if he were honest with himself) and finally into the rookery, where this Lady Nightingale was supposed to be holding court.

“Lady,” Reg said, nervously. “This is Ser Fenris. The Champion’s… well? Yes? He’s here looking for her, Lady Nightingale, and I told him you’d be the best bet for information on that.” The tall, red-headed woman in mostly purple and chain mail examined Fenris with shrewd blue eyes, set hard in a face that didn’t seem much inclined to smiling.

“Thank you, soldier. You are dismissed,” she said, coolly, but not rudely. Her gaze did not leave Fenris, and he felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up; this woman was probably one of the most dangerous in Thedas, and he wasn’t sure even his skills with ghosting and his blade would be enough to defeat her. More to the point, this woman knew something about Hawke, and she wasn’t sure how he would react to hearing it.

“Lady Nightingale,” Fenris began, trying to keep his voice polite and knowing that he was failing, but she interrupted him.

“Ser Fenris Hawke. It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I have read Varric’s Tale of the Champion several times, and was surprised that Hawke did not have you with her. Hawke is alive, and is headed back this way with the Inquisitor and the Inquisitor’s Inner Circle. Unfortunately, that is all I can tell you right now.”

He released a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “She’s alive,” he whispered, and clenched his eyes shut tightly, curled his right hand into a fist and felt the tattered, red silk ribbon tied around it.

“The reports even I have from Adamant are confused, but we did get that much. I was informed that you were acquainted with Alistair, through the Champion?”

“I… yes. I knew him, more or less. We had run into each other, from time to time, and Hawke was corresponding with him before her disappearance.” Lady Nightingale nodded, as if this were a mere formality.

“Warden Alistair died, saving Hawke and the others from the Fade,” she said, simply. “I traveled with him, and the Warden-Commander Surana during the Blight, you know. Alistair and I were intimately acquainted, shall we say? I grieve his loss. Hawke, from what I understand, volunteered to take his place in the Fade, to let Alistair escape, but in the end, the Inquisitor chose Alistair to stay behind.” At the mention of Hawke in the Fade, Fenris felt ice shoot through him, and his stomach leapt into his throat. Why would Hawke be in the Fade? What was the woman talking about? “I hold no ill will against the Champion, Ser Fenris, but you must understand that I have lost a lover and must grieve, and… Please go. Find Ambassador Montilyet and she will see to your needs. Any of the servants or guards can point you her way. And be glad that your Hawke survived, and do not let her go without you being there for her, in the future, Ser Fenris; you can never know if that will be the last time you ever see her.”

“I am sorry for your loss, Lady,” he replied, as gently as possible. “Until later…” He stumbled down flight after flight of stairs, as if in a daze, and managed to corner a young serving man who seemed terrified of him.

“I must speak with Ambassador Montilyet,” Fenris said, pressing a couple of silvers into the man’s hand. No more than a quarter hour later and he was being led through several doors and into a large office, complete with a fireplace and a small library of books and a large -a very large- desk that was piled with neat stacks of paper. A quick introduction and a look of sympathy from the Antivan woman seated behind the desk, and Fenris was soon shuffled off to a room he was assured was already set aside for Marian.

“The Champion has done much for the Inquisition,” the Ambassador kept assuring him. Fenris had no care for the Inquisition, in general, or Marian’s help for them, so long as she was safe. Whatever Marian had chosen to do did not matter; she had left him, something that hurt his heart in a way that he hadn't felt since he left her after their first night together. It was almost like some great punishment given to him, years down the road. Her activities for the Inquisition didn't matter; her leaving did.

Montilyet could not give him assurances that she was safe, no more than Nightingale could, but this was -is- the room, he can tell. It had been tidied up, and the bedclothes changed, of course, but he can tell, and so Fenris clutched the heavy pack that has been carried from Kirkwall to his chest while this Ambassador -a small woman, with a kind smile that was barely genuine- promised him all his needs will be attended to while he waits for The Champion. Fenris doesn’t want The Champion, he wants his Hawke, but he simply nodded his head and thanked her for her help before firmly shutting the door behind the woman.

“The room” was actually three rooms: a small suite, with a hearth and a sofa, a writing desk and a chair; a bedroom, with a tall wardrobe and a bed that will be large enough for the two of them to sleep in comfortably, although her mabari, Weezl, would have to sleep on the floor, here; and a small washroom/garderobe, which reminded Fenris sharply of the luxury that Hawke had known when she lived in her estate in Kirkwall, and not the little cabin they shared, so close to the Vinmarks, after. If Hawke was going to continue helping the Inquisition, these are fine rooms to have, he thought, and if Hawke is going to continue helping the Inquisition, then Fenris would, too.

He washed up, getting the travel dust from his hands and face and hair, and settled on the bed with his pack so that things could be put away properly: a change of clothing, the comb that Hawke finally insisted on him having (“Fenris, your hair is delightful when it’s freshly washed and combed, but you let it get tangled and it’s no fun to run my fingers through!” “That must be rectified,” he had replied, gravely. “I must insist you run your fingers through my hair on a daily basis.”); the shirt that he had always worn during the winter, when his dilapidated mansion had gotten so cold, and that Hawke had confiscated when she realized it smelled like him. That shirt now smelled like her, because she had used it to sleep in enough that it was worn through and hers and not his anymore, but she had left it behind in their little cabin and Fenris needed the smell of her to surround him so he could sleep at all, sick with worry and dread as he had been.

The little things all unpacked and put away, and his Blade of Mercy carefully laid out on the weapon stand in the corner of the main room, for the time being. Only Hawke, a mage through-and-through, would ensure that there be a weapon stand in her rooms for guests to use. He would have laughed at the idea, if he didn’t realize the implications behind it: she had spent so much of her life having to fight, and having to have warriors around who needed such things, that it was like a second habit to have a weapon stand around. Even if the last year had been more domestic than fighting, the impulse of a lifetime had never gone away. Mage though she was, Hawke understood the value of having a warrior at her back, to protect her, and protect others from her, should the worst happen. Always prepared, his Marian.

It was then that his stomach growled, and Fenris counted out the coin he had left over from his trip. A surprising amount, to be sure, but he wasn’t entirely certain how much he would need for what. The tavern held stew and ale, he had been told, and that alone was enough to make him pocket the coins again and go in search of it. Perhaps the Skyhold kitchens would hold food he did not have to pay for, but he would taste the Skyhold fare later; tonight, he wanted to be around people who had seen her recently, and perhaps get some information. Fenris was not a man given much to being around others, especially not in a tavern setting -it had taken him weeks of knowing Hawke and her crew before he felt comfortable drinking with them, not trusting the three mages, or the strangers in general, and most of those weeks had been spent with Hawke innocently dropping by his borrowed mansion and, coincidentally, bringing food with her each time. (Until she stopped dropping by, and started dropping hints that they would like to see him at The Hanged Man, and he felt the sudden press of loneliness on him, and the desire for something other than stale bread and hard cheese. He realized, then, that she had been taming him like a wild animal the whole time -some food, some light touches, gentle words and smiles- and part of him wanted to rage at her. How dare she get under his skin in such a manner, this mage? What magic had she used on him? Until he realized that her offers of friendship were sincere, and his armor started to crack just slightly, and she planted the seeds of the vines of love in between the cracks. By the time years had passed, those vines had destroyed his armor and encased him as surely as one of Merrill’s Dalish spells encased their enemies, and he found he didn’t mind at all.)

The guard had not exaggerated about the stew and the ale; both were good, as befitted the headquarters of the Inquisition. Obviously, Fenris mused, sopping up the last bit of stew with his last bit of bread, the Inquisitor and her “Inner Circle” ate frequently here. The Inquisition was a wealthy organization already, he knew that much, and of course they would make sure that their only tavern could properly serve visiting dignitaries and the like.

After eating, he found his way back to the library, although he did have to ask for directions a few times. There was obviously not going to be much to do other than wait until she arrived; a week, or so, he was told. There were worse things in the world than being forced to sit around and enjoy fairly good food and have peace to read as much as he liked, even if it did mean he had to wait for Marian to get back. The "waiting for Marian to get back" part was going to be nearly insufferable, however; to have her coming nearer to him, but unable to get to her sooner. Fenris was not a patient man, when it came to her.

What would he say to her? She had left him. He was her husband, and she had left him. Did she not ever mean to come back? Her note was brief, terse, which in itself was strange; if anything, Fenris considered her writing to be rather verbose and her script flowing. It was both irritating and a joy to read when she had taken the time to write him anything. Some of the letters she had written, which were safely back at their little cabin in the Vinmarks, made him blush to remember, and for a moment he wished he had brought those, so he could read her flowing script and remember those words, and her voice saying some of them in especially heated moments, close to his ear, with fingers caressing over his flesh. But this note was written in a much different type of script, nearly so different that he was afraid she had been kidnapped, or forced to leave. He had to know. He had to. He and Hawke had been friends, lovers, husband and wife for ten years in total; she wouldn’t just leave him completely with that brief, oddly-written note, would she?

In between mealtimes and reading, in between exploring the grounds and trying to find out news of the Inquisition and Hawke, he practiced his sword forms, as always, and even sparred with a few of the Inquisition soldiers. There were not many remaining on the grounds, as most of them were needed at Adamant, but the ones who were there were happy to work with him. Fenris was known, even at Skyhold, thanks to Varric’s wretched Tale of the Champion, which he finally got around to reading. It wasn’t wretched, but it was highly dramatized in places. And he did not brood.

Nightingale told him, every day, what news she had: they were a day closer. There was a setback, and they would be a little late. Hawke was still with them. Yes, she had been injured, but many had been injured in the battle, and her injuries were tended to and not grievous to begin with. Reports about what happened with the Fade were, as yet, unclear, but she would tell him as soon as she knew more.

He needed Hawke, like he needed breath in his body. He needed her then, and now, and always.

“They will arrive tomorrow, Ser Fenris, so long as nothing keeps them,” Nightingale said to him. She seemed to never lose patience with him asking, and always replied with the same tone of voice, but Fenris always felt he was intruding, anyway. He just needed to know; he just needed Hawke. And if he knew the area better, knew the terrain, knew where they were coming from, he would leave out right then and meet them halfway and then he would have Hawke back and no one would keep him from her, not even herself. But he did not know the area, nor where they were coming from, and so he paced.

He could barely eat, so full of a mixture of anticipation and wariness and nervousness as he was, and sleeping was beyond him, although he knew he would want to be awake and sharp for the next day. He finally managed to doze off in the small hours, only to awaken with nervous jolts each time, until finally he gave it over and went off to the larger bathing chambers to make sure he was clean; they were nearly deserted, this time of day, anyway. He knew Hawke would appreciate him more if he were clean and refreshed for her. In his head, Fenris went over all the tips Varric had given him to impress women (to impress Hawke) and these included “Be clean and neat, have clean clothes, smell good, and give flowers. Even if the woman doesn’t like flowers, she’ll like that you tried. And don’t give roses; too cliché.” So he made sure his clothes were clean, and his armor was well-tended, and his hair was neatly combed (although it forever fell into his face, no matter what, and she liked it long, or so she had said to him once, years before, so he would not cut it) and he smelled… like he was clean, at least?

And then, as the sun was peaking over the horizon, or what horizon one could see up here in the mountains, he took up a position along the battlements, Skyhold-side of the long bridge, and set about waiting for them.

It was a fairly long wait, as these things went, but Fenris refused to give up his vigil. Even when the sun rose high, and midday had passed, the most he had done was shift position and stand to walk a little bit so that his muscles didn’t cramp. He would be there, he would be the first to catch sight of them, he would see-

And then they were there, as the sun was starting to go down and the sunset bloomed red and pink and purple. Fenris jumped down from his perch and ran across the bridge, no longer able to hold back his impatience, scanning all the faces he could see. There were guards, at first, and he easily dodged around them, not that any of them were trying to hold him back. A Dalish woman, vallaslin boldly done in blue-green on her face -that must be the Inquisitor. There was Varric, always the shortest man around, and there was-

“Hawke!” he cried out, racing for her. She stopped and turned in his direction, her blue eyes going wide with shock. A quick look passed over her face, one of guilt and sadness, and he could see her mouth tremble, and could see her eyes go bright with tears.

“Fenris?” It was so soft, her voice, nearly impossible to hear over the din of people, if he weren’t straining for it, searching for it.

“Marian,” he said, reaching her and grabbing her arms, holding her still while everyone except Varric flowed around them, giving them looks which he ignored. She was there. She was there and she was whole and she was-

“Fenris, I’m so sorry I left with only a—“

“Marian, you are mine,” he said, roughly, and pulled her against him, burying his face into her hair. She smelled like road dust and sweat, and just a hint of blood. Obviously, she had not had that much of a chance to wash up well after the battles they fought, and he would make sure she got plenty of chance to relax in a tub of steaming hot water, but… “You are mine,” he said, more fiercely, possessively, and he knew it was wrong, because he was hers, but…

“I am yours, Fenris,” she said, fingers digging tightly into his skin, tight enough that she might even leave bruises on him. He could feel the dampness of her tears through his shirt, and he realized how tightly he was holding her and tried to let go, but she clung to him.

“You guys are so sweet you’re going to make my teeth rot,” Varric quipped, but his tone was full of grinning and humor and a sort of relief that Fenris didn’t expect. “This isn’t the best place for a heartfelt reunion, though, kids. How about we take it to my palatial suite at Skyhold?”

“I missed you,” Hawke murmured to him, finally letting go and turning to Varric. Her hand sought Fenris’s hand like a beacon, however, and she held it tightly. “No offense, Varric, but I’ve seen enough of your chest hair over the last few weeks to last me some time. I think I’d be happy to go to my room and find out exactly how Fenris got here.”

“Just remember that she needs to come up for air sometime, Elf,” Varric said, grinning. “I’ll see if we can’t find some of the good stuff for you guys, later; I’m guessing the reunion’s gonna last a while.”

He followed her, as he always did, unable to keep his eyes off her back, the way her hips swayed, even tired as she obviously was, the set of her shoulders (defensive, waiting for the knife, waiting to be yelled at) and the way her ponytail bounced on her armored robes. The rest of the world might not have existed, for all Fenris cared; Marian was there and Marian was his and she was alive, and unharmed, as far as he could tell.

She did not lose the defensive stance, even when they got to her -their- rooms. She un-holstered her staff from off her back and placed it against the wall. Not on the weapon stand, however; never on the weapon stand, because then she would have to admit that the staff was a weapon and not just a great source of Healing amplification, as she always wanted to insist. The silence between them felt like a heavy, tangible thing, for all Fenris wanted to bury his hands in her hair and his tongue in her mouth and himself inside her and feel her again, feel her being his and melting under his hands like she had done so many times before...

“I… Fenris, I am so sorry,” she said, shattering the silence, her back to him and her hands in front of her. Probably fidgeting, if he knew her; she fidgeted when she knew she was wrong, and had to apologize for it. “I am sorry that I left you with nothing but a note, Fenris, but I had to. You… You cannot understand. I had to.”

“You had to leave me, in the middle of the night, with nothing but a note. Yes, I see. Far better to leave me worried sick about you than, say, taking me with you, or at least explaining to me, as if I were a grown man capable of reasoning, why you had to go haring off to the Inquisition without me.” She winced visibly, and he knew he had struck a chord, but Fenris was feeling angry and spiteful then, and seeing her there, and safe, made him realize it was safe for him to feel that way, finally. It had been there, but buried and bottled up, something he could not even acknowledge in case of the worst.

“I deserve that,” she replied, her voice small and quiet. “I deserve your anger.”

“Why, Marian? Do you not trust me?”

“It’s not that!” She turned towards him, but did not face him. “Not just… not just only that. I couldn’t ask you to support the Inquisition because they support the mages—“

“To the Void with the mages, Marian! I support you and that is all that matters!”

“—And because it was dangerous, Fenris. It was Corypheus, and it was dangerous, and there was red lyrium—“

“All dangers I have faced with you before, Marian, and all dangers I would face with you again. I walked into the future with you, Marian, and that did not mean that I back down or flee just because things get difficult!”

“—And I couldn’t risk you dying, you idiot! I couldn’t risk you,” she finished, her voice small and quiet and full of tears.

“Weak excuses, Marian.” He stood, arms folded across his chest, brows furrowed in anger. Marian sank down onto the sofa in front of the hearth, still angled towards him but her head down, not looking at him.

“I know, Fenris. I know they’re weak excuses.”

“Did you intend to return?”

“If I survived. I still… I’m supposed to go to Weisshaupt,” she said, and now all of her exhaustion sounded in her voice. “I have to go to the Anderfels, and tell the Wardens what happened. But I needed to come back here, first; there was no way I was going to be able to make the trip there immediately, and I was going to write you…”

Silence descended again, heavy and weighted between them.

“Fenris…”

“You will not leave without me, Marian. We are a package deal, remember?”

She chuckled, but it was nearly humorless. “I will not leave without you, Fenris.”

“Good,” he said, nearly growling. “I would have followed you again, anyway, and then you probably would have gotten a spanking instead of a lecture.”

“You mean we have to leave off the spanking part?” She almost looked at him, then, almost grinned.

“I have better things in mind,” he told her.

“Do these ‘better things’ eventually involve a hot bath, and hot food, and large quantities of alcohol, and maybe a massage?”

“For a start,” he replied, feeling some of his own humor return. She was there, she was with him, she did not leave him, she only left, and she was still his as much as he was hers.

“Well, then,” Marian said, standing up and stretching. He could not help but admire how her robes played over her curves. How long had he been apart from her? Months, now, without her touch, without her. Even her magic, the call of her mana against his lyrium, had been missed; he didn’t realize it now until she was so close to him. She made his head swim; it was like an addiction, a drug, being near Hawke, being with his wife again, an addiction he had spent too long without feeding. “Perhaps we should—“

His lips captured hers, fingers caressing over the swell of her hip, the curve of her cheek. She gasped against his mouth, in surprise more than anything, and parted her lips for him, hands encircling his shoulders, pulling herself up on her toes to reach him better.

Fenris growled slightly and hooked his hand down under her bottom, lifting her up and against him, and then turned slightly to push her up against the wall. Marian laughed, delighted, and quipped about Skyhold’s walls finally being able to stand up to his fetish, but Fenris quickly silenced her again, taking her mouth with his, slipping his tongue over her lips. He held her in place while hiking up the hem of her robes up around her waist, his mouth moving down her jaw line to her throat, tasting her, reveling in her.

Quick, impatient movements, and the leggings she favored under her robes were down at her knees, and his own leggings were unlaced. Teasing fingers found her, and it was the work of moments to get her ready for him. He took a deep breath and pressed his forehead against hers, both arms working to hold her up between him and the wall, and he looked her in the eyes as she adjusted their position and then he was inside her and he was home for the first time in months, even if home was away back in the Vinmarks, home was always with Marian, his Hawke.

“Fenris,” she gasped, her nails digging into his skin through his shirt, where she was holding herself against him. It was all he could do to hold her and breath and not reach his release too quickly, despite her “Hurry, hurry, Fenris,” which was driving him mad.

It had been too long, though; too long apart, too long without her, too long sick with worry and desire, and this need he had now was to make sure she was truly whole and his, and he found himself crying out her name and nuzzling his face against her hair as he released inside her, breathing heavy. Not his best or most inspiring performance, but he felt calmer now than he had since he woke up the day before she disappeared, and Marian seemed to know it.

“It’s okay,” she told him, brushing a kiss over the tip of his ear, which did nothing to drive down the want inside of him. “I’ll be a little more active next time.” Fenris huffed a laugh, his hot breath causing wisps of her hair to flutter.

“I do not think it was your performance that was wanting, Marian,” he assured her.

“We’ll just have to do it a couple of more times to evaluate, then,” she replied, her voice tinkling with laughter. This was his Marian, this woman who found joy and happiness and the dogged determination to keep going even in the worst of circumstances.

“I look forward to being your experiment,” he deadpanned, but he could not keep the smile from his voice even then. Especially not then.

“You’ve got me all messy, Fenris,” she chastised, playfully, as she tugged her leggings back up and around her hips again. “Now I need that bath double-time, although I doubt I’m going to be able to get in there anytime soon. You have no idea what it’s like when the Inquisitor comes back from a mission, and this one…” She sighed, although the exhaustion did not come back over her like it had before. He must not have been the only one starved for touch, for a physical demonstration of their relationship. Perhaps her leaving had affected her as strongly as it affected him?

“Unless there is something vital to be said about it,” he told her, seriously, “we will discuss Adamant tomorrow, Marian. I have no wish to discuss that tonight. Tonight, I have you back, who I thought was lost to me forever.”

“You’re so dramatic and broody,” she teased him, running fingers through his hair. He instinctively tilted his head into her hand, closing his eyes and breathing out a contented sigh, and she snuggled closely, pressing her face against the crook of his neck. They stood like that, together, for several minutes. It was home, he knew. Being home again.

For the first time, Fenris realized that perhaps Marian needed him as much as he needed her. She was his water and his air and his everything, but maybe… Maybe he was that to her, as well. Stability, and reassurance, and home, and belonging to someone and having someone completely simply because you wanted to and not because of obligations you did not ask for.

His arms encircled her tightly and he squeezed her harder than he wished. She made a slightly protesting sound, half between a squawk and a laugh, but he could not, would not, let her go in that moment. He breathed lightly against her ear the words he had been saying for years, but with a slightly different meaning, now. “I am yours.”

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