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It is hard to remain quiet. But Fenris remembers a time not so long ago when he could not speak freely. When he had no voice. When he was a slave.
Watching Hawke with Anders is agonizing those first few months when she is all smiles and eager glances. When the two of them can barely keep their hands to themselves during Wicked Grace in Varric’s suite, slender fingers running down the back of a shabby coat, calloused fingers caressing a soft cheek in return. Eyes of longing gaze through her silken fringe at the man to her left, faint lines of glee crinkling at the corners. She’d once glanced at him that way, Fenris thinks to himself, tossing another copper into the growing pile of coin as everyone places their bets. When his eyes meet Varric’s, the dwarf smirks, a look that says ‘I know what you’re thinking, elf’ . He ignores it, instead returning his eyes to his cards as if they hold all the answers to every burning question ever asked. Even with a winning hand, even as his pockets feel much heavier at the end of the night, all Fenris can fixate on during his lonesome walk home is that look of adoration in Hawke’s eyes. Venhedis, how he aches to think of it, to know that it is no longer reserved for him but another.
Time is a cruel mistress, Fenris soon learns. It does not heal wounds, as others have said. Long months pass, and with them, Hawke’s relationship with her fellow mage grows. Taking to the streets one sunny afternoon, his keen ears pick up the gossiping of two housewives.
“Did you hear about the Champion?” one asks.
“That she is living in sin? Of course I heard. Any respectable man would ask for her hand in marriage before rightly moving in!”
The words sting as if vinegar poured on a fresh wound. It is a wound that festers, refusing to heal, no matter how he tends to it, no matter how busy he keeps his mind. Fenris takes odd jobs during the days when Hawke does not call upon him, and in the evenings, he catches up with contacts he’s made in his never ending search for his sister. But during quiet moments at night, when sleep eludes him, when his treacherous mind thinks of nothing but that night with Hawke, his heart lurches, breath catching in his throat as he pictures the hands of another roaming the valley of her skin, counting her silver scars, relishing in the feel of her inside. When he finally drifts to sleep, he dreams of nothing but what could have been, if only he hadn’t walked away, if instead he had chosen to stay.
The next day, Hawke collects Fenris, asking for his assistance along the Wounded Coast. Varric and Anders accompany them on their travels, and for a time, Fenris remains quiet. But even as his tongue refuses to form words, misery consumes his mind. Being in the very presence of the Darktown healer has his heart consumed with bitter jealousy. As feet cross sun beaten sand, Varric and Hawke take the lead, and soon, the blond mage trails to his side. For a moment, Fenris loses himself, unable to remain silent a moment longer.
“You … are living with Hawke now?”
“What’s it to you?” Anders barks in response.
“Be good to her. Break her heart, and I will kill you .”
The mage rolls his eyes at this, quickening his footsteps until he catches up to Hawke, wrapping an arm around her slender waist. Fenris knows Anders well enough to know this is his petty way of showing Fenris whom she belongs to. But Fenris is not one to take ownership of another. Hawke would always be free to make her choice. And if Anders was what she truly wanted … then so be it. He had walked away from her, had thrown away his chance at a life with the woman he cherished. It would always haunt him, but he had no right to voice his distaste. So long as the mage made her happy, he would remain silent. Even when she sits in Anders’ lap after having too many drinks at The Hanged Man, even as she kisses him openly and without uncertainty. Fenris tolerates these things, even as it wounds him like a poison burning him from the inside out. He will not interfere, so long as she smiles.
Until, one day, she isn’t anymore.
Two years pass, and slowly her smile fades into something resembling indifference. At first, Fenris thinks little of it, assuming her relationship with the healer has turned into less a novelty and something resembling routine. But then Anders stops coming to Varric’s suite for cards. Hawke brushes it off the first few weeks, saying that his work at the clinic has him overburdened. It is not completely out of the usual for the apostate to be swamped with patients from time to time. But weeks turn into months, and the mage’s absence becomes something of habit.
One evening, after everyone has piled out of Varric’s suite and have said their goodbyes for the night, he watches as Hawke returns to the bar. A mug of whiskey is poured for her, and she knocks it back as if it’s nothing, immediately ordering another. She’s already drunk, that much had been made clear during their game of Diamondback with her constant insistence of more rounds and her speech beginning to slur. As Fenris approaches the bar, he can see the frown on her face, the one she desperately tries to hide from her friends.
“Hawke” he says as she knocks back her second mug as if it is merely water.
“Fenrissss,” she drawls out his name, giving him a sloppy grin. “Want another round? Isss on me.”
“Perhaps another time,” he politely declines. “Would you like me to walk you home?” he asks, as if he wasn’t already planning on escorting her home in this state.
“I suppose that might be wise.” Hawke reaches in her coin purse to pay her tab, several coppers dropping to the floor in her clumsy effort. Fenris bends to pick them up, handing them back to her. Soft fingers grasp them from his palm, and even now, after all this time, he aches to remember how she once felt against him.
“Thanks,” she says, plopping them down on the bar. Together, they leave the Hanged Man, and begin their walk home.
It takes twice as long to reach Hightown, with Hawke’s stumbling and her refusal to let Fenris help her. Three times she has to stop to relieve herself in an alley, muttering half apologies and shouting the words of a song he does not know in an attempt to cover up the sound of her emptying her bladder. Fenris shakes his head, but even so, a wry smile tugs on his lips. Even in her drunken stupor, it is impossible for him to find her anything less than charming.
As they reach Hightown, her sullen mood from before suddenly returns, and when Fenris glances at her, her eyes carry the weight of the world within them. Loudly, she sighs.
“I’ve been lying, you know.”
“About?” he asks, perking a curious brow.
“Anders. He’s not busy with his patients. He’s … “ she stops.
“He’s what, Hawke?”
“I don’t know,” she says quietly. “He’s never home anymore. And when he is, he wants nothing to do with me. He’s always working on that … that Maker forsaken mani–manisessto,” she slurs.
“And this surprises you?” he asks, colder than he intends to.
“You don’t know him like I do!… Like I used to,” she says defensively. “I used to mean something to him. But now, all I’m good for is a warm place to sleep.”
“You know you are worth far greater than that,” Fenris says and Hawke suddenly stops mid step, eyes upon him.
“How should I know? No one ever stays for long.” Her eyes shine with sadness and uncertainty, but before Fenris can stumble on something to say to comfort her, she picks up her pace once more. They walk in an uncomfortable silence as her house nears. “You know, he doesn’t even kiss me anymore.”
Fenris feels fuzzy, and not from drink. He doesn’t wish to know anything about her intimate life with the apostate, nor does he think she wishes him to know such personal details. “Hawke, you are drunk. Perhaps we can discuss this in the morning when - “
“Nothing will change. Not tomorrow, or the day after that or … “ she chokes out a sob. Fenris’ lips pinch together in a thin line.
“Then he is a fool,” he says quietly, walking her to her door. Under the light of a lit lantern, she peers up at him, sapphire eyes seeking his own.
“You really don’t like him, do you?” she asks, and Fenris scoffs.
“Have I ever made a secret of my distaste for the mage?” he asks.
“No. I suppose not,” she says. “I never meant to fall in love with him, you know.”
“Hawke – “.
“He was supposed to be a simple distraction. But I suppose with Anders, he would always want more. I was hurting. I missed you and … it just … happened.” A shaky breath flutters past her lips. “You don’t hate me, do you?”
“Why would I hate you?”
“Oh … I dunno. For sleeping with your arch emasis?” she slurs yet again, in that ever so endearing way of hers.
“The mage is far from my arch nemesis ,” he corrects. “Besides, I could never hate you Hawke. Do not think such things.”
Before he can realise what he’s doing, Fenris brushes an errant hair away from her cheek. Hawke responds by nuzzling against his hand, and as if pricked by a needle, he pulls away. Even as he yearns for her touch, he cannot take what she cannot rightfully give. A single taste, and he would be starving for more. “If you are unhappy, I think you should bring it up with the mage.”
Hawke sighs. “He’s never home long enough to have a real conversation. And when he is … he won’t listen.”
“Then make him listen, Hawke. If he truly cares for you like he should, he will fight to keep you in his life.” The words taste pungent as breathes them to life, for he has thought of them far too often. I should have fought for you , he thinks bitterly, then is even more perturbed upon realising he is consoling the woman he endlessly yearns for about her relationship with another.
They stand there, lantern light hanging above, casting a soft glow around Hawke’s lovely features. “I guess I can try,” she finally says. “Thank you … for walking me home.”
“It was no trouble at all. Drink some water before you retire,” he says, offering her the smallest hint of a smile.
“Probably a good idea,” she says. Pulling out a key from her pocket, she turns it into the slot of the door. As she tugs the heavy door open, she stumbles back, and Fenris catches her before she can fall head over heels. He slowly rights her posture, their eyes meeting once more. A shallow puff of her breath caresses the skin of his throat, and he is all too aware of their proximity. “Fenris,” she whispers, as if a familiar lover, and he does not fail to notice the longing held within her eyes … the look he has yearned for desperately so. He wants nothing more than to close the distance between them and kiss her, to taste the whiskey on her lips and replace it with his own flavour. But it would not be right. She is drunk and still lays with another. It matters little how often Anders returns to her bed, it is the fact that he is still free to do so if he so wishes. And Fenris … he has yet to resolve his own circumstances. If he were to kiss her now, he would not be the man she deserves.
“Goodnight, Hawke,” he says, slowly backing away, as reluctant as he is.
“Goodnight Fenris,” she sighs, shutting the door behind her. As Fenris walks the short distance to his manor, the tickle of her breath still lingers on his neck, the hunger in her eyes still haunt him, for it is a hunger that matches his own. The fire in his belly that burns for her burns all the brighter now, knowing that perhaps, after all this time, she might still care for him as she once did. He wants to quash this newfound hope, to extinguish it before it grows. Before it can hurt him more than he already aches. Drunken confessions matter little if they are not spoken with a clear mind. But even as he retires to bed, Fenris does something he hasn’t done in a remarkably long time. He smiles. For even though he cannot yet be with Hawke, it no longer seems such an impossible dream. As he falls asleep, it is finally a dreamless sleep, with no stolen memories or lost lovers to haunt him.
A week later, the first letter from Varania arrives, and it changes everything.