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high-dragon-bait · 2 years

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My Hawke’s canon romance is Fenris BUT I do have her canonically be in a semi-serious relationship with Anders for the first couple of years she’s in Kirkwall because the game sorta pretends that’s the case if you flirted with him at all in act 1 and I’m a messy bitch who lives for drama so naturally I just rolled with it

And I am UTTERLY obsessed with the dynamic this creates but it is DRASTICALLY different depending on whose point of view you’re looking from

If you’re looking at it from my Hawke’s perspective, she falls in love with the first person in Kirkwall she feels she has nothing to hide from. She doesn’t have to hide her apostate sibling, he knows what it’s like to run from something, he knows what it’s like to lose everything, she can talk to him, she can trust him. He is, honestly, the first person outside of family she can just trust since she lost her home. Of course she loves him.

And then, she watches as he changes, as his cause consumes more and more of him. Once, she could trust him with her struggles, with everything she had to deal with, not anymore. There isn’t time for that anymore. Now she has to watch what she says or does because if she does or says anything that he even interprets as “disagreeing” he gets angry. Or he gets so terrified of losing her he starts to get suffocating. She finds herself scared of him, scared for him, always scared. So, she runs, she leaves but still keeps him close because she does still love him, she just can’t be romantically involved with him anywhere because he was drowning her.

And once she leaves she starts to rethink how she was living, how much of how she was living was just ensuring she kept Anders happy. She doesn’t have to do that anymore, so she starts to branch out, starts to relax, starts to talk to people she hadn’t been talking to before. Namely Fenris, who she thought she didn’t like, maybe even hated, Anders hated him, but she... doesn’t know him.

So that’s what she does. She gets closer to the rest of her “merry band of misfits” she’s found herself collecting, and that includes Fenris. Who she starts to learn is good company, actually. He’s amused by her shitty humor, and will even play off it sometimes. More than that, he’s a good listener. She can talk to him about the pressures of being a Fereldan climbing the ranks in Kirkwall, how strained her relationship is with her mother, who she still thinks blames her for her siblings being either dead or gone, how Aveline keeps putting more and more pressure on her and how even the Viscount seems to think of her as some sort of go-to problem solver, even though she never asked for more than a house and a place to keep her family safe.

All of that she thinks would be laughable to Fenris, but it isn’t. He listens, and when he can he gives his advice. When he starts to confide in her, she’s somehow shocked by just how much she understands him. When he tells her about his time with the Fog Warriors she’s a little honored he feels he can trust her with it. They’ve gotten so open so quickly. Even when they disagree Fenris is patient, calm, and their debates are adult, reasonable. Avis never feels like she has to walk on eggshells.

Her feelings for Fenris come on fast. She’s still only halfway through processing them when it all boils over, they spend the night together, and he breaks her heart. But she forgives him in an instant and waits for him. She doesn’t realize that’s what she’s doing consciously, but she waits for him. Takes that time to fully process those feelings and deal with everything around her and decides he’s worth it. She works on herself, and she waits. When he’s ready and comes back she’s happy, so happy. She feels like she can have a life with him, a family, a future, Fenris can give that to her.

All the while she still tries with Anders, but he seems to just keep pulling away. She gives him every chance she can, every opportunity, and he squanders them all. When she tries to reach out he snaps back, when she tries to help him he lies to her, and finally after everything he uses her to destroy the chantry. That’s when she’s had enough, no more chances now, that’s enough “I never want to see you again.”

Now take all that, which is more than I intended to write but we’ve come this far and I can’t stop now, and switch it around.

Anders sees it as the woman he loved, the woman he trusted, one person in Kirkwall he could feel safe around and had nothing to hide from- leaving him. She left with no warning, without ever even telling him what he did wrong. She’s just gone. He’s alone.

And then she goes and pursues the man that openly hates him. That would turn him into the gallows without a second thought. She does this after they’ve been broken up for less than a year, maybe even as little as six months. What’s he supposed to think?

That same man then leaves her, breaks her heart, Anders is right there and comforts her, but she instead waits for him. Waits for Fenris. Who in Anders’ eyes has done nothing to deserve her.

He watches her spend years pining for a man who does not want her, who cannot love her, and then watches her give everything to him the moment he changes his mind. When he has still done nothing to earn it.

Think about this: My Hawke marries Fenris and has his child in a smaller timeframe than she and Anders were together.

(Note: They wouldn’t see it that way, as I imagine that “will they won’t they” period had some uh, “will they” very close calls and they were carrying on a strong flirtationship for awhile before all that drama. Once they became official they felt ready to p much go all in. But Anders doesn’t know that. In his eyes this is like LIGHTNING)

Anders’ overall response to my Hawke’s decisions is still very Not Cool but all that... that’s gotta sting. There’s not a person alive who wouldn’t be hurt by that

So how’s he supposed to accept her help? How’s he supposed to talk to her, after she can can do this to him? How is he supposed to BELIEVE HER when she says she cares for him? How? He has completely and utterly, lost all the trust in her he could have.

“I never want to see you again” maybe, by then, that sentiment is painfully mutual.

Anyways, I’ve rambled long enough, but hopefully that gives you an idea for why I’m so obsessed with this huge mess. Varric is salivating at the sight of it. Isabela is bashing her head against a wall. Merrill is hoping for a happy ending. Aveline is Just Tired

#My Dragon Age #Dragon Age 2 #FenHawke #Handers #Avis Hawke

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transfenris-truther · 2 years

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This is extremely self-indulgent, but tomorrow is the one year anniversary of me finishing my first fanfic, "Through the Fog." Like most of my fic, it's a slow, plodding exploration of Fenris' mind, and this particular fic is all about the Fog Warriors helping him to fight his own indoctrination and brainwashing.

If you're interested in a Fenris in the Fog Warriors fanfic, or you like other stuff I've written and haven't read this one, I'd encourage you to check it out! It's only ten chapters long but I spent a whole year working on it and I still think it holds up.

I've been seeing positivity around older fic lately, so I figured I'd post about it in case anyone missed it when it would've been at the top of their feed. Here's an excerpt if you're interested:

It took him a moment to answer, “My apologies. I don’t know what came over me.”

“You don’t need to apologize for having a panic attack.” She was still crouching on the ground, a hand hovering over his knee, but not touching.

“A what?” He felt dizzy and confused, unsure of what had even happened. Had he thought Danarius was there to hear him? No. He was not irrational, he knew the magister was days away at least. Then why react like this?

“A panic attack. You’ve just had one. I’ve seen it before. Do you want me to go get Kaedec? She’s better at this than I am.”

“No. Nobody else needs to see this.” He was shaken now. His body had never betrayed him like that, not over something so miniscule, “Was that some kind of magic? A spell?”

Sensing that her closeness was unwelcome and Fenris was coming out of the state he was in, she rolled up onto her feet and deposited herself on a nearby crate, “No, not magic. It’s something that happens in your mind. I don’t know if I could explain.”

“Try,” Fenris ordered, his hand pinched his forehead between his eyebrows, his mind swimming.

She sighed, “It’s like… something bad happens to you, and when it does it makes a scar on your mind. Then, sometimes there’s this thing that inflames it like- like the weather does to an old scar? And in your mind, it hurts like when you got the first cut.”

Fenris thought that sounded like magic, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to argue, “My mind has not been scarred.”

“So I’m to believe you’re the best treated slave in the Tevinter Imperium? Doubtful. Those markings alone are proof. They pain you, and it’s clear that mage sucks power out of them like you’re some kind of magic battery,” she said ‘mage’ like a curse, full of vitriol instead of reverence.

“They’re an honor. I should be proud he thought I was strong enough to bear them,” he was only repeating what he had been told. He knew he could not explain to her why the markings were worth the pain they caused. He wasn’t sure he could articulate it to himself.

#Fenris #Da2 #Fanfic #Through the Fog #dragon age #Self indulgent fandom stuff

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fenrys-moonbeam-lochan · 3 years

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A little fear shared among friends

Summary: Lorcan is a father of five. Rowan is scared of having children.

Ao3

Part of my ToG Comfortember 2020

tw: Rowan has a mild panic attack. I’m not sure it can be called that but I decided to put it here just in case.

XXX

When Rowan chugged down his third drink of the night, he even had Lorcan giving him worried looks.

"Whitethorn," said his former commander, "You alright over there?"

"I'm drinking," he grumbled at Lorcan

"Leave him alone Lochan," said Fenrys from beside Rowan "He's been pissy all day. I think he had a fight with Aelin,"

"Huh," said Lorcan, eyeing Rowan as he filled his cup again, "Maybe you should go home,"

Rowan glared at him from across the table.

"I can hold more than this, you know,"

"Oh trust me, I know," said Lorcan, still on his first drink, "But usually not this fast and you don't want to go back to the Queen drunk if you did have a fight,"

Rowan slammed down his cup.

"You know," he told Lorcan, "Sometimes I miss the times when you were a brooding asshole that destroyed himself and let others destroy themselves through drinking and wallowing,"

"Well," answered Lorcan, voice filled with sarcasm, "I am so very sorry that my emotional growth is a hindrance to your pity drinking. Truly, Your Majesty, I apologize from the bottom of my cold dead heart,"

Fenrys burst into laughter while Rowan glared at Lorcan. A lesser male would have been cowed. As it was, Lorcan stared right back as he took a long sip from his cup of ale. A cup, that Rowan noticed, was still half full.

"I would like to know," said Fenrys, once he got his laughter under control, "Why aren't you getting drunk? I at least have the excuse of having to leave for Doranelle early in the morning. What's yours?"

Lorcan smiled, "I don't want to go back to my rooms drunk. Elide and the children are here with me,"

Rowan flinched as the older male mentioned children. Fenrys did not seem to notice as he exclaimed about not knowing the other Lochans and Salvaterres were there.

"I'll have to see them before going to sleep," said Fenrys, "I had no idea you brought them with you this time,"

While Lorcan was obviously nodding along to Fenrys, Rowan could also feel his eyes on him. Unlike Fenrys, he had most likely noticed Rowan's movement from where he was sitting. He could only hope Lorcan would leave it alone.

"Well," said Fenrys, as he finished his cup, "I should go now. The travelling party wants to leave as early as possible and I don't want to be tired in the morning,"

After a quick goodbye, Fenrys left and their drinking party of three turned into two.

"So," said Lorcan, "Children, huh?"

Rowan finched again. He couldn't help it.

"What is it about the mention of children that's making you react like that?" asked Lorcan, looking over him quizzically, "If Elide's word is to be believed, you two were merely waiting to have children. You both still want them, don't you?"

"Yes," said Rowan, barely above a whisper.

"What's the problem then?"

Unbidden, the memory of the dark vision came to him. His children and his mate being swept away from him. The darkness swallowing them whole. Not being able to save them, just watching them disappear. They had been so beautiful and he could imagine it happening in reality. One wrong move, one wrong decision and a precious life could-

Leave.

Rowan

Be gone.

Rowan

"Rowan!"

He shook himself out of his reverie to find that Lorcan had moved beside him, his hand hovering just over Rowan's shoulder.

"Are you back with me?" asked Lorcan, looking at him critically

Rowan nodded jerkily.

After another moment, Lorcan gently placed his hand on Rowan's shoulder. Rowan stiffened at first but hen relaxed at the contact, allowing the other male to ground him.

"Rowan?" asked Lorcan, "What in Hel just happened?"

Rowan sighed, "It's complicated,"

How was he supposed to explain it to Lorcan? to anyone?

However, then another set of images flitted through Rowan's mind. Lorcan holding his son Zirrek for the first time, crying in a way Rowan had never seen before. Lorcan holding his daughter Salva a year later, just as enchanted. Lorcan absolutely terrified as his children grew, thinking he would do something wrong. Lorcan coming to him, saying that he was thinking of bringing up adoption to Elide. Specifically, the adoption of three abused demi-fae siblings between the ages of nine and thirteen who would later take the name Salvaterre. Lorcan wondering over and over again, if he was doing right by his children, biological and adopted.

Lorcan just a few months ago during the holidays, three years after the adoption, surrounded by all his children and smiling the brightest smile he was capable of.

If anyone was going to understand his fears it would be Lorcan.

"I'm- well," he tried, "I'm-"

He cut himself off with a shuddering breath but Lorcan only watched him, wearing a patient expression quite like the one Rowan had worn when the older male had gone on a panicked tangent a week before Zirrek's birth. It was odd to be on the receiving end of it.

After a few moments, Rowan tried again.

"I'm- I guess," he said, "I guess I'm afraid,"

"Understandable," murmured Lorcan

Rowan sighed. Lorcan kept watching, hand still in place.

"Do you remember those dark visions we saw?"

Lorcan stiffened and then visibly forced himself to relax.

"Yes," he said roughly

"I've never told anyone," said Rowan, "Not even Aelin,"

Lorcan brow furrowed, "Rowan are you sure-"

"I saw children,"

"Oh," Lorcan said softly, "I see,"

"I saw our children, four of them. They were standing beside their pregnant mother. They were beautiful, Lorcan, so beautiful. I reached for them and they were taken away from me into darkness and dust,"

"Rowan-" whispered Lorcan, voice filled with the anguish Rowan felt

"And I know- I know it was only a vision. But I already lost a family once, Lorcan, and every time Aelin brings it up, I flashback to that. And it's so ridiculous, absolutely stupid that I can't get over it. And I know I'm hurting Aelin because of it but-

Rowan was running out of breath as he spoke, his throat closing around his words.

"Whoa, whoa," said Lorcan, shaking him a little, "Rowan, stop,"

Rowan shut his mouth with a click.

Lorcan was now holding him by both shoulders.

"Come on, Whitethorn, breath for me,"

Rowan took a few shuddering breaths but then forced himself to stop and match Lorcan instead. It took a few minutes, but eventually, Rowan came back to his normal pattern of breathing.

"Rowan. First of all, it's not stupid or ridiculous," said Lorcan, sliding his hands down so he was holding Rowan's wrists, "On the contrary, it's perfectly understandable,"

"Right," sniffed Rowan, trying to get himself under control.

"I don't have to tell you what you need to do now,"

"No," groaned Rowan, "I have to talk to Aelin,"

"Yes,"

Rowan let out a chuckle, sounding a little hysterical to his own ears and making Lorcan look at him nervously.

"I can't believe I just did all that in front of you," he told Lorcan

Lorcan laughed, relieved, "It's alright. Remember me before Zirrek was born?"

"I remember," said Rowan, grinning at the memory, "Both Vaughan and I practically had to hold you down from pacing,"

"Yes," said Lorcan, "And look at me and my children now,"

Rowan smiled as he thought of Lorcan and Elide's children. The oldest, Mara Salvaterre, was sixteen now and quite proficient in taking care of their gardens. They seemed to grow and blossom under her touch as if she was breathing life into them herself. The second child, Shyla Salvaterre, whose magic was the reason Lorcan had discovered them was fourteen and already a great warrior. The middle one, Amin Salavaterre, was now twelve and fluent in eight different languages, all taught to him by his father. Zirrek and Salva Lorcan were only six and five so it was hard to tell their direction in life. However, they had their mothers' wit and kindness and their fathers' strength and stubbornness. All the children were quite adored by the court, and while Lorcan liked to credit Eiide with them, everyone knew Lorcan gave them as much as his wife did.

"Your children are wonderful," said Rowan.

"That they are," said Lorcan, a soft smile on his face, "And I'm still afraid but it passes and I look at them and everything washes away,"

"Hmm," said Rowan, "Maybe talking to Aelin will help,"

Lorcan nodded and then chuckled.

"If only we could have Aedion's confidence,"

"Right," Rowan said with a small laugh, "It would be much easier,"

Two years ago, Aedion and Lysandra's first child had been born and now they were expecting their second one. Both times, Aedion had thrown himself into preparation with gusto, reading from books, learning from healers and talking non-stop about how excited he was. Of course, he had had the normal fatherly nerves that came with becoming guardian to a precious little life but even those had been normal and fleeting. Absolutely nothing like Lorcan and Rowan's panic.

"You should talk to him too," suggested Lorcan.

"Yes. That's probably a good idea," he said and then shook his head a bit as it started to fog, "I think my drinks are hitting me a bit,"

Lorcan smirked.

"I would expect that much," he said, "I will walk back with you,"

His tone left no room for argument and Rowan found himself nodding. They silently walked back to the royal suites. Lorcan kept a hand on his back to steady him for which Rowan was grateful. Once they got to the right door, Lorcan took his hand away and nodded towards the door.

"Don't forget to talk to her,"

Lorcan turned to leave but before he could, Rowan caught him by his sleeve.

"Lorcan?" he said

Lorcan turned and looked at him questioningly.

"Yes?"

Rowan smiled, "I don't miss you being a brooding asshole,"

Lorcan smiled back, moving his hand so their fingers were curled around each other.

"I know, Rowan,"

"Good night," said Rowan, "Give them my love,"

Lorcan nodded and squeezed Rowan's fingers gently before walking away. Rowan turned and took a deep breath, opening the door to find his wife sitting on the settee and reading a book.

"Fireheart," he murmured, "I think I need to talk to you,"

Aelin gave him a gentle smile, one he did not think he deserved but cherished anyway.

"Then let's talk, Buzzard," she said, patting the space beside her.

Smiling, Rowan gently closed the door behind him.

A few suites over, Lorcan slipped inside his rooms quietly to find his children sitting around the fireplace, being read to by their eldest sister. He kissed each of their foreheads and told them that uncle Rowan loved them. Mara wrinkled her nose a bit, but the rest of them smiled sleepily and nodded. Lorcan then went into his room where Elide was already under the overs and asleep. He quickly changed and slipped in beside her.

Even in bed, he kept an ear to his children as they finished their story and were ushered to bed by the eldest girls. He didn't stop listening until all their breathes evened out and they were asleep in their beds, warm and safe from the world.

Lorcan sincerely hoped that one day Rowan would be able to know this kind of love and peace too, the kind that came from watching your children grow and thrive

#throne of glass #throne of glass fanfiction #lorcan salvaterre #rowan whitethorn #fenrys moonbeam

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cicada-bones · 3 years

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The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 4: Departure

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

The princess turned swiftly around, her right hand already hidden within the folds of her heavy cloak, clutching the dagger concealed within. She was completely still as she evaluated him, her eyes wide with shock. Rowan almost grinned at the sight.

The princess had probably never seen a fully-fledged Fae before; it had been a decade since magic had been eradicated and the burnings began that had driven all the western Fae from sight of Adarlanian soldiers. The very few that survived lived far from civilization, or were trapped in animal form to roam in the wilderness. Regardless, there was no possible way that she had ever seen anyone like him before.

Rowan was the most powerful pure-blooded Fae male living. He did not revel in the fact, did not lord it over other Fae – but it was a reality of his existence, one that he had grappled with for most of his life. Still, he couldn’t help but enjoy the educational experience he was providing the princess.

The street had gone absolutely silent, the mad beggar woman now huddled in her alcove, pressed against a teetering pile of rubbish, whimpering in fear. The other street urchins shrank back, retreating into secluded doorways and fleeing into the sunny street beyond.

The scent of fear radiated from the princess in waves, but she didn’t let it control her the way so many did. The girl was obviously intimately familiar with the emotion, trained to disregard it and act rationally.

The princess’ eyes roved over him, passing by his silver hair and settling on his tattoo. Rowan ceased his advance, pausing in a dusty patch of sunlight while she studied the whorls of black ink. The markings stretched down the left side of his face and neck, continuing below the pale surcoat and cloak he wore, all the way down his left arm to his wrist. They were in the old language of the Fae – and from the uncomprehending look on the girl’s face, were unintelligible to her.

A small measure of relief stole through him at the realization. Rowan didn’t want her to know any more about him than she needed to.

As Rowan paused, he scanned the rest of the street carefully. It was now nearly empty – its shadowy occupants immediately dispersed by the power radiating from him. There were only a few in the world who would meet the challenge in Rowan’s eyes, and none of that small group were currently in the street before him.

The girl still hadn’t moved, had made no attempt to flee – either back up the drainpipe to the roof or down a side street. She appeared to be contemplating, calculating her next move.

She had skillfully appraised him, marking his weapons, both those hidden beneath his clothing and those that were exposed, including the sword strapped across his back and the vicious knives at his sides, as well as his other advantages, his elongated canines, height, broad shoulders, corded muscle, and overwhelming bulk.

But the girl evaluated him in a way Rowan was unfamiliar with. Normally, the aggression and cold hostility he emanated sent people to their knees, or had them running in the opposite direction. Sometimes, through the fear, Rowan could even scent varying shades of jealousy or desire. Without exception, people reacted to him with how they thought they could use him, could possess him and his power.

But this girl was blank, empty. The fear he had scented earlier had faded and was replaced with…nothing. She was cold, and hard. Emotionless.

But now that the fear was gone, Rowan could finally get an untarnished trace of her scent. It wafted over to him on a warm breeze, carrying much stronger hints of her power than earlier – her flames brought to the surface by stress.

Rowan nearly flinched.

She smelled horrific. Her scent was almost entirely obscured by the vile stench of an unwashed human body. Rowan could taste the layers of blood, sweat, and grime on her as if they were real, tangible things. He could almost see the musk wrapped around her, like a disgusting veil of fog.

But underneath that haze, Rowan could detect her true scent, the smell of her essence, her very identity.

It was bright and sharp, biting almost. It stuck in his throat uncomfortably. Within it, he could scent the faintest hint of a north wind, of evergreen and ice – of her homeland. That scent was baked into her blood, her very bones. It marked her as who and what she was – a princess of Terrasen.

There could be no doubt.

But that tiny hint of northern wind, of her lineage, was almost completely overshadowed by the roiling tempest that thundered through her veins. Now that he was so close, it was undeniable. The petulant child had been given the power of a god, and it writhed in her bones, unwillingly constrained by her small frame. The door between them was locked fast, and the wildfire wanted out. And yet she refused to use it, turned away from it.

Even now, with the cold arrogance in her eyes and the iron bars enclosing her magic, the princess’ scent spoke of heat and spark and burning embers. They whispered to him, nudging at his icy wind.

Discomfort and a blistering wrath pulsed through him.

He hated this girl, hated her more than he would have thought possible. She was wild and completely untamed – a force of nature. A storm to be weathered. No discipline, no control, and not a shred of compassion. A killer.

She shifted position slightly, erring to the defensive. Rowan almost chuckled again.

He wished the girl would strike out, attack him with all the force her human form could muster. It would give him something to do with the fury steadily slicing through his self-control. Give him an outlet for the aggression pumping its way through his blood. He would eviscerate her, and then he could move on – go back to Doranelle and his queen, and face whatever punishment she would have in store for him.

This girl was a killer, and Rowan was an executioner of killers.

But instead of striking, all the tension in the girl’s limbs suddenly leaked out, and was replaced by a sly grace as she sauntered towards him. “Well met my friend,” she purred. “Well met indeed.”

Rowan remained completely still, impassive. Though taken slightly aback by the quick shift from aggression to easy familiarity, he was unsurprised by her change in tactics. She was Celaena Sardothien, the princess turned assassin, and she knew that verbal thrusts were just as effective as physical ones.

So did Rowan. He had dwelt in the center of Maeve’s court for too long not to have become familiar with that kind of warfare. And he detested it. From the princess’ arrogant lips, it infuriated him even more.

The girl paused a few feet before him, staring directly into his eyes – hers swimming with a wicked delight. “What a lovely surprise.” Her voice lilted in all the right places. “I thought we were to meet at the city walls.”

Even if she didn’t know exactly who he was, she had at least deduced who had sent him, and why. She had to know that there was no escaping the coming encounter. Perhaps that was why she was so relaxed – Maeve had said that the girl wanted to meet with her. The princess wasn’t just playing along; she was getting exactly what she sought – an audience with the Queen of the Fae.

Although giving the girl what she wanted aggravated Rowan to no end, he looked directly back into her sneering face anyways, and said, “Let’s go,” infusing his voice with as much indifference as he could.

Before the princess could give him some irreverent retort, Rowan turned and stalked down the sunlit street, avoiding the eyes of the vagrants currently regarding him with intense levels of fear and wonder. He listened carefully for the sound of the princess’ booted feet on the path behind him, relaxing slightly when she began to follow – although a fleeting hint of disappointment passed through him at her easy acquiescence.

Rowan led her through the city, down wandering paths and alleyways, trying to keep as much out of sight as possible. To his relief, the girl never raised any objection, verbal or otherwise, and instead just closely followed him into the northwest section of the city, where Fenrys had promised to leave a pair of horses for him.

Rowan hated traveling in Fae form, and it looked like he had signed up for a good deal of it. People stared as he walked past, pausing their working and walking and shopping to investigate the massive Fae warrior in their midst. Occasionally, flashes of recognition would spread on the faces of the onlookers, and he knew that it would soon be no secret that Rowan Whitethorn was in Varese, leading a strange, filthy girl through the capital.

They entered a small square, the princess lagging behind even though Rowan had slowed his pace to a crawl to accommodate her mortal form. It was adjacent to the apartment, and now held two sorry mares tied before a trough, waiting for them.

Rowan sighed imperceptibly. Fenrys just had to get his retribution for being asked to run Rowan’s errands.

He mounted the larger of the two beasts, while the princess stuffed her small satchel in the saddlebags of the other mare. Rowan began to turn the horse to lead it out of the square when the princess spoke. “I’ve known a few brooding warrior-types in my day, but I think you might be the broodiest of them all.”

Rowan whipped his head to face her. The girl’s tone hadn’t lost any of that infuriating insolence, but it wasn’t really the insult he was reacting to. They were surrounded by a great many interested ears, and if the princess let anything slip of more importance…

She continued, drawling, “Oh, hello. I think you know who I am, so I won’t bother introducing myself. But before I’m carted off to gods-know-where, I’d like to know who you are.”

His lips thinned. How had this girl survived so long? Instead of using violence to let out his fury, like he wanted to, Rowan glared at the many eavesdroppers loitering at the edges of the square – daring any of them to challenge him. They quickly dispersed.

Once he could no longer sense anyone within hearing range, he said evenly, “You’ve gathered enough about me at this point to have learned what you need to know.”

“Fair enough. But what am I to call you?” She gripped the saddle but didn’t mount it.

Rowan’s lips slipped into a frown. He supposed it wouldn’t do any harm to give the girl his name, though it pained him to give the arrogant brat any leverage over him. The less she knew about him, the less she could use against him.

“Rowan.”

She didn’t even blink. Either she had much more self-control than he suspected, which was highly doubtful, or she didn’t recognize the name.

“Well, Rowan – ” The princess’ tone was now bordering on open belligerence. Rowan felt his control beginning to slip as his eyes narrowed, warning of coming violence. She continued anyway. “Dare I ask where we’re going?”

The girl clearly had no regard for her own safety. Rowan had to actively suppress the fury coursing through him as he replied, “I’m taking you where you’ve been summoned.”

She kept silent this time, though he’d expected her to ask where the hell that was, instead mounting her mare and following him out of the square and onto the streets beyond. They slowly approached the entry gates, and the city guards merely waved them through, recognizing him as one of Maeve’s blood sworn and backing away in fear and respect.

Rowan grimaced. Why did it have to be this girl who challenged him, who met his hostility with an equal measure of her own?

Anger still pounded through him, undiminished by the heavy silence that now spread between them. The primal part of him ached to resolve the contest between them, to force the female to concede. It was strange to feel so when the pair of them were so outmatched. Rowan was unused to being challenged by other Fae, even his fellow blood-sworn had yielded to his power without much question. Except for Fenrys – that male constantly challenged him. But their contests lacked heat, Fenrys never actually expected to win.

But this female, this girl, had met the aggression in his eyes with her own arrogance, and had not backed down. She was so used to winning that the thought of losing never seemed to enter into her head.

Though she had lived as an assassin in the slums of Adarlan’s capital for most of her life, she was royalty – through and through.

Rowan let the cool, clean wind coming off the mountains breeze through his lungs, flushing out the last of the noxious city air and calming the pounding of his blood. They were several long days away from Mistward, and it seemed that Rowan would need every bit of his self-control to make it there without snapping.

···

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

#WatE repost

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felassan · 4 years

Note

Do you think we will get multiple Qunari companions?? Possible one who follows the Qun and Tal Vasoth (sp?)? Orrrr one of the ones that helped Fenris?? Sorry my mind is going blank on the actual names pls forgive me!

Hi Nonnie! it’s no problem :) Tevinter Nights spoilers under the cut.

I think we’ll get at least one. It’s just concept art, but my gut feeling is that our chance of having a lady qunari companion this time is a good one. Whether there will be more than one is anyone’s guess and my speculation I think would depend in part on the roster size, after they confirm it sometime down the line in the actual marketing cycle. Going by previous games I’d lean towards only one, with the caveat being that in my ideal world my preference is to have diverse companion lists that have few humans. We’ve had a Qunari (Sten) and a Qunari that can become Tal-Vashoth (Iron Bull) - so I wonder if Lady Qunari is Vashoth? In addition I’d like it if she was a rogue or a mage, since we’ve had two warriors.

If she’s Qunari instead, although it’s been done before in IB, maybe she’s Ben-Hassrath, since Ben-Hassrath ranks contain more than one gender and the faction was prominent in Tevinter Nights. They have knowledge of Solas and what he’s up to, want to stop him, and were recently positioned as wanting to stand against “the true threat” with “their allies standing next to them”, providing a tidy potential explanation for “Why would a Qunari Ben-Hassrath aid the PC” without rehashing IB’s “Hi, I’m a spy”. Outside of the BH, female Qunari will fight if they have to though, and odd, rare exceptions are made: "If a Qunari woman really wants to fight and has a gift for it, she becomes an Aqun-athlok. The Aqun-athlok joins the warriors” and takes on that role. There’s also tertiary canon artwork of a Tamassran holding weapons. All this to say, that if the writers want to have a female big-Q Qunari as a combatant on the PC’s team, she wouldn’t necessarily have to be Ben-Hassrath.

Fog Warriors aren’t Qunari, though they undoubtedly have some knowledge of Qunari culture from the Qunari occupation of their island nation. The Qunari first took the island from the occupying Vints in the Steel Age, so it’s been a long time - plus, know your enemy and all that. The wiki isn’t correct when it says that “During Questioning Beliefs, Hawke learns that Fenris has obtained considerable knowledge of Qunari culture and practices [from the Fog Warriors on Seheron and his time with them]”. He doesn’t mention Qunari or Qunari culture in that conversation. He instead talks a bit about how he learned [some] Qunlat and knowledge of Qunari culture in Mark of the Assassin:

“I picked it up by listening to them [the Qunari]. [...] [they rarely talk in front of foreigners] because they know you’re watching. When there’s no foreigners around, they gossip and complain just like anyone.”

“I spent most of my life in close proximity [to the Qunari].”

The Fog Warriors’ race (as in like human/elf/etc) isn’t specified anywhere. What we know is that they’re mostly people native to Seheron (the plural denonym here is “Seherons”), as in the island’s indigenous people that pre-date both Qunari and Tevinter interference there; they’re not Tal-Vashoth; they occasionally take outsiders of different races and backgrounds in (Fenris is an example); and that although there is a large population of elven former slaves of the Imperium on the island and that elves can be from there (as Fenris has been told he was), the Fog Warriors are not elves, otherwise it wouldn’t make sense for their legends to speak of their heroes who “learned at the feet of elves”. “Fog Warriors” also isn’t the group name for the native people of Seheron - they are instead specifically the most well-known and successful faction of rebels who have taken up guerrilla warfare against both occupying forces. Many of their fellow native Seherons have instead converted to the Qun, as it offers an alternative to the oppression of Tevinter Imperial rule. “Fog Warriors” is the name given to this notable group of rebels by the Vints. There’s a common fanon that they’re small-q qunari, so of the horned race, that were never of or split off from the Qun and formed their own culture, but they’re probably human. Unfortunately the specific cell that helped Fenris were all killed by him.

These people from DA4 concept art that Mark Darrah teased in 2017 could possibly be Fog Warriors. Their clothing is white and doesn’t look out of place for a sort of jungle-based rebel/guerrilla vibe, and with the misty cloud around the one on the right, that could be a Fog Dancer.

In any event a Fog Warrior or Fog Dancer companion (TN spoilers at link) would be really cool. I’d like to meet them and learn more about them. There’s always appeal in a freedom fighter-story, more non-Andrastian humans are always welcome on the roster for variety, and with the possible connection between their lore of a March of the Four Winds and the Dagger of the Four Winds which un-petrifies the frozen stone pirates in MotA, maybe they have a way of resisting or counteracting petrification (TN spoilers at link).

#dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #dragon age #bioware #mj replies #Anonymous #fenris #video games #the Fenaissance #solas #tevinter nights #tevinter nights spoilers #tevinter nights spoiler #spoiler #spoilers

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ravenqueen89 · 4 years

Text

peace

here be a patreon reward for the amazing @princessbatteringram featuring my love Firiel again, this time in the timeline where she is with Fenris. I love these characters and the person who created them infinitely, and I can only attempt to do them justice.

fandom: dragon age

pairing: firiel/fenris

rating: mature

summary: after the Inquisition, two survivors meet.

notes: lots of random and vague freestyling of events on my part. set post-trespasser (in a Solas-is-Firi’s-ex context) and on the outskirts of tevinter. content warning for mentions of Fenris’ past (including the fog warriors).

word count: 1248

also on ao3.

Before their blood stained his hands, the Fog Warriors told him 'you're a survivor. you'll always be able to recognise other survivors in your wanderings. You will look at them and see them for who they are.' Fenris doesn't remember the specificity of their voices, but he remembers the words. He remembers the deaths.

Firiel is a survivor. Fenris could see it on her the moment he met her, and the scepticism he’d felt about the Inquisitor until then started to fade. In the uncertain days following the disbanding of the Inquisition, Fenris had joined a group of agents stationed on the outskirts of Tevinter and still reporting to the former spymaster. The former Inquisitor herself had announced her upcoming arrival in a hastily-written note and Fenris hadn’t understood why she was getting directly involved until that first time he saw her. She needs to fight and it’s written all over her. In the months following her arrival, Fenris learns more about her from observations and whispers, but barely interacts with her directly. They’re all split into different teams with different tasks, but Fenris always looks for her upon returning to base.

Firiel’s dominant hand, the left, is gone, and the loss has left rage written along her skin, tangled with betrayal. Fenris doesn’t ask her what happened until she tells him, when they’re returning from a supply run in the chill of the late afternoon. The words spill from her and Fenris wants to catch them and destroy the pain in them and that’s when he realises. He looks at her, at the fire and steel in her eyes, and he can feel colour rise in his cheeks. Firiel notices his gaze and her words falter, then soften, then cease. The dying sun tangles itself around her hair and makes it shine like molten copper. Fenris feels too many feelings at once but shame is what rises like bile. He shouldn’t even look at her. He shouldn’t keep wanting like he’s allowed to want. Kirkwall should have taught him better.

Firiel reaches her hand towards Fenris and waits for him to look at her again before she lets her fingers touch his face. The shock of contact and warmth renders him speechless and all he can do is stare at her as the sun sets around them.

Fenris acts like a fool around Firiel after that evening. He sticks to the shadows and watches her from corners, his heart racing at the sound of her voice, at the sight of her. She trains late at night and the way she dances around her target is flawless, like she’s always been used to fighting one-handed. Fenris has learned from all the whispers that it’s taken her months of constant practice and sheer stubbornness, but he can’t tell from the surety of her movements. She is a fiercely smart fighter, light-footed, instinctively anticipating where movement will happen. She is an elegant warrior, a sight to behold, and Fenris admires the way her blade always strikes true. He knows that he should stop watching her like a stunned child every time she walks by, but despite his strength of will in everything else he is unable to stop himself. At times, when he seeks her out, he meets her gaze. It is the only time he ever sees her flustered.

When Firiel talks to him, he finds himself out of breath, unable to control the restless movement of his hands. He notices that they are unable to look directly at each other when standing in front of each other, and it’s silly, it’s ridiculous, it’s not behaviour Fenris ever allows himself. He should be focused on the missions, on bringing down slavers, but what he relishes most is coming back and seeing her.

Neither of them sleeps well. Fenris finds Firiel hunched over a desk one night, furiously scribbling over words she has written like they are guilty of crimes. She looks up at him when he crosses the doorstep and the candlelight shows him the anger on her face.

Firiel flexes her hand, over and over, the discarded quill dripping ink over the half-written letter. ‘I just can’t get used to writing like this. My hand keeps cramping,’ she says, and Fenris takes her hand in his before he is aware of it. He rubs circles over her palm without daring to look at her until her hand relaxes, until she slips her fingers around his and holds his hand in turn. Fenris forgets how to think and lifts their entwined hands to his mouth, lets his lips linger on her skin like he has a right to the action. The desk is between them but Fenris is overwhelmed by the closeness anyway, and then she stands and walks right to him and he can’t stop himself from looking at her. He can’t hide from her, not now. Firiel looks at him like she can see him the way he sees her and it makes him feel brave. When she kisses him, he lets himself fall.

The operations cease for a few weeks and the keep empties, but Firi and Fenris stay behind with only the sound of the wind to accompany them. Fenris finds the routine sweet and heady like wine even as he feels fully unworthy of it. He wakes up tangled around her, holding on to her like she’s one of those rare beautiful dreams he sometimes has. They walk together for hours and she laughs as she tells him stories, of her family, of her adoptive clan, of her time with the Inquisition. They hunt and gather supplies and Firi listens to Fenris when he speaks. He’s always known that she knows more about him from the spymaster than he’d like, but now he offers her the information and ignores the fear that causes tremors in his hands. She holds him when the horrors of the past twist the expression on his face, when the rage inside him starts taking its toll on him. She keeps looking at him like he is worthy of her and he doesn’t understand why but he holds her back, holds her like she’s about to disappear.

When the darkness of her past clings to Firi, Fenris takes her to watch the sun rise, bathing the entire landscape in hues that are not as beautiful as her. He kisses oaths all over her skin and brushes her hair with his fingers and hides his face in the crook of her neck when she smiles at him. Fenris tells her about the friends he made in Kirkwall, the ones she hasn’t met, and asks her to look over the letters he writes them. He’s still nervous when he reads, but he reads to her anyway, and she kisses him when he pauses so he does it more often than he needs.

At night he traces the map of her with his fingers and listens to the changes in her breathing and loses himself in her, over and over and over. She holds him as he falls asleep and he feels the weighty layers of his past fall from his shoulders.

Fenris knows that this can’t last, knows that they will have to go into battle once more, knows that they will always be caught up in a war, but he has found life here, he has found peace here. For now, this is all that needs to be.

#my writing #firiel lavellan #lavellan x fenris #fenris #patreon #i love you allie

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pikapeppa · 5 years

Text

Unpublished Snippets Meme: Fenris/f!Hawke

Tagged a million years ago by @charlatron - bringing this meme back around now!

The game: I know I can’t be the only person who has tons of half-finished snippets that, for some reason or other, just didn’t make the final cut. But surely our nonsensical snippets need love too, so why don’t we share some?

From a piece I started writing for some early Act II Fenris/Rynne Hawke, from before they have sex. I stopped because I wasn’t sure where it was going. Maybe I’ll pick it up again someday.

*******************************

Hawke rubbed her hands together with relish. “All right. When Mother’s away, the mice will play. Diamondback all night long, that is.” She grinned at Fenris. “That’s how the saying goes, right?”

Fenris raised one eyebrow and leaned back against Hawke’s kitchen counter. “Something like that, I’m sure.” He glanced idly around the kitchen. “Remind me again why I am here?”

“You’re helping me pick snacks, that’s why!” She opened a kitchen cupboard and peered critically at the contents. “If we need anything, Bodahn will need to go to the market sooner than later. Now come on.” She flung the cupboard doors wide open and gave him an expectant look. “What should we eat to sustain ourselves for a debauched night of gambling and drinking?”

He tore his eyes away from her ever-present smile and gave the contents of the cupboard a cursory glance. “I’m not picky. Choose what you like.”

She shot him an annoyed look. “Come on, help me out. What are you in the mood for?”

“It doesn’t matter. I will eat anything.”

Hawke paused with her hand in the cupboard, then shifted her weight to one hip and folded her arms. “All right then. How about fruit and nut mix?”

He hesitated, then shrugged. “That’s fine.”

She punched him playfully in the arm. “Nice try. I know you don’t like raisins.”

He frowned. “How - what makes you think that?” In truth, Hawke wasn’t wrong; he didn’t like raisins, and he never had. But he wasn’t sure how she knew such a thing.

“You barely chew them when you eat them,” she said. “You basically swallow them whole. It’s like you’re trying to get it over with.”

He stared at her for a moment, surprised and slightly unnerved by how observant she was. Then he smirked. “You’ve been watching me eat, have you? Nothing more captivating to waste your attention on?”

She gave him a slow, lascivious smile. “Fenris, I watch you as much as possible,” she drawled. “I could watch you yawning and scratching your ass and it would still be mesmerizing.”

He cleared his throat loudly. “Yes. Well. I… you are not wrong,” he admitted. “I am not fond of raisins.”

Hawke chuckled and settled against the counter beside him. “I don’t know why you don’t just leave the raisins out. No one’s forcing you to eat them.”

He stared at her, lost for words for a moment. It had honestly never occurred to him to not eat something just because he didn’t like it.

Meals weren’t always a given in Danarius’s household. As Danarius’s favoured slave and bodyguard, Fenris was meant to be fed regularly. But in practice, his receipt of meals had varied widely. When they were at the mansion in Minrathous, Hadriana would frequently withhold his meals for the cruel joy of seeing him suffer. If Danarius had dragged him along on some blasted trip, Fenris sometimes received only scraps as an afterthought.

And then there were the days when Danarius showered him in rich meats and exotic fruits and expensive wine. These were the days that Fenris dreaded the most, as they often were a prelude to some kind of sick seduction fantasy on Danarius’s part. On those days, Fenris forced himself to eat despite the nausea that roiled in his stomach. He forced himself to remember the days when he received no meals at all. He forced himself to think of the less fortunate slaves who were starved to death by masters who saw them as expendable, and he forced himself to eat.

Food was a precious commodity. It wasn’t something that Fenris could ever afford to take for granted. The idea of not eating something simply because he did not like it…

The suggestion would be laughable if it were at all a laughing matter. The fact that Hawke was suggesting it now just spoke to how vastly different their lives had been.

He pursed his lips and shifted away from her slightly. “I eat what is served to me,” he said flatly. “Whether I like it or not matters little. I don’t waste food.”

Hawke gave him a funny look. “Of course it matters. You should enjoy the food you’re eating. I’m not going to just plonk a bowl of raisins in front of you and expect you to eat them. I’m not that much of a bitch.” She lifted herself up to sit on the kitchen counter and idly swung her bare legs. “Come on, Fenris, take your pick! Choose something you like! It’s your choice.”

He glanced at her cheerful, expectant face. Then he slowly approached her wide-open cupboard.

“If we’re missing something you want, I’ll get it for you,” she said.

Missing something? She had so many snacks it was nearly obscene. He stared at the jars and bins and sacks of food that filled the cupboard. So much food representing so much privilege, and he was supposed to just… pick something?

He toyed uncomfortably with his gauntlet. This shouldn’t feel so difficult or strange; all he was doing was selecting a blasted snack. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized something odd: Even after leaving Danarius’s side, he’d continued to act as though he had no choice. Even in Seheron, he had done as the fog warriors had done, following their routines and eating as they did - happily, yes, but still without question.

Had he been doing this with Hawke, as well? Following her whims and her ways without thinking twice, just because it was as he’d always done?

“I don’t… I have not done this before,” he said slowly.

Hawke frowned. “What do you mean?”

He folded his arms. “Choices such as this… It is a privilege enjoyed by those with power. It is a boon. I have never been so spoiled before.”

She smiled slowly at him. “Are you calling me spoiled?”

He smirked at her, and she laughed before kicking her foot playfully at him. “Choosing what you want to eat is the best! And it’s not just for fancy people. You’re trying to tell me you’ve never chosen what you want to eat?”

He shrugged again. “Not that I recall.”

Her smile faded slightly. “Seriously?”

He returned his gaze to her cupboard. “It is not a slave’s place to have opinions about what he eats or drinks,” he said quietly.

****************************

I nominate: @aban-asaara @thevikingwoman @galadrieljones @iarollane @faerieavalon @blondepomeranian @schoute (I KNOW IT’S ALL UNPUBLISHED BUT STILL LOL) @obvidalous @wardsarefunctioning @therarefereldancatlord @lyrium-lovesong!

#tag meme #tumblr game #fanfic writer's life #fenris #fenris fic #fenhawke #fenris/hawke #fenris x hawke #fenris/femhawke #fenris x femhawke #fenris/f!hawke #fenris x f!hawke #hawris #f!hawris #pikapeppa writes

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timesorceror · 7 years

Text

Anders Week 2017 #2

Gluttony // Temperance

The theme could be a side of Anders to explore, or something that has been inflicted/gifted to him by someone else in his life.

@teamblueandangry A bit of some soft Fenders for the soul: Fenris and Anders have a discussion about their drinking habits, both past and present.

Fenris knew that the mage didn’t drink, and that he often attributed his spirit’s dislike of... well, spirits.

“He once told Oghren that calling alcoholic drinks “spirits” was a humiliating word for it,” he recalled Anders telling his Diamondback group one evening. “I do still like the occasional drink, when I can afford the things I prefer.”

“And what things do you prefer then Blondie?” Varric asked. Fenris frowned at the dwarf, who was always asking personal questions so that he might write down the answers to put in his strange memoir. Fenris didn’t care for it, personally, and he knew that sometimes even Anders had his limits as to what he would and wouldn’t divulge to their private playing.

“Sweet things,” Anders surprised Fenris by replying. “Things like berry meads or certain light wines. You don’t often find such things around here.”

Anders had sighed, lamenting the lack of his favorite drinks. When their next session rolled around, Fenris rummaged through the wine cellar to see what other drinks he could offer his guests, only to be surprised when he found a bottle of mead that he recalled Anders mentioning the session prior.

He waited until after Varric and Donnic had left, and then and only then did he present it to Anders. The mage was understandably flabbergasted.

“W-What? Why? Did you... remember what I said last time?”

Fenris nodded, reluctantly.

“If you wouldn’t mind sharing it with me...”

Anders stared at him, eyes slightly narrowed, assessing him. The mage likely suspected that he had some ulterior motive and planned to kill him, but Fenris had planned no such thing. He hoped that Anders could see that and not devolve into his usual rants of suspicion. Once, Fenris had participated in them wholeheartedly and gave as good as he got, but at some point they became less enjoyable and even started to hurt...

...a fact that Anders seemed to be noticing, but hadn’t yet figured out why.

That was just fine with Fenris. He himself was afraid of the feelings welling up inside him. For one, he knew what they were, and they scared him.

Anders did not start ranting as Fenris had expected, but even as he nodded slowly and replied, “No, no, I don’t mind,” in a very calm, even tone, there was tension writ into the tightness of his arms, the hunch of his shoulders, and the way his eyes were still trained on him when Fenris led Anders up to his room so that they might share the drink in a more private setting.

“I’m not trying to kill you,” Fenris said as they sat down and Fenris opened the bottle. He’d even found some glasses earlier in the day and placed them on a small table between the plush, high-backed chairs he’d dragged before the fireside. He filled them, and handed one to Anders.

Anders took it, and at last his tension began to recede as he shook his head in disbelief. “I... I hope you do not think me insulting that I thought you were. We do not... this is not...” Fenris chuckled, and Anders startled at the sound, eyes wide with amazement. “I know. But I know that Varric and Donnic are not fond of such sweet indulgences, so naturally you were my choice to share this with.”

“You don’t really discriminate with your alcohol,” Anders said lightly, almost accusingly. “You picked this out for me specifically.”

Fenris looked away and drank from his glass as he stared into the fire. The sweetness of it lingered on his tongue as the rest of the pleasant burning slid down his throat. Neither of them said anything for a long time.

Surprisingly, it was Fenris who broke the silence.

“You know, at first I didn’t like it,” he confessed, very quietly. Anders didn’t reply, but he could tell that the mage was listening intently.

“Danarius would give me some to taste, on occasion, but he preferred the bitter alcohols like Donnic and Varric, and at the time, I had no recollection of what it tasted like. I was not enthusiastic about the taste, but had to fake my enjoyment anyway. I was not certain of the reaction he’d been hoping for, but enjoyment always seemed to please him.”

“My mother would give me a little of my father’s ale sometimes,” Anders replied when Fenris had finished his story. “And it was Ferelden ale, so of course it was bitter, just like the people who drank it.”

Fenris snorted. “You’re Fereldan. As is Hayden. Neither of you are bitter people.” Then it was Anders’ turn to snort as he let out a bark of laughter. “Ha! Not bitter! I’m more bitter than a mother who’s only child left to become a cleric. I can’t really speak for Hayden, though I know that some bitterness lingers in them. Mostly towards their mother, but I shouldn’t say any more.”

Fenris told Anders about how when he was left with the Fog Warriors, they showed him what a sweeter drink tasted of, and though he glossed over the circumstances of his departure, he said that through them he learned to be more open and discerning about his drink.

Anders regaled him with tales of Circle mages making their own drinks in the dark, mostly forgotten places of Kinloch Hold’s tower, and as Anders continued to indulge in his drink, the stories became more and more elaborate. He did voices too, and sometimes got up to reenact some scenes that had Fenris curled up or bent over with laughter.

Then the mage seemed to remember something painful, and he sat down with a tired smile. “Those were some of the few happy memories I had of that place... but after Karl was gone, I had no desire to stay.”

“You started escaping again.”

“Yes.”

Anders began to tell the tale of his sixth escape where he made it to Denerim and lived there for a year before being caught again.

“I drank a lot, then. I started out working at the Pearl as just a Healer, but then after one of the servicers talked me into wearing a corset and the Madame caught us doing it... she said I looked good in it and decided to hire me on.”

A fond smile stretched Anders’ face, and Fenris had the strangest wish that the mage would smile more often.

“I drank often, with my patrons. Some liked spoiling me, cause I was pretty. Some also shared my preference for sweet things, and couldn’t possibly finish an entire bottle on their own. Some even taught me how to appreciate some of the more bitter drinks, but I knew sweet drinks would always be my favorites.”

Then Anders sighed and bitterness lingered in the words that followed, “It was not to last. Though the Madame kept Templars away from me as best she could, one night there was a really fantastic orgy with like, six or seven people, including me and two other servicers. One of the patrons was a former Templar though, and turned me in right as soon as he sobered up.”

“And... after your escape? Did you drink with the Wardens?”

Anders snorted again as he polished off a glass and filled it up again.

“Did I drink with the Wardens,” he muttered, chortling. “Maker, did I ever. It’s hard to get drunk as a Warden, but I knew a dwarf, Oghren, who was like perpetually drunk. Strangely functional. You would’ve had nothing on this guy. He brewed his own ale that tasted like fire and despair and all you wanted after you finished the first shot was, “Another!””

He raised his glass of mead and downed it in several gulps. He filled it once more, but did not continue to drink as heartily.

“Nate, Sigrun, Velanna... even Rashia would sometimes join us for drinking competitions. Once, I woke up after one of those, layin’ up against the statue of Andraste in the keep’s courtyard, completely nude. My robes had ended up servin’ as my bed, I think, but my knickers –this was back when I’d started wearing them again– had ended up right on top of the head like a crown!”

Fenris descended into a fit of raucous laughter.

“I wish I could’ve stayed,” Anders lamented after Fenris’ laughter died down.

“Why didn’t you?” Fenris asked, and Anders sighed, setting his glass aside and shaking his head. “Some templars joined the order to try to get at me. They nearly would’ve, if not for Justice.” Anders bit his lip, staring intently at the floor.

“Some people might’ve died. Good people. The templars I didn’t care for, but the other Wardens... some of them were my friends...”

Anders pulled his knees up to his chest and hugged them.

“After that, I did the only thing I knew I was good at, and I ran away. I haven’t really... really had a real drink since then except this –thanks for this by the way, it was nice– and I kinda figured that me not bein’ able to enjoy shit anymore was penance for my sins. And accordin’ to the Chantry, my very existence is a sin so... I’ve got a lot to be repentant about.”

“Anders...”

Fenris didn’t like the ache in his chest that Anders’ words seemed to evoke. He figured that a lot of the details were missing and that Anders was probably saying things he wouldn’t normally say, but his tale about leaving the Wardens was... similar, eerily similar to his own sordid past.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he began, and Anders snorted, but Fenris kept going on, “about us being more alike than I thought.”

“What?” Anders’ word was barely above a whisper, but Fenris’ keen elven ears caught the sound.

“Let’s just say I know a thing or two about killing people I care about and leave it at that, Anders. By your logic, I don’t deserve anything nice either, but Hayden... Hayden has taught me that I do. I can have and enjoy nice things. So can you!” Anders huffed, but a small smile made its way onto the mage’s tired face. “Huh. That’s got to be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me...”

Perhaps it was. Fenris felt guilty now for all of the untrue and hateful things he’d ever said, and he was about to give the mage an honest apology before Anders stood up and dusted off his coat before polishing off his last glass.

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” Anders mumbled. “I’ve missed that gentle buzz in the back of my head. It was nice.”

“I still have more of those,” Fenris said, on impulse.

“...oh? Do you?” Anders flashed him a tired grin and Fenris couldn’t help the flush that blossomed on his cheeks. Anders didn’t seem to notice, so he continued with, “Yes. Would you care to join me some other evening to share another? Perhaps with some food? Hayden still complains that you don’t eat enough.” Anders chuckled.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were asking me out on a date,” he mused, and Fenris stilled. Anders merely flashed him another smile and inclined his head to Fenris. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt. Just swing by whenever you’re ready. You know where to find me.”

And then the mage sauntered out of the room, leaving parts of Fenris very hot and bothered and not at all affected by the alcohol he’d just consumed.

Fasta vass. Now he was going to be dreaming about what that ass looked like underneath that coat and those robes. Did the mage still wear smallclothes, he wondered? Well, there were worse things to dream about, he supposed.

#anders #fenris #fenders #cw: drinking #anders week 2017 #timesorcerorwrites

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pikapeppa · 6 years

Text

Fenris/f!Hawke: Astia Valla Femundis

In which Fenris finds the balls to tell Hawke a little more about himself by getting drunk on the last few bottles of Aggregio.

This is my heavy embellishment of the moment when Fenris tells Hawke about his escape from Danarius. More bad flirting, sexual tension, and the story of the Red Scarf™ (you all know the one).

Read on AO3 instead; it’s a bit long (>3000 words).

************

When Fenris finally decided to open up to Hawke, he made sure that he was drunk.

He opened the door and smiled lazily at her. “You’re just in time. There’s one last bottle of the Aggregio. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”

“You got started without me, I see?” Hawke complained as she followed him to the table. “I’m hurt. Don’t you know by now that it’s not a party until I walk through the door?”

“No party,” Fenris corrected as he uncorked the final precious bottle. He gallantly offered it to her. “It’s just the two of us.”

“Ooh. A private party with drunken Fenris? It’s like a dream come true.” She grinned as she sat at the table, then sipped from the bottle before handing it back to him. “What’s the special occasion?”

“The anniversary of my escape,” Fenris replied, then jauntily raised the bottle. “Astia valla femundis!” He sat and took a fortifying swig, and before he could lose his nerve, he planted his elbows on the table and smiled. “Care to hear the story?”

There, he thought. The hardest part was over, like ripping an arrowhead free from the flesh. Now that he’d put the offer out there, he couldn’t take it back.

Her amused little smirk slipped for a split second, replaced by a look of complete surprise. To her credit, she regrouped quickly; she sat beside him and kicked off her boots, then propped her feet up on the table as she always did. She reached for the bottle of wine and shot him a cheeky grin. “You can tell me anything you like. You know I could listen to that voice of yours all day,” she purred.

He smiled back just as flirtatiously. “There are few pleasures greater than speaking with a beautiful woman,” he drawled.

She gave a throaty little laugh, and Fenris was inordinately pleased by the rosy flush that spread across her cheeks. “All right, smooth talker, you’ve got me hooked. Tell me your story,” she said.

Tell me your story. It seemed so simple when framed in her playful voice, but in truth, this was a story Fenris hadn’t told anyone. In the years he’d spent in Hawke’s company, he’d never shared the details of how he’d come to be in Kirkwall.

It wasn’t for Hawke’s lack of interest. She’d asked him about his escape more than once during his first months here, but he’d always refused to tell her, too suspicious of her motives to risk the telling. And given her constant wisecracks, he’d figured she was hoping for an adventurous tale, but the story of Fenris’s escape was anything but entertaining.

Fenris knew Hawke better now. He’d seen past her incessant flirting, and he’d caught the occasional glimpse of sadness beneath her constant smile. Hawke’s heart held more melancholy than Fenris had originally thought, and after three years of working together - three years of battles and arguments and teasing - Fenris had decided that it was safe to let her see more than the malevolent marks on his skin.

Fuelled by booze-lubricated bravado, he’d finally decided to open the door and let her in a little bit.

And so it was that Fenris told her about Seheron. He told her about the fog warriors and how he’d murdered them all under Danarius’s command. He forced his way through the sordid tale, refusing to let the pain of it suck him in: how unworthy he was of their care, their strength and their pride and their fondness for each other and for him, the bodies he’d left broken and bloodied on the ground-

No, he told himself firmly. This was hard enough already. There was no point allowing himself to feel the agony of it. He took another deep drink from the mostly-empty bottle, then offered it to Hawke. “And now you know,” he drawled. Now that the words were free and floating in the air, Fenris was finding it hard to look at her.

She took the bottle silently, then drained the final few gulps of wine. She placed the empty bottle on the table, then slid her feet to the floor and leaned her elbows on the table. “That was worth waiting three years to hear,” she said softly.

Her words were kind but matter-of-fact, and he could feel his shoulders relaxing at her response. He leaned back in his chair. “I’ve never spoken about what happened to anyone,” he confessed. “I’ve never wanted to.” He eyed her contemplatively. “You and I haven’t always seen eye to eye, but…”

“But what?” she asked.

He studied her for a moment. Her chin was resting on her fists, an innocent-looking pose for such a cheeky woman, but Hawke looked anything but impudent now. Her expression was curious and free of guile, and the wine was swimming nicely in his veins, making this moment feel just that little bit softer and safer.

“I have never allowed anyone too close,” he said. He reached automatically for the bottle of wine, remembering belatedly that it was empty.

Hawke unhooked a small flask from her pouch belt and offered it to him, and he nodded gratefully as he took it. She tilted her head as she watched him drink. “Shame,” she murmured. “Close to you must be a nice place to be. I bet that burning ball of rage in your chest would keep me nice and warm at night.”

He swallowed his mouthful of brandy and smirked at her. “Kaffas, Hawke. You are relentless.”

“Absolutely. I’m persistent to the point of stalkerish,” she quipped. “I’ll wear you down until you can’t resist, and then I’ll jump your bones. It’s a clever plan, no?”

Fenris chuckled and shook his head, then passed the flask back to her. They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, Hawke sipping from her flask while Fenris simply enjoyed this moment of quiet. Eventually she propped her feet back up on the table, and Fenris inspected the lean length of her legs with a fuzzy kind of appreciation. Even her bare toes were attractive, fine-boned and narrow, and Fenris couldn’t be bothered to care if Hawke caught him staring.

Finally she spoke, her quiet voice breaking him from his slightly lascivious reverie. “When you say ‘close’, do you mean… uh…What do you mean, exactly?”

Her cheeks were slightly pink, but her coppery gaze was as bold as ever. Whether it was her bluntness or the brandy, Fenris wasn’t sure, but before he could slap up his defenses, the truth was spilling from his alcohol-lubricated lips.

He lifted one hand and inspected the veins of lyrium on his palm. “When these markings were created, the pain was… extraordinary. And the memory lingers.” He returned his gaze to her face. “But you are unlike any woman I have ever met. With you, it might be different.”

Her mouth dropped open slightly in surprise. “Wait. I must be dreaming. Are you… are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

An alarmed little part of his mind was just as disbelieving as she was. He genuinely hadn’t meant the conversation to go in this direction, but now that it was… “If there was someone before, I have no memory of it,” he said.

Her eyes were growing wider by the second. “Not even after you escaped?”

“No,” he said. He took the flask from her hand. “I stayed nowhere for long. Who would I trust?”

She gaped at him, her fingers rubbing absently at the slim red scarf around her neck. “You trust me,” she said slowly. A teasing smile lifted her cheeks, but her eyes remained wide. “That’s what you’re saying, right? I’m not hallucinating? Even with all our, er, disagreements, you trust me.”

He huffed and shot her a warning look. “Do not make me regret saying it,” he said, then swigged from her flask. “I never thought I needed anyone, or wanted anyone. Until now.”

Suddenly her hand was on his wrist. “Fenris,” she said.

Fenris went utterly still, his senses suddenly sharpened by her touch. His sleeves covered his forearms, and she wasn’t directly touching his skin, but the feel of her fingers on his arm sparked a nervous kind of warmth in his belly.

Fenris didn’t like being touched. Before he’d escaped Danarius, the only touch he could remember was with intent to hurt, or to heal his injuries enough that he could tolerate more. After he’d escaped his former master’s clutches, no one had tried to touch him except to strike him in combat, and Fenris preferred it that way.

And then Hawke had come along.

She didn’t touch him often; it was rarely more than a friendly punch to the arm or a flirtatious brushing of his chest. And she’d never touched his bare skin. But the occasional casual touch of her slender hands was the only contact that didn’t make his skin crawl.

His eyes snapped to her face. Her amber eyes were intense and hot, and he’d never seen her look so serious.

“I want this, too,” she said. “I mean, I said so years ago, I don’t know if you thought I was joking, and you’re so hard to read sometimes… I mean, I love flirting with everyone, but it’s different with you. I mean it with you. Maybe it was - maybe I should have been more obvious, but it’s hard to be more obvious than telling you I’d like to strip you with my teeth-”

He snorted at the reminder of one of her more recent so-called advances. “I thought that was a joke,” he said. “Or perhaps I hoped it was.”

She released his wrist and buried her face in her hands. “Maker’s balls. I know, I’m dreadful.” She pushed her hair back and gazed at him for a moment, then straightened up and lifted her chin.

“Fenris, I want you,” she said. “And I’m serious. For once.”

The corner of her lips twisted in a wry little smile, but her gaze was focused and steady on his face. A burst of heat and nerves exploded in his belly, followed closely by a wavering feeling of unreality. He hadn’t intended things to go this way so quickly. He’d only meant to tell her about his past, not that he wanted… that he felt…

But Hawke was here beside him. And she was so fucking beautiful, and he’d been thinking about this for years, and he was so close to her that he could kiss her crimson lips if he leaned in just a little bit, and…

And Fenris was drunk. He couldn’t... He needed to think about this.

With a deliberate casualness, he leaned away from her. “Another evening, perhaps,” he said.

For a long, breathless moment, she stared at him. Then she leaned away as well. “Right,” she said. She fussed with her scarf for a moment, then ran her fingers through her hair. “Right, right,” she said, then rose to her feet and reached for her boots. “Well, I’ll, er-”

Oh. Belatedly he realized how dismissive he sounded. “Hawke,” he blurted.

She paused, her fingers twisted in her scarf, and Fenris scrambled desperately for a way to fix his gaffe. Finally his eyes fell on her abandoned flask, and he waved a hand toward it. “You’re leaving a drink unfinished? That is not the Hawke I know,” he said.

She eyed him cautiously, and Fenris nodded at her abandoned chair. Slowly she sat, then reached for the flask. “You know me too well, then,” she said. “Either that, or I’m much more of a lush than I think I am.”

He smirked, relieved when she slung her legs back up on the table and sipped her brandy. She handed him the flask, and as he drank the harsh liquor, he eyed the slender scarlet scarf around her neck.

She was still rubbing the fabric between her fingers and thumb - a nervous habit she’d had for as long as he had known her. He wondered if the scarf she now wore was the same one she’d had when they first met. Somehow he didn’t think it was; despite the years that passed, the accessory always remained a bright unfaded red.

He jerked his chin toward her scarf. “I have never seen you without that,” he said. “Was it a gift?”

“What, this?” She tugged at the scarf. “No, no. I made it. Or, well, I cut the fabric and hemmed it. It’s nothing special, just a kerchief. When one gets all worn and manky, I just make another.” She untied the garment from her neck and held it out for his inspection.

He took the kerchief from her. It was some kind of soft and thin material, and as Fenris stroked it gently with his thumbs, he realized it was still warm from its proximity to her neck.

He raised his eyes to her face. “You say it’s nothing special, and yet you wear it every day. Even when you’re at home.”

She smiled and lifted her chin. “Look who’s talking, Mister I-Don’t-Like-To-Change-My-Armour.”

He frowned. “Armour can be upgraded. This scarf serves no function.”

“Sure it does!” she retorted. She took the scarf back from him and rolled into a triangle, then tied it around her head the way Isabela wore her headscarf. “See?”

Fenris raised one eyebrow. “You have never worn your hair like that.”

She laughed and pulled the scarf from her head. “Okay, fine, you’re right. I just like it, all right? Red is my favourite colour.”

Her smile was wide, but her eyes were on the slender strip of fabric as she rubbed it between her fingers, and Fenris studied her in silence until she spoke again.

“Red was my father’s favourite colour,” she said. She lifted her gaze to his face. “When we were children, he used to like it when we all wore matching red outfits. It made him laugh. And if Mother wore red as well, he’d call us the four chambers of his heart.”

Confused by the metaphor, Fenris frowned slightly, and Hawke lifted her eyebrows. “Oh,” she said blankly. “Er, you know how the heart has four… It’s not just one big pump, it’s like four little ones working together… Anyway,” she hurried on as his frown deepened, “that’s what he would call us. It was like a silly little thing he’d say. And when we got too old to wear matching clothes, whenever one of us would wear anything red, it would make him smile.”

Her own smile slipped as she looked back at the fabric in her hands. She was quiet for a moment, then she began to roll the kerchief into a slender band.

“After he died, Carver stopped wearing red,” she said. “Mother stopped too - said it made her too sad. Bethany wore a scarf like mine for a long time, but then she stopped as well. I think she just… moved on from the idea of it. But… I don’t know. I like it.” She shrugged and tied the scarf around her neck, her eyes determinedly on the table.

She nibbled the inside of her cheek for a moment, then finally lifted her gaze to his face. “Red is my favourite colour,” she said softly.

Fenris returned her serious gaze. “It is mine as well,” he told her.

She smiled slowly, then reached for her flask again. “Well well, what do you know? We have something in common after all.”

He grunted as she sipped the brandy, then took the flask from her outstretched hand. “It was bound to happen eventually,” he said.

“I don’t know, Fenris, sometimes I think you just enjoy disagreeing with me,” she teased. She propped one elbow on the table, then rested her chin delicately on her fist. “Maybe it turns you on to pick a fight with me. I, on the other hand, quite like the idea of making up with the likes of you.”

He shook his head, but he couldn’t suppress his smile as she slid her salacious gaze over his body. “You’re an idiot.”

“Only for you, Fenris,” she purred, just as he’d known she would. “Only for you.” She plucked the flask from his hand and swallowed the last gulp of brandy, then pushed her chair back. “Well, since you’ve no more wine to offer me, I suppose I’ll be on my way.”

“Hm. I see what my companionship is worth to you,” he drawled, and she chuckled as he followed her to the door.

With her hand on the doorknob, she turned and smiled at him. “Well, when you have something more tempting to offer me, you know where I’ll be.”

Her amber eyes burned with warmth, and Fenris admired the dimples at the corners of her mouth and the slender line of her neck as she tilted her head. He could brush his thumbs over those dimples if he wanted. He could press the tender skin of her neck with his teeth if he so desired. Hawke wanted him - she’d told him so in no uncertain terms - and he had no good reasons left to keep his distance from her, aside from the alcohol still moving sluggishly through his blood.

How odd it was to be thankful that he was drunk.

The silence stretched between them, dark and hot and expectant. Finally Fenris wet his lips, then bowed his head slightly and took a small step back.

“Goodnight, Hawke,” he murmured.

She studied him for a moment, her smile curling into something even hotter than before. Then she slowly lifted her hand toward his face.

He froze, forcing back the instinct to flinch away. It was just Hawke, it was all right-

Very gently, she stroked his chin with her thumb. Then her hand dropped away from his face.

“Goodnight, Fenris,” she whispered, and she left.

Fenris watched the swaying of her hips as she disappeared into the dark. He closed the door, then leaned back against it and exhaled a gusty sigh.

Fasta vass, he thought ruefully. This whole night had been… not what he expected. He’d thought he would tell Hawke about his escape, and she would make some childish joke to make it better, and that would be the end of it.

He hadn’t thought she would share more of herself in return. And he certainly hadn’t meant to admit that he wanted to sleep with her.

At least he’d only confessed to wanting sex. If he’d told her how deeply his longing for her truly ran…

Fenris groaned and dragged his fingers through his hair. He didn’t feel ready for this. He had hoped to end this evening feeling lighter, or purged somehow - hadn’t Sebastian said that’s how confessions were supposed to make you feel? - but instead, he just felt more tangled. Were things truly this complicated, or was he just making them so?

He closed his eyes and slid down to sit on the floor. His mind was a madly spinning loop of moments from this evening: Hawke’s fingers on his wrist, the throaty purr of her lascivious laugh, the openness in her face when he told her of his unforgivable massacre, the sadness in her smile as she smoothed her fingers over her scarf.

He rubbed his chin, remembering the gentle caress of her thumb. Despite the anxious rattling in his chest, he smiled.

He might be a muddled mess of wine and semi-formed regrets, but at least he could enjoy the touch of a beautiful woman.

#fenris #fenris fic #fenhawke #fenris/hawke #fenris x hawke #fenris/femhawke #fenris x femhawke #fenris/f!hawke #fenris x f!hawke #pikapeppa writes #the fenris frenzy continues #i hope you don't all get sick of me srynotsry

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