In honor of Fenders day… and the people who doesn’t like it.

queerspeculativefiction:

[Author’s note: This chapter is written from Anders POV.]

One thing that always amazes me is how Hawke looks a decade younger when he is asleep. The years fall away when he relaxes, erasing wrinkles and loss, leaving him looking like the day I met him. I wonder if he thinks the same of me. Probably not. Sleep is different for a mage. In some ways it is as real a part of our lives as wakefulness. And as filled with danger, temptation and bitey monsters.  With Hawke I don’t know what he is dreaming about, but I know one thing; even in the grip of the worst nightmare he is safe. Always safe. It is enough to hug him until he relaxes, never waking, never remembering what haunted him come morning. He is not a mage, and sometimes, despite myself, I am happy for that. I’ve gone through this with Karl and… once is enough. 

Karl. The thought of him drives me from our cramped bed. Bunk? Or whatever it is supposed to be. Glorified bench with a blanket? 

It’s hard finding clothes in the darkness, but I don’t want to wake Hawke and I don’t want his company. Not now. I do however want his pants, they don’t fit exactly right, but my Tevinter robes doesn’t come with pants because apparently mages in desert climates likes to show a bit of leg and keep their dangly bits cool. Great back there. Not so great out on the sea where the breeze is cold and I run the risk of flashing everybody at the first strong gust of wind. My coat calls to me in the darkness and I pick it up. The feathers rustle quietly and the leather smells comfortingly like an old friend. I had forgotten all about leaving it on Isabela’s ship in Llomerryn, and I’m glad she kept it. One person that had faith I’d be back to collect it. Or maybe she was just too lazy to hawk it. It would probably be worth a bit to the right buyer. A real relic, as worn by the renegade apostate when he blew up the Chantry and started the war. Huh. I wonder if they’ll make replicas of it. 

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I am reblogging chapter 20 of Act IV:Justice. Why? Because I believe there can be a middle road between having Anders and Fenris hate each other’s guts, and end up in bed. People grow. People change. And sometimes it is easier to talk about things with your rival than your lover…

Act IV: Justice - ch 21 [DA2]

Epilogue

[The Siren’s Call II]

The horizon was a brilliant blue on blue where the lighter sky met the darker ocean, no trace of land or ship. The ship raced steadily across the waves in the brisk wind, strong enough to give them speed, but not strong enough for the rolling waves to truly be a nuisance. Still, Fenris clung to the mast, unused to the odd swaying of the crow’s nest, wary of being taken off guard. Isabela showed no such compulsions where she stood; leaning over the edge, face in the wind and a smile that went from here to the horizon.

“This is what freedom is, Fenris, this is what I was talking about.”

The elf did not lose his frown, but he let go of the mast, echoing her stance, trying to understand what she was talking about.

“Look,” she laughed, placing an arm around his shoulders, ignoring the slight stiffening it caused. “There is nothing out there but us, and the ship, and up here I can feel it all. This is me. My body. This ship. These sails. The creaking of her hull. I can feel how she leans into the wind, the shifting waves, and the smell of the ocean. No chains. No walls. No boundaries. On land I am a whore, a drunkard and a duelist, here I am a queen. Always a captain though,” she added with a smirk. 

They had spent the night talking, reluctantly, haltingly, the pair of them unused to sharing. They hoarded their feelings like beggars hoarded coppers, but now in the daylight it all seemed like a dream. Looking at her, Fenris could not imagine her as a young girl, sold off to be a wife before she was ready. He could not imagine her being trapped by anything or anybody; she had broken her chains so thoroughly he could not even see the marks.

Except sometimes. At night. When the smile faded.

She knew he would not tell anybody.

“I see water and the sky, but no freedom,” he rasped, more puzzled than annoyed. “I’ve been on a ship before; it has nothing to do with being free for me.” Cramped holds. Unwashed bodies. Denarius escaping, leaving him behind. Not free. Thrown away.

“That is because you’ve just been a passenger silly,” Isabela laughed, the wind tearing at her hair, the sunlight casting reflections in her jewelry. “You’ve been dragged through life by one boat or the other, but you’ve never really sailed. Other people have held your rudder, but…” Her eyes flashed teasingly, the joke dirty but her intentions pure. “…I intend to teach you how to sail.”

Fenris was quiet for a moment, watching her face, willing himself to find faults and causes for anger. To rile against the world and stalk off, finding refuge in a dark corner somewhere. But there were no corners or cobwebs up here in the sky, just the swaying mast and a dark-skinned, curvy woman with a smile like the sun. He looked up, into the glaring heavens, shadowing his eyes.

“I think I would like that very much.”

Act IV: Justice - ch 20 [DA2]

[Author’s note: This chapter is written from Anders POV.]

One thing that always amazes me is how Hawke looks a decade younger when he is asleep. The years fall away when he relaxes, erasing wrinkles and loss, leaving him looking like the day I met him. I wonder if he thinks the same of me. Probably not. Sleep is different for a mage. In some ways it is as real a part of our lives as wakefulness. And as filled with danger, temptation and bitey monsters.  With Hawke I don’t know what he is dreaming about, but I know one thing; even in the grip of the worst nightmare he is safe. Always safe. It is enough to hug him until he relaxes, never waking, never remembering what haunted him come morning. He is not a mage, and sometimes, despite myself, I am happy for that. I’ve gone through this with Karl and… once is enough. 

Karl. The thought of him drives me from our cramped bed. Bunk? Or whatever it is supposed to be. Glorified bench with a blanket? 

It’s hard finding clothes in the darkness, but I don’t want to wake Hawke and I don’t want his company. Not now. I do however want his pants, they don’t fit exactly right, but my Tevinter robes doesn’t come with pants because apparently mages in desert climates likes to show a bit of leg and keep their dangly bits cool. Great back there. Not so great out on the sea where the breeze is cold and I run the risk of flashing everybody at the first strong gust of wind. My coat calls to me in the darkness and I pick it up. The feathers rustle quietly and the leather smells comfortingly like an old friend. I had forgotten all about leaving it on Isabela’s ship in Llomerryn, and I’m glad she kept it. One person that had faith I’d be back to collect it. Or maybe she was just too lazy to hawk it. It would probably be worth a bit to the right buyer. A real relic, as worn by the renegade apostate when he blew up the Chantry and started the war. Huh. I wonder if they’ll make replicas of it. 

Act IV: Justice - ch 19 [DA2]

The scream was sudden, choked and filled with more emotions than it could express. Anders let go of Hawke and dropped to the bed, panting harder than he’d done when they escaped Carastes. 

“That was a lot faster than normal,” Hawke mused, freeing himself from the tangled sheets so he could run his fingers over the sweaty, trembling mage. Isabela had graciously agreed to lend them her cabin for a private talk, but talking had turned to touching and things went south from there. Which he supposed Isabela had anticipated, judging from her smirk when she made the offer.

“It’s different without Justice,” the mage admitted once he had caught his breath. “Before it was like having sex in front of your disapproving older brother who did running commentary before he grew bored enough to ignore what was going on. Andraste’s merciful tits it was awful hard to get off sometimes.”

“Maker that’s an image,” Hawke laughed, still far from finished himself as he rubbed up against the mage. “I’m surprised you could even get it up.”

“You know me,” Anders smiled lazily. “I thrive on doing what I’m told not to.” His hand slid down, playing lazily with Hawke.

“So if I told you to roll over on your back because I wanted to watch your face while I fucked you, you wouldn’t do it?” Hawke nipped at the mage’s neck teasingly.

“I might…” Anders wiggled his eyebrows a bit, adopting a very thoughtful look. “Just for you.”

Act IV: Justice - ch 18 [DA2]

Maker, have mercy on their souls. 

That was the last coherent thought Hawke had as the stones started tumbling, and he threw himself on Fenris and Anders to get them out of the way of the collapsing wall. Not that it helped, not with an entire tower losing its structural integrity and collapsing around them in a shower of stone and dust. He coughed, hard, couldn’t see a thing, couldn’t feel anything but soft flesh and hard stone and damn that dust, he couldn’t stop coughing.

He wasn’t alone in that. More voices. More coughs. Movement.

“Whoever has their elbow in my groin, please consider moving it.” Anders’ voice, very much alive though filled with pain. 

There was a shuffle as Fenris shifted; elbowing Hawke in the chest, and Maker but the elf had sharp elbows. Hawke blinked away the dust that stung his eyes, and forced them open.

They were alive, pressed together in a cramped circular area, curiously free of debris. Hawke praised their luck until he realized that it had very little to do with luck, and very much to do with Anders. Above their heads, the rubble rested on an opaque shield of blue, leaving them about a few feet of clear space to squirm in. They were buried alive.

He decided to focus on the ‘alive’ part for now.

“How long can you hold it?” Hawke asked, even though he’d much rather hug the mage and babble incoherently for a while because they were not crushed, and Anders was alive and no less sane than he had been a few hours ago.

“Not long,” the mage admitted, the strain visible in his voice. “The walls, or well, rubble really,  are sort of braced against one another, so I’m just keeping it from shifting… just have no idea what will happen when I let go.”

“Our luck? Crush us just enough for a slow death.” Hawke shifted slightly, so he could look the blonde apostate in the face. Whiskey colored eyes stared out of a face incredibly dirty and covered with dust, but there was a smile there. An infectious one.

“We were lucky I woke up in time, and why was I all naked and slung over Fenris shoulder?” The question seemed to be relevant, even in their current situation.

“Do you want the proper answer, or the Isabela answer?” Hawke replied.

Act IV: Justice - ch 17 [DA2]

“Are you sure about this Anders?” Hawke asked, looking around the dark room. 

It smelled of magic, blood and Lyrium. If anything, it reminded him of the Deep Roads, of the deepest, strangest parts where Bartrand’s maps had taken them. Except that this was just a room, near the top floor of a tower belonging to a Tevinter Magister. Said Tevinter Magister was busy, lighting candles, acting more like an old grandmother whose favorite nephews had come to visit than a figure of her dreaded reputation. Cantilla was many things, but not a woman to be underestimated.

“No,” the mage confessed, face pale in the candlelight. “But since when were we ever sure of anything?”

Hawke smirked a little, reaching out to caress the cheek of the nervous mage. “I was certain of you from the moment we met.”

“Liar,” Anders said, but the smile had appeared all the same. “We had no choice. You wanted the maps; I needed help with Karl, and… well, it went downhill from there.”

“Oh you two lovebirds,” the old woman cackled as she swept past, resplendent in her black and red robes. She looked ancient enough to have one foot in the grave, but moved with the vitality of a teenager. Hawke suspected the vitality was stolen, like so many mages in Tevinter; the old woman was a practicing blood mage. But like Merrill, he hoped that this one was on their side.

“Is this safe?” Hawke asked her, stepping back a bit guiltily from Anders. The last weeks he had been throwing himself into supporting his lover the best he could. But now, when the hour was approaching he was gripped by a fear he couldn’t quite describe. Anders could die, but that was not what he dreaded most. What if he lived? What if he lived but was no longer the mage that he loved? It was a selfish fear, but Hawke admitted to having it.

“Is it safe, he asks,” Cantilla laughed, reaching up to stroke a hand over the rogue’s chest. “Nothing here is safe; nothing in life is ever without risk.”

Act IV: Justice - ch 16 [DA2]

Hawke waded down the pitch-black tunnel, grimacing as the stench grew thick enough to cut. The echoes travelled weirdly down the bricked sewers, prompting him to hold up a hand and motion for Fenris to pause. Both the men froze and the echoes faded, leaving them in silent darkness.

“I think everybody has stopped following us by now,” the rogue whispered hopefully.

“Do not chance a light just yet,” the elf cautioned under his breath. “You’ve played the fool enough for one day.”

“What’s important is that I came out ahead at the end of it,” Hawke smiled, running a hand over the daggers bundled in his arms. Not that the day was over yet he supposed.

He had been sure he was dreaming when he spotted a guard haggling for his lost daggers at a pawnshop down the harbor. He and Fenris had been scouting for a good sewer entrance, and they could usually be found in places where the tunnels opened up to dump their less than pleasant cargo into the patient seas. It hadn’t been hard to move around unrecognized despite their recent troubles; both he and the elf had draped themselves in the bright blue turbans and veils of desert mercenaries, covering everything but their eyes from prying glance. The mercenaries fierce reputation did the rest, they could walk down the street with impunity, and nobody questioned their odd purchases. Fenris might have been a tad too short for one of the nomads, but he spoke fluent Tevinter and knew enough to make their charade believable. Hawke resigned himself to glaring and looking threatening, that is until he had spotted the familiar glint of Antivan steel.

Maybe it hadn’t been the world’s brightest idea to just grab the daggers and make a run for it, but he wasn’t about to let his weapons be sold off like slaves. He had been resigned to their loss, in his mind they had been safely locked up in the house of Denarius, but apparently he had underestimated the disdain mages held for weapons. The guard had probably stolen them when he was brought in, and nobody had cared overmuch. Just Hawke. The loss of the Antivan dagger had stung, the jagged blade was balanced like no other weapon he had, but the loss of the Bassrath-Kata had been a deeper hurt. Guard it or lose all honor. Maybe, just maybe he was getting some of it back right now. He had a feeling that the Qunari would only shrug at the fact that he’d been captured and tortured and… well, never mind what else. That was irrelevant. The loss of his blade was not. Bodies were bodies, this was honor wrought in steel. 

Maker’s breath, he was really buying into that whole Qun deal, wasn’t he? 

“Next time you feel the irrepressible urge to do something stupid, warn me first,” Fenris said, a tired, resigned note to his dark voice. 

Act IV: Justice - ch 15 [DA2]

[Authors note: This chapter is from Ander’s POV.]

…

If someone told me ten years ago, back when I was healing refugees in Darktown, that I would be sitting in a Tevinter tower getting drunk on honeyed wine I would have called them delusional. Honestly, if someone told me fifteen years ago that I would be a Gray Warden, a host to a sort of maybe demonic spirit of Justice and sleeping with a man that’s kept loving me through my stupid decisions and silly sense of humor, I would have laughed hard, and then bought them a drink. If I had been out of the tower at the time that is. Honestly when I put it like that, I wonder if maybe I never did get out of solitary confinement and just went quietly insane. Maybe I’m a gibbering madman in the basement of the Circle Tower, someone they scare the new apprentices with, and uses as a punishment for Templars who won’t toe the line. ‘You will learn to obey orders Ser Shinyarmor, now go in and give the madman his yearly sponge bath.’ I chuckle loudly at the thought, and looks up to see if Hawke noticed. 

He didn’t.

He’s scowling. Again. I wonder if he knows he’s doing it. I wonder if he knows that I notice. Probably not, because then he’d smile and make a joke and Maker I know how that works because I do it too. Maybe he thinks I don’t understand. Maybe he just doesn’t understand himself. Maybe it’s just a reflex, but I know it had to be pretty bad what happened to have him slip into that scowl. I hate that scowl.

We’re in the library of Cantilla, located near the top of the tower, windows circling the room to let the ample daylight in. Right now the afternoon sun is sinking hot and fast so the windows are covered by thin curtains, tinting the light a leaf-like green that Merrill would have approved of. Pretty curtains. Pretty flowers. Even ancient wrinkled Magisters had their girly sides it seemed. The shelves are filled with scrolls and books, but now there are gaping holes where volumes have been pulled out and precariously stacked on the central reading table. I’m busy making notes and drinking wine, fingertips stained blue with ink. Hawke is pacing, sometimes reading, sometimes staring out the window with a faraway look on his face. Silent. 

Scowling.

“Did you ever notice that these curtains are the exact shade of Varric’s undergarments,” I muse out loud, wondering where in the Maker’s name I got that from. From the look Hawke’s giving me I bet he’s thinking the same thing, and so I rise from my chair to run my fingers across the silk, doing my best to appear thoughtful. Ooops. Inkstains. Hope nobody notices.

“And how would you know that? Should I be jealous?” Hawke smiles, and I’m secretly pleased because he smiles, and that means I’ve probably distracted him from whatever was on his mind. Score one for silly wits.

Act IV: Justice - ch 14 [DA2]

Darkness. Soft sheets. The gentle sting of Ander’s magic. Consciousness slowly returning accompanied by arguing voices.

“I had not missed your unique and sparkling personality.” Anders’ soft voice made hard by annoyance.

“I do not sparkle.” Fenris gravelly rumble, tired and sullen in its defiance.

“No, not sparkle, what was it Isabela said… glistened?” 

Hawke could feel Anders’ hands pulling back from his forehead, but he didn’t open his eyes. Instead he lay there quietly and listened as the elf growled in annoyance at the mage’s needling.

“I am here because of Hawke.”

“And now Hawke is here. And has me. So you can leave.” 

The bed shifted slightly as Anders rose to his feet, but Hawke didn’t open his eyes just yet. He wanted to see how this would play out. Or maybe he just didn’t want to deal with reality just yet. Didn’t want to have to deal with decisions and worry and remembering. Or questions. Especially not questions.

“So you can deliver him back to your blood mage friends?” Fenris accusation was as sharp as a slap.

“Listen Fenris,” Anders growled, sounding angrier than Hawke had heard him in a long time, but then the anger cracked into worried frustration. “Oh Maker, I can’t believe I’m actually trying to reason with you. I’m here because I am trying to stop being an abomination. You should be happy!”

“I find little reason to be happy about any mage, abomination or not.” Trust Fenris to state the truth when a lie would be better.

“Fine, don’t be happy then. Just go.”

“No.”

“What do you mean no?”

“No, I am not going to leave until I am sure he is not going to do anything stupid.”

Hawke winced a little in his bed, suddenly hoping that Fenris hadn’t told Anders of what had happened to them. He didn’t think so; he’d like to think that the mage would be far more worried about him if that had been the case. Maker’s breath he didn’t want his lover to know.

“Stupid?” Anders sounded incredulous enough that Hawke became convinced that the mage was indeed unaware of what had happened. “This is Hawke we’re talking about, he’s usually the most level headed among the three of us.

“Usually,” the elf reluctantly agreed. “These are special circumstances.”

“Special enough that you won’t try to repeat what you failed to do at the gallows?”

There was a faint smell of smoke in the air, and Hawke chanced a peek, only to see Anders facing down Fenris, one hand covered in flickering flames while the elf’s tattoos had started to glow faintly. They looked ready to tear into each other, but to Hawke’s surprise, Fenris threw up his hands in the air and backed down.

“Believe me mage; I still think you deserve death. But I promised.” 

“Oh that makes me feel so much better,” Anders sighed, the flames fading.

“I am doing this for Hawke, not you.” The statement was flat but passionate, and Hawke had to wonder what he had done to deserve that particular loyalty from the elf.

Act IV: Justice - ch 13 [DA2]

“Pants first. Then weapons.” Hawke hunched down and grimly tugged the clothes from the dead guard. They smelled like they had not been washed in a long time, but right now he’d strip a Genlock if it meant being covered. Being naked made him feel… not good.

“That seems to be an odd order to go about things,” Fenris said, keeping watch down the corridor. The elf was dressed only in Lyrium tattoos and scars, but didn’t seem as ill at ease by this fact as Hawke did.

“Right now pants are more important” Hawke snapped, struggling into said garment. “If someone comes, you can always punch your fist through them. Again.” It still made him wince, watching the elf do things like that. That was the reason why there was no shirt on his agenda. It was ruined by the bloody crater that had erupted in the guard’s chest when he came to check out what the noise was.

“But you can’t,” the elf pointed out.

“Which is why weapons are second on my list,” Hawke said, weighing the heavy club of the guard in his hand, and then tossed it to Fenris. He went for the dagger instead. Quicker. Sharper.

The elf caught the club, testing it for balance before he turned back to Hawke, an odd frown on his normally impassive face. “You do realize that what happened here has no bearing on who you are.”

“I do realize that,” Hawke said tersely, pulling on the boots. Approximately the right size at least. He’d go barefoot, but it hurt when he kicked things. “Still not gonna remember it fondly.” The last words were so quiet only the elf’s damn hearing picked it up.

“I would suggest not remembering it at all.” Was that concern? Perhaps.

“Says the man who loves to wallow in his past.” Hawke couldn’t help the sharpness of his tone; every word now was a challenge that needed to be answered.