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“My little boy has grown so strong.”
No, not again. He thought.
“I love you.”
“No. No. No. Not again.” Hawke whispered, voice cracking in the otherwise silent foundry. He could smell the mustiness, feel the coolness of being in a basement, hear the deafening press of silence as his companions allowed him this final moment.
He could feel the hand on his cheek, cold and not his mother’s, it was softer, that of a woman who had never darned her children’s clothes, or fled from a smoldering Lothering with only the clothes on her back to remember home. It was pieced together with blood magic, stitched together like the rest of the body, made into the image of someone who never existed, a profound abomination brought to life by a zealot’s desperation for what can never be.
“You’ve always made me proud.”
“No, mother, please.” Hawke felt himself spiral with grief again, just as potent as before. It called them to him, one by one. Rage, Desire and Pride all whispered in his ear. They could bring her back. Despair added his voice when Hawke silenced Desire with fire and froze Rage to a statue.
“Just give in, little mage. You will lose all that you hold dear. Your father, Bethany, Carver, your mother…”
Pride spoke for him as Hawke fought the pull of so many demons offering him peace.
“No, there is nothing that you cannot accomplish. Together, we can bring her back. Together, we can bring back Carver and Bethany. The Hawke family will be one again. And it will be all because of you, Hawke. So powerful, so grand… You are the pride of your family, stronger than—“
Hawke blasted both demons with a semi-circle of ice.
His heart hurt physically. It was beating too fast, pumping too hard, and then there was a sharp, hot pain blossoming across his cheek.
Hawke awoke to an elf staring down at him, silver bangs swept back behind his ear, and his mouth pursed, olive eyes searching. His hand was raised, fingers laid flat from the slap that had awoken Hawke.
“Hawke, where were you?”
He didn’t realize until he took a breath that his skin was freezing and he had stopped breathing in his panic. Frost tinged the bedsheets and his sweat had turned to beaded ice. As he calmed, the magic began to melt, and he realized he must have awoken Fenris with it.
Tears melted down Hawke’s face, and he gritted his teeth as he turned away, ignoring the hand that came to rest on his shoulder. Fenris cared, Fenris was not judging him. Fenris hadn’t leapt from the bed and left as soon as he’d been awakened by Hawke’s distressed magic.
“Hawke.” It was firm, gravelly with sleep, and it soothed Hawke’s ego far more than it had any right to.
“ ‘What does magic touch that it doesn’t spoil?’ ” Hawke asked, swallowing and reluctantly turning back to lie on his back on the damp sheets.
Fenris looked down at him for a long time, brow furrowed, eyes searching for meaning. Then, realization smoothed across his features and his hand came up to comb back Hawke’s damp hair. “You,” he told Hawke, shifting to sit against the headboard of the massive bed with a sigh before crossing his legs to make a pocket for his lover’s head to rest. His hands guided Hawke’s head into his lap and Fenris’s hands slipped into his hair again. “You are strong, both in spirit and heart. Demons come at you from all sides when you close your eyes, but you never give in. Never take the easy way.”
Hawke slowly relaxed under the steady stroke of lyrium-laced hands through his hair, a soft tingle left in their wake from where they touched his scalp.
“They tell me that they can give her back to me—that Carver will come home, Bethany…” Hawke didn’t know if telling would help, he’d heard that it could, but it just brought tears to his eyes again.
Fenris’s fingertips caught them at the edges before they could fall, and his lips pressed against Hawke’s forehead, hair tickling and smelling lightly of the pungent oil Fenris used to polish his blade. “All lies. You know that, and you stay firm. You are the only mage I have ever met who has faced hardship and endured through your own strength alone.”
“Now that’s not true,” Hawke said, reaching up to finally touch Fenris back, tracing his fingers gently across his cheek. “You lend me your strength so often, I can hardly tie my own boots without you near.”
Fenris’s face pinched, and he pulled lightly at Hawke’s hair. “Don’t do that. Even if you are only joking, never deny your own strength.”
“I pay you a complement and you pull my hair, I see how it is.” Hawke didn’t move, though. He lay there, head in Fenris’s lap and eyes lost in thought. “I’m sorry I woke you,” Hawke said finally.
“I’m sorry I struck you.”
“Well, I feel like I deserved it, trying to freeze you out of my bed.”
“I was awake before that,” Fenris admitted, idly tracing his hands down Hawke’s face to his neck and then his shoulders. “You spoke in your sleep.”
“Sorry,” Hawke said again, looking away only to have Fenris’s fingertips dig into his skin.
“If you do not stop apologizing, I may have to give you something to be sorry for.”
“Idle threats have never been your thing, love.”
“Do I sound idle?” Fenris asked, raising a brow and shifting Hawke’s head from his lap.
Hawke watched him slip back down to lay against his side and turned to wrap an arm around Fenris’s waist. “I hope not.”
They shared a smile, then a kiss, and Hawke wondered if he should tell Fenris that he was the only thing in the world that kept him from falling to the demons. While he had Fenris, he would never give in to his rage, soak in his pride or despair over his losses.
While he had Fenris, his desire was tanned skin, silver hair and a cunning tongue that reminded him daily of his worth.
While he had Fenris, his demons would never win.