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Garrett is pulled from deep, deep slumber by the sound of thunder and the stench of ozone and honey. He jerks awake, lightning cackling at his fingertips, sparks whispering in the sheets—a reaction fueled by adrenaline, his magical blood ignited by the shock of sudden wakefulness.
Pale blue light fills the room, and hums, alive, in Fenris. Hawke can smell the lyrium, taste it: like chemicals, but with the faint allure of sweetness. It’s intoxicating, calls to him in subtle echoes as he sleeps at night, tingles in his fingers whenever he brushes them over Fenris’ skin. He cannot imagine what the elf must smell like to a lyrium-starved templar.
Heat radiates from Fenris’ body like a furnace.
“Shit." He kicks the blankets off of himself and goes to him, sick with dread. Fenris is damp with sweat and tears, eyes squeezed tightly shut, tormented but quiet noises choking out of him. He is trapped deep in his dreams and cannot get out. When Hawke touches him, imagery flashes, bloody but brief—faces, words he does not recognize, an underlying current of shame, despair.
The mabari hound curled at the foot of the bed quirks his head up in concern, his ears pressed flat against his head.
Hawke consciously stifles his mana, pushes the Fade far from his mind, wary that a single drop of magic will cause a cataclysmic reaction.
Ghosts, spirits, are naturally attracted to Fenris, buzzing around him in the murky slumber of the Fade. They become angry, frustrated, confused when the lyrium-touched elf does not heed their calls, and take it out on him by filling his head with visceral nightmares. The Veil is always thin where Fenris sleeps. Hawke will not tell him this - it would terrify him.
Fenris would never sleep again.
“Come back to me, love,” Hawke whispers to him, brushing his damp hair out of his eyes. "Pull yourself out."
Fenris reacts violently, pushes at him with his hands as if blind in the dark, a stream of broken Tevene pouring from his lips that Hawke does not (could never) understand. He’s fighting and crying out as if for his life and Hawke feels helpless to stop it. Hawke tries taking his face in his hands, shushing him softly, his heart catching in his throat as Fenris tries to twist away.
The dog gets to his feet and growls, letting out a stressed, angry bark.
It’s only getting worse. And with how violently Fenris is thrashing it’s a matter of time before he hurts himself. Desperately Hawke tries to hold him down, hold him still, pull him against his chest, but Fenris screams, tight and constricted, and by then Hawke knows he’s made a terrible mistake.
The lyrium flickers. A low, earthly thrumming is Hawke’s only warning. His eyes widen and he scampers away, but it’s too late—dark energy flares outward like a shock wave, setting his nerves on fire. He hisses in agony and falls off the bed, body twitching violently. He forgets how to breathe, loses all control of his limbs. They sputter and shake, pins and needles dancing along paralyzed nerves.
“Holy fuck,” he wheezes, dry heaving. Nothing can really prepare even a full-grown man from the devastation of Fenris’ attacks. His consciousness sputters and dies, briefly, before he’s awakened a second time by the sound of King barking angrily at him from on top of the bed.
Fenris is stumbling backwards into the bedroom wall like a frightened animal, lyrium still ignited, eyes aglow and chest heaving. He loses his balance and lands on the floor, the bright blue glow fading.
“Hawke,” he sobs quietly, hand against his mouth in shock. “I’m…I’m…” He presses himself into a corner with his knees drawn close to his body.
Garrett raises a shaky hand to placate him. “I’m alright,” he lies. Pain jitters in his entire body but at least he has control of his faculties. Most people at the receiving end of Fenris’ wraithlike pulses end up paralyzed, shitting themselves, or dead. Sometimes all three. “I probably had that coming for some reason or another.”
Fenris is gently rocking himself, face pressed into his knees. The lyrium goes dark, but Hawke can still hear it, can still smell it, like the air after a thunderstorm.
“Sweetheart, are you with me? Are you okay?”
Fenris nods, shoulders trembling.
“Okay,” Hawke says. “Stay where you are. I'll come to you.” Hawke begins to crawl towards him, grimacing in pain.
Fenris jerks his head up. “Don’t come near me,” he snaps, tone vulnerable despite the viciousness in the command. He still believes that he might be dreaming, Hawke realizes. He remembers the way Fenris pushed him away, the sound of his scream—the way he… He never,ever wants to hear him scream like that again.
“I won’t,” he promises, shaking a little. He finds himself a cool place to sit on the fireplace hearth. He’s horrified that such fears are buried somewhere in Fenris’ subconscious, fears that Hawke might hurt him—but he doesn’t blame him. He’s not angry at him. “I’m going to stay right here, alright? I promise.”
Fenris’ eyes dart feverishly around the room, taking it all in. The dog on the bed, calmer now that the situation has been diffused. The fire cackling warmly in the grate. The desk in the corner, and the book on top of it; the book that Hawke is helping him work through, page by page, word by word. Fenris takes deep, irregular breaths.
“What are you feeling? What are you thinking?” Hawke asks. "Talk to me."
“I don’t know,” Fenris says. “Too much. I can’t…describe—”
“Take your time. Just breathe.”
Once upon a time, in the aftermath of family's deaths, he found himself so deeply mired in grief that he would spend long hours alone in the dark with little but a bottle of hard whiskey for company. He would cry himself to sleep and consider—oh, but for a few moments—that perhaps he would be better off dead with them.
He does not want Fenris to feel that kind of lonely agony.
“I couldn’t wake up. I couldn’t, and when I did, I thought that you…I thought that—I almost killed you.”
“You’re here now," Hawke says calmly. He waves a hand at their surroundings. "This is real. And nothing in this room can hurt you. I would never hurt you, not in a thousand years. If I did, I’d be quite open to the idea of you killing me, because I would absolutely deserve it.”
King plods off the bed and wanders over to Fenris before lying down at his side and curling up. The dog watches Hawke, head resting on the ground, as if guarding Fenris from him. The mabari has always been protective of the elf—just as he had been protective of Bethany, at one time.
“I don’t like you, mutt,” Fenris says.
"Nonsense. You love that mangy dog."
Fenris reaches out and tentatively strokes King's head. He says nothing.
“At least there’s that consolation," Hawke says. Fenris smiles and it warms his heart. "That dog would defend you to the death. And you saw how he helped me against the Arishok. Not exactly a helpless puppy."
"I seem to recall that he did most of the work," Fenris says. "On your end, there was a lot of running around in circles."
"He had a giant sword, Fenris," Hawke says, pretending to feel hurt. It wasn't exactly one of his proudest moments. "I'm going to take what's left of my dignity and run to get some tea. Is there anything I can get you while I'm downstairs?”
“…Water, thank you,” Fenris says.
“Will you be safe by yourself?”
“I am not alone.”
“Of course not. I’ll be right back.” Hawke gets to his feet and leaves Fenris with the dog, fetching a cool glass of water from the kitchen. When he returns, Fenris is lying on the bed, staring contemplatively into the fire. Hawke offers him the glass, and Fenris drinks down the entirety of it.
“Feel better?” Hawke asks.
Fenris nods sleepily, leaning back into the warm embrace of the pillows. The dog is beside him, ever loyal, already fast asleep again. “Yes,” he says, setting the empty glass on the side table. He pats the bed. “Lie with me.”
Garrett hesitates, but follows the soft command, a puppet on a string. Fenris weaves his fingers into his and pulls him down next to him, resting his head on his chest once they’re both comfortable. Hawke holds him close and safe, breathing in the scent of his hair.
“What did you dream?” Hawke asks in a hush.
Fenris shrugs. “I don’t remember. It’s just shadows now.”
“Did I hurt you?”
Fenris goes still. “I do not want to talk about it. Please.”
“…Okay,” Hawke says, because he does not want to make him uncomfortable. If he pushes, it will only make it worse. He doesn’t need to hear Fenris say it to know exactly what must have happened. Although it might make him sick, it’s worse for Fenris. “I just want you to know that I love you. So much. I cannot bear the thought of ever being someone who causes you pain.”
“You’re not,” Fenris says softly. His arms tighten around him, and his voice is slightly muffled against his chest. “You are the only one who has ever looked at me and seen me." Danarius saw beauty and strength that he wanted to corrupt and make his; others see a monster, too many broken edges. "And you have never used that against me. You never will.”
“Never,” Hawke promises. He wonders what Fenris sees when he looks at himself in the mirror. He threads his fingers through his hair, stroking his head to soothe him back to sleep.
“Talk to me,” Fenris murmurs. He stirs restlessly, for a moment, raising his head to look at Hawke. “I do not care what about. Anything but this. Anything but the darkness in my head. Please, just for a moment, let me pretend that I really do have nothing to fear.”
Hawke nods. He waits for him to settle back against his chest, breathing softly, and then resumes stroking his hair.
“…In Fereldan, my family owned a farm,” he begins, hesitant. He feels as if he is too close to vulnerable old wounds here, and if he isn’t careful, he will reopen them. But Fenris is more important. Fenris is alive and here now. “It was a pitiable little homestead. A few chickens, a druffalo, some vegetable plots often overrun with weeds and rodents. My father was not much of a farmer. He was a scholar—a mage. Lothering was just a small point on the map. A place to settle down in.
“But I spent a good portion of my years there, in that village. I remember the old windmill. The tavern where I bought my first mug of ale. The howls of the wolves at night. Sometimes, I thought it was romantic; other times I thought it was dreadful. Now, looking back—I do miss it.” He misses Carver and Bethany, mother and father, most of all, but he will not linger on that now. He wishes Fenris could have met Carver, or father. He misses the subtle approval on his mother’s face—the way she talked about Fenris. I see the way you and that elf look at each other, she would say with a wink. She’d had reservations, of course, but in the end, Garrett knows she would have loved him dearly.
Fenris sighs contentedly, and it brings a smile to Hawke’s face.
Hawke continues to prattle on: he tells Fenris about the first time he ever cast a spell, in the middle of a storm. He recalls his dreams of the Fade and the spirits he encountered there. He speaks of the templars at the small Lothering chantry and how he suspected most of them knew about his family’s secret. His tone goes low and dark when he recalls the sight of Darkspawn feverishly, barbarically, tearing his village apart—board by board, limb by limb. Poisoning the very ground with every step.
The horror of watching Carver bashed against the ground, bloody and broken. Dead before anyone realized what was happening.
“That first year in Kirkwall, I never thought I’d know happiness again,” Hawke says. “And then I met…”
He trails off.
Fenris is asleep in his arms.
“….Sweet dreams, love.”