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A sanctuary. Peace, at last. Fenris lay in bed. Hawke's arm draped around his waist and his breathing even and slow. They had been on the run ever since the explosion of the Kirkwall Chantry—a life all too familiar to both of them. Yet, it seemed neither had ever known such happiness. Side by side, it was as if the world outside had paused. Their endless vigilance and loneliness had given way to comfort and the quiet assurance of protection.
A knock at the door awoke them both. Hawke gently kissed Fenris' shoulder before rising. Half-asleep, Fenris watched the morning light piercing through the shutters.
“I’ve received a missive from Varric,” Hawke mumbled, emerging from the door way.
No smile. Tidings of his friend should have brought him joy, but Hawke sighed, sinking upon the bed, leaving the letters beside him. Fenris swiftly knelt upon the mattress to read it.
Corypheus yet lived, and Varric entreated Hawke to come to Skyhold, headquarters of the Inquisition.
“When do we leave?” Fenris asked, tossing the letters upon the bedside table.
Hawke avoided his gaze.
“Don’t even try,” Fenris said, frowning.
“There’s no we this time,” Hawke said, seeking Fenris' hand.
The Mage rebellion and Corypheus were his burden, whether he liked it or not. And Fenris had his own battles—hunting slavers and Venatori. Hawke knew how important they were to him and would never force him to give them up
“I'm coming with you,” Fenris insisted, holding tightly Hawke's hand.
“For you to steal the show when I’ll make my great sacrifice? Not a chance,” Hawke half-joked and Fenris knew it.
“Hawke, if anything happens to you…”
Tears welled in his eyes as Fenris cupped Hawke's cheeks; the mere thought of losing him was unbearable.
“I’ll be back so soon, you’ll barely notice my absence.” Hawke pressed a tender kiss upon Fenris' lips. “I promise.”
Hawke was charming, cunning, yet above all, a liar. No wonder he and Varric got along—birds of a feather.
Hawke would join the Inquisition against Corypheus. A battle whence he knew he might never return; yet he made a hollow promise upon Fenris' heart. It was Hawke. Hawke the Foolhardy, Hawke the Charlatan. Hawke, as ever: both mirage and fire.
But he was his; his Champion, his beguiling apostate, his hearth and home. Hawke was Fenris'. And Fenris was wholly Hawke's.
“I'll drag your soul out of the Fade if you ever dare to die,” Fenris mumbled against Hawke’s lips.
Hawke chuckled, tenderly kissing him.
“Oh, I’m sure you will.”
Fenris drew his lover back to the bed; their clothes fell as he traced every inch of Hawke’s skin. Kisses, caresses, sweet words—a dance known to their hearts. Love had never been this pure and yet so agonizing.
Despite the lingering ache within their chests, they could not cry. On the morrow, the fragile veil of denial would come down. But this day, they would love each other with the simplicity and the passion of the first days.