Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When by my solitary hearth I sit,
And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom ;
When no fair dreams before my "mind's eye" flit,
And the bare heath of life presents no bloom :
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head.

- From 'Hope' by John Keats

~*~

 The winter light that streams through a crack in the curtains plays across her face prettily in the gloom of Hawke’s bedroom, lending its cold illumination to the dim hollow they have made for themselves under bedclothes and blankets over the course of the night. Seeking in their sleep to drive away the chill with each other and fifty pounds of quilt and fur. Fenris woke early, nothing disturbing his rest besides a lifetime of practiced early rising -either out of training or fear- but he is glad of it now, looking down at Hawke’s sleeping face nestled amongst the covers.

It is still foreign to him, to love not because he should but simply just because he does. It has taken him years and Hawke’s help, whether she knew it or not, to learn the difference. So now, when he looks at her in the cold light of a winter dawn, when the lines of a decade of fighting and politics are all too evident on her face, and the creases of laughter and her kind smiles stand out around her closed eyes, he can recognise the overpowering swell of feeling inside his chest for what it is. Love for love’s sake alone. He is drowning in it and cannot find it in himself to mind, for the deeper he sinks the more content he becomes. Years ago he would have scolded himself for complacency, for weakness but as he watches the woman he loves smile softly in her sleep beside him he feels nothing but strength unfurling in his chest, curling warm tendrils about his heart and under is skin, a match for the white lines set there so long ago in darkness and in pain. She has given him her heart as surely as he has given his to her and as the stripe of sunlight moves further across the bed he leans down to place a kiss on her temple and whispers, quietly in the stillness, “I am yours.”

Chapter Text

“The forest was clawing at her feet as she ran, trying, it seemed, with every step to force her to her hands and knees and thence through the forest floor. Twigs and leaves and animal bones snatched at the tattered hem of her dress but it only encouraged her to greater speed as she fled through the twilight. It was catching up, she could feel it. Its icy breath chilled the back of her neck and its talons already hooked themselves into the skin of her back. CRACK. A misstep and a sound like thunder in the silence of the forest, a branch broken in two and then she heard it, the howls of the beast issued from the gloom behind her, nearer now then ever befo-“ Hawke coughed, choking on the bitter dregs of her tea, cold and more limescale than tea at this point. She sighed looking at the cup she had absentmindedly sipped from in the heat of the moment, the china was gripped in her hand so tightly that her knuckles had begun to whiten. She replaced the cup on its saucer and glanced out of the window, judging from the position of the sun it was nearing the time Fenris usually arrived for their lesson.

Hawke stood, stretching her back, eyes closed against the glare of the setting Autumn sun streaming in through the library windows, she’d been so caught up in her book that she’d lost track of time and Fenris grew awfully skittish if kept waiting. She picked up the tray of tea things from the end table beside her chair and began making her way to the kitchen. Fenris had come on in leaps and bounds since she’d first started teaching him to read but it still made him nervous, she suspected it had something to do with embarrassment, Maker knew, Anders had teased him enough about it when it had first come out that he couldn’t read. That was, until one particularly black look from Aveline had sobered him and he’d apologised. Rather graciously too, Marian thought. Either way, shame still dogged Fenris whenever the subject came up and it meant that the lessons themselves were usually quite a tense affair until they got about half an hour in and then he would start to relax. Marian harboured secret hopes that one day he might start a lesson without that look in his eyes, the one that made him look more cornered animal than man.

The kitchens were near the back of the house, set down half a level from the rest of the ground floor, not far enough into the basement that they wouldn’t catch the light but not high enough that the sounds of cooking might carry through to the main hall. It meant that fetching a simple pot of tea became quite a lengthy task, but then she suposed, the people that had lived in this house before herself and her mother hadn’t been much in the business of fetching their own tea, nor the people before them and certainly not the Tevinter mage-lords that had had it built. On her journey down to the kitchens Marian always liked to imagine what they would have made of the lady of the house making her own tea.

-

“Ignosce me, Dominus. Non puto-” Hawke stops suddenly, eight feet short of the kitchen door. It wasn’t often that Orana spoke Tevene, in fact Hawke had only heard the girl mumble to herself in the language when she thought no one else was listening.

“No, not that.” Fenris’ voice now, strained and clipped, “I am not that, not in this house, not in any house.”

“Forgive me, Messere.” Orana sounds as if she might quite like to sink into the floor and never return. Fenris’ lack or reply surely isn't helping, moments pass and despite Hawke straining to hear, the only sound she can catch is the light step of feet on the flagstone floor.

“There is nothing to forgive, girl.” Finally, a reply, “I used the back door, no one could expect you to know that I would do so. I certainly hope that Hawke would not.” Hawke herself barely manages to hold back a scoff.

“I… The mistress is in the library, Messere.”

“I thank you” Fenris says and Hawke takes a breath intending to clear her throat and make some kind of sound, anything to let them know there’s someone coming. She cannot help but feel that she’s eavesdropping on something not intended for her ears, or anyone else's but those of the two elves in her kitchen, which is when Fenris decides to speak again and she’ll be damned to the Void but she can’t help but listen.

“How… Is she treating you?”

“Treating me, Messere?” Orana sounds confused and it is a few moments before she speaks, “The Mistress has been kind, uncommonly kind. I… No I shouldn’t say.”

“It is only uncommon because you do not yet know Hawke.” Fenris sounds almost fond. There’s the sound of a chair being drawn out and then the sound of Fenris’ gauntlets on the table top. He must have sat down.

“You are right of course, Messere.”

“Actually, I am often entirely wrong. Especially when it comes to Hawke.”

“She treats you well. That is encouraging” in the hallway, Hawke raises her eyebrows. Orana doesn’t know it but there are eggshells under her dainty slippers. To Hawke’s surprise Fenris laughs, actually laughs. It’s a short and startling burst of sound but a laugh nonetheless.

“That she does, better than I deserve, I’m sure.” there’s a pause and then, “But what was it that you felt you should not say?”

“You- you will not tell her, Messere?” Orana sounds hesitant and for an awful few seconds Hawke’s mind produces a list of possible wrongs that she could have unknowingly committed against the young elf.

“Not if you do not wish me to.” Fenris’ tone by comparison is smooth and confident and it’s a shock in its own way. It sounds practiced, cajoling without pushing too hard. Hawke wonders how often he had to calm skittish slaves in order to tease information from them. How often had he been made to spy on those others in Danarius’ household.

“Well, Messere I am not sure how to say this but… The mistress, she won’t… She doesn’t let me help her.” That was not what Hawke had expected.

“Oh?” And clearly not what Fenris had been expecting either.

“Messere-“ Orana’s voice is practically a desperate whisper at this point and Hawke must strain to hear it, “She won’t let me help her dress, but she has no other for the job. She does not let me fetch her tea or wait at table and the dwarves do not do so. I do not understand, she is a mage yet where is her household?” Hawke can picture the scene in her mind’s eye, Orana standing on the other side of the table from Fenris, wringing her hands, worry and confusion clear on her young face. Hawke can see Fenris closing his eyes and smirking, leaning forwards in his chair to explain.

“Orana, how long have you been here?”

“Not more than a month yet, Messere.”

“And, in that time, has Hawke proven herself to be the kind of mage that you- we, are at all used to.”

“… No, not once, Messere.”

“Precisely. And she will not next month, or the month after that.” there’s a smile in Fenris’ voice, Hawke is sure of it, “Hawke was raised on a farm, Orana, she knows how to pour her own wine, how to fetch her own tea” he laughs, “she certainly knows how to dress herself. Do not let her lack of commands stir fear in your heart.”

“But-“

“She does not give them, not because she expects you to somehow preempt them, but because she has no commands to give.” Fenris sighs, “I follow her orders on the field of battle, nowhere else. Elsewhere she has no need of them.” Hawke hears the creak of leather and she’s convinced that he just shrugged.

“Messere, I feel useless.” Orana sounds rather desperate now. Poor girl, if she’d known she’d have tried to do something to help. But then, Hawke supposes, that’s exactly what Orana wishes she would stop doing.

“Have you spoken to Hawke about this?” Fenris asks and Orana’s horrified gasp is answer enough.

“I- I couldn’t possibly- I- she-“

“I will not force you to, but I think that perhaps you should. Hawke will likely understand.”

What Hawke does understand is that she will definitely be spending her eternity in the Void for listening to all of that and yet, it was entirely worth it. She takes a breath and jostles the tray in her hands, causing her spoon to tumble against the saucer. “Oh damn!” She says loudly, balancing the tray on one hand and deliberately overturning her cup with the other. All the sound from the kitchen stops. “Orana,” she calls, “could you fill the kettle, please? I want to make a fresh pot of tea before Fenris gets here- oh, you’ve beaten me to it!” Hawke rounds the corner into the kitchen, sun low and in her eyes as it throws rays across the worn table, and feigns surprise as Fenris rises from his seat.

“Indeed” he says wryly and there’s something in the way he looks at her that tells her he knows exactly how much she just overheard.

“Decided to sneak in the back door did you?”

“You know me, I could not bear to give your neighbours something else to gossip about.”

“Mm, which is exactly why I know that’s a lie.” Hawke glances at Orana where she stands by the fire, kettle already on the hook, “shall we go up? Orana, could you bring us some tea when it’s ready? We’ll be in the library”

“O-of course, mistress” Orana looks about as surprised as if Hawke has sprouted a second head but when Hawke offers her a smile she returns it, if a little sheepishly.

-

They are up the stairs and halfway across the foyer before Fenris speaks and Hawke gives up on her hopes of having gotten away with it.

“It’s been quite some time since I have had to do anything like that, especially with a ‘mistress’ listening” the sarcasm is practically palpable, if the smirk wasn’t enough already.

“Oh shut it.” Hawke smiles and pushes past him to open the library door, “you were very smooth. And more importantly, Orana opened up to you, that alone made it worthwhile, surely?” She turns to face him as he enters the room, his arms crossed and a mock frown on his face which softens as she laughs at him.

“It was worth it, I will not deny it.” he crosses the last few feet and sits down in one of the armchairs by the hearth. “I remember what it was like, those first few weeks after I met you, expecting every moment to hear a command I knew I would not refuse or feel the sting of magic under my skin, but it never came.”

“I’m sorry, Fenris”

“No, you have nothing to apologise for. And thanks to you, that girl downstairs can live the rest of her life without fear of the lash.” Fenris is matter of fact and he looks at her, tracking her movements as she goes to retrieve the book they were reading last time.

“Well I’m glad of it, she’s sweet and after what you told me of Hadriana, after what I saw, I cannot imagine Orana having to live with that.” Hawke sits down, the book in her lap and stares at her fingers on its cover instead of having to meet Fenris’ gaze, she can still feel it on her, boring a hole in the side of her head. “I’m sorry I was eavesdropping Fenris. I shouldn’t have.”

“No, perhaps not, but it cannot be helped now. Besides, you are not the kind of mistress to use that information against her.” Hawke looks up in time to see Fenris shrug and she snorts.

“My thanks.”

“It may seem a small distinction to you but to her… Us, it means a world of difference.”

“You know that I do not see myself as anyone’s mistress, if only she’d stop reminding me all the time I would have forgotten long ago.”

“One of the many reasons why I trust you, Hawke” that catches her unawares, she feels her eyebrows raise in surprise. The importance of that admission is not something she takes for granted. Fenris’ trust is something not lightly given and she knows that she will treasure it. He seems to be aware of this because he glances at her then and smiles one of his small, infuriatingly well informed little smiles. “Well, shall we get started?”

Chapter Text

It’s been six years and still saying her name feels like a small blasphemy. She would tell him otherwise were she to find out. She would be horrified. The same way she is when Orana slips and calls her ‘Mistress’. But old habits die hard and his tongue was leashed as much as his throat.

It was always the little things, like names. The lofty concept of freedom far easier to put into practice when it came to the big, life altering moments. Run. Kill a slaver. Run again. Kill a magister’s apprentice. Kill your old master. All simple in retrospect. But choosing what to eat for breakfast?
Carrying your own coin? Meeting your lover’s eyes, saying her name without hesitating... like standing at the bottom of a cliff and seeing only smooth rock and sky above you, as the tide rolls in at your back. Fenris has become an adept climber, but he is not without the fear of the fall. Not yet.

“Hawke...” it is both prayer and damnation on his lips. He ducks his head and she finds his lips and he is thankful for the kiss if only that it stops the words, stops him thinking.
He loses himself in her and it is as the night sky opening behind a bank of cloud. The vastness of forever might swallow you whole but you think it may be bearable if only you can dwell amongst the stars.

His heart feels light with the closeness of her and he feels her smile against his lips in the gloom.
“What are you thinking?” She whispers.
“That as you” he says and presses a kiss to her jaw “have become my present” he presses another kiss to her cheekbone, “you have also become my future.” He kisses her forehead “and every moment we are together is a moment in my past that far outweighs the bad.”
“You’ve been reading too many of Aveline’s poetry books” she laughs but she kisses him anyway and when their eyes meet he sees it reflected back at him all the same.

Chapter Text

And it is the last thing he expected from this foreign mage woman but she sings.
When she thinks no one is paying attention a tune seems to always find its way to her lips. And they are not the carefully arranged, much practiced pieces he had known the wives and daughters of Magisters to perform at parties, but the working songs of field hands and the shanties of sailors. Lullabies sung by country folk to children in their cots and the gentle melodies of ballads recounted by traveling bards on warm summer nights. She is named for the hawk, a hunting bird all sharp talons and cruel beak but her heart is more of the nightingale or the lark.

He grows accustomed to her humming, to her quiet songs as she builds the campfire or cleans the gore from her staff’s blade. And it is her singing as much as her kindness and the soft wash of her magic - like clean linens and spring rain - that convinces him to trust her at last.

And later, years later, when she kneels in the little patch of garden tucked away behind the Amell estate, singing songs of the earth and of green and growing things, pulling weeds from the ground in a battered straw hat with the soil clinging to her hands and the knees of her breeches, he wonders how he ever could have been afraid of this woman who holds song in her heart as surely as he holds his love for her in his.