Chapter Text
The torchlight flickered as Hawke tried to finish up some of his more personal correspondence.
It was a busy time for the Viscount. Rumours swirled around what was happening at Andoral’s Reach, and the seemingly imminent declaration of rebellion. Cullen, now Knight-Commander, had confirmed that summons had been sent to every Circle - that Grand Enchanter Fiona was pushing for another vote. He’d let First-Enchanter Kirsta and a half-dozen senior mages head west, which had proved unpopular among his own men. Worse, perhaps, was the rumour that the Seekers had withdrawn from the White Spire, but no one knew where Lambert was, or what he was planning. Knight-Vigilant Trentwatch had been confirmed moving north-west, towards the ancient Tevinter Fortress, but Lambert and a not insignificant number of Seekers were seemingly unaccounted for.
Hawke had argued with Fenris and Varric earlier that morning about what, if anything, they could do. Whilst he wanted to help - and was the only mage in Southern Thedas with a position of power not entirely reliant on the Chantry - there was only so much he could risk doing, especially before the mages declared rebellion. Fenris would rather they didn’t do anything at all. There was acknowledging that the Order had persecuted Hawke when he’d proven himself, again and again, and then there was supporting independence for all mages. If Hawke was honest, he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about it. But that was at least partially driven by what Anders had done.
Hawke closed his eyes, hesitating in his letter to Bethany. She had gone to Starkhaven with Sebastian after the Chantry attack, unable to stay in the city.
They’d grown up with an apostate father and no reason to fear magic - even when their own had manifested. By contrast, the Order had always been a thing of fear. At best, the Order would mean the family being split up. At worst, it would have been death.
And then Hawke had got caught up with Ailsa Maheriel and found himself confronted by Uldred, Avernus and even Zathrian. He’d moved to Kirkwall to protect his family and lost their mother to Quentin, been abducted and stabbed by Hadriana and bloodied by Danarius. He’d faced Corypheus in a Warden prison, one of the original Magisters Sidereal. Anders, a friend, had tried to kill him - and had succeeded in killing his brother. When the Gallows had been turned upside down in the aftermath, the Seekers looking for proof that Orsino had been involved somehow to justify Meredith’s behaviour, they’d found letters between the First-Enchanter and Quentin. Whether Orsino had been a blood mage, or just fascinated by his research hardly mattered. The list of mages who'd resorted to terrible things was damning - especially here.
But that didn’t mean that every mage deserved to be condemned to the Circle, or that the Order was justified in everything that they did. Far from it.
“Hawke.”
Fenris. Garrett opened one eye and found the elf standing in the doorway to the study. He didn't know whether Fenris had called his name more than once.
Zevran had left, a couple of weeks prior, to do something illegitimate and murderous in Rivain alongside Isabela. Whilst he’d called time on his ambition to eliminate the eighth Talon in its entirety after their near miss in Kirkwall several years before, he was not above using his talents for murder. And if the occasional Crow never made it back to Antiva, he was careful not to leave a trace. He would not endanger Hawke again, and whilst Hawke was Viscount, he was far too in the public eye for Zevran to risk exposure. Whilst Hawke wasn’t sure if this particular adventure was a Crow target, or a Felicisima Armada target, he knew Fenris was mildly relieved for the peace and quiet. And being the sole focus of Hawke’s affections.
“Shit, sorry, Fenris.” Hawke apologised, suddenly aware of how late it had gotten, how he’d spent hours in the study after dinner. It had to be nearly midnight.
The elf raised an eyebrow.
“I would be more inclined to believe that apology if this was not the third night this week I have had to come drag you out of this room.”
Hawke winced.
“Has it? I hadn’t …” He trailed off at the look on Fenris’ face. “Sorry, my love. Who knew being Viscount would keep me this busy?”
“Come to bed, Hawke.” Fenris said flatly.
“I’m just writing to Bethany…”
Something flashed in Fenris’ eyes.
“Come to bed Hawke, and I’ll fuck you hard enough that you’ll have to beg Bran to take public audience tomorrow.”
And well, Hawke was a weak-willed man. Bethany’s letter would have to wait until tomorrow evening. He wasn’t entirely sure what to write anyway - the news that she was pregnant was both joyful and terrifying. And a little bit awkward, considering her husband, the Prince of Starkhaven, was the most boring man in the whole world. Would the baby be boring? Was that possible? Maker, Hawke hoped it wasn’t a girl, he’d fucking insist on calling the poor babe Elthina.
Fenris. Focus on Fenris. It was quite the offer, after all.
He put the writing implements away, hurriedly, and all but jumped up, out of his chair. Three years with Fenris - after years of pining, of dancing around each other and one frantic night in the aftermath of Hadriana that had nearly undone them both - hadn’t dampened this. The burning intensity, the desperate longing: the way Hawke would do anything for him.
Fenris smirked at how quickly Hawke abandoned his letter and stalked from the study to their private rooms. Well, Hawke’s private rooms. In theory, Fenris had his own as Hawke’s bodyguard. He didn’t spend that much time in them - but sometimes, when Zevran was getting on his nerves, he’d retreat to his own private sanctuary. It helped that Hawke had installed a constantly resupplied wine rack.
Hawke practically stumbled over his own feet when he hurried into his bedroom to find Fenris already stripped of his armour and undershirt, left in just in tight leggings. Fuck, he was beautiful - all lean muscle and strength.
That smirk on Fenris’ face grew at the sight of him, standing in the doorway, mouth slightly open like it was the first time he’d gotten to see the elf strip naked.
“Come here.”
They kissed, and it felt like a claiming. Fenris, with Zevran gone, was making the damn most of having Hawke all to himself - wouldn’t share him even with the title of Viscount that weighed heavy on his shoulders. Hawke sighed against the elf, relaxing just a little. He could forget everything, for a while.
Fenris broke the kiss to tug Hawke’s shirt and doublet off, fingers running over scarred, burned skin without hesitation. Sometimes, Hawke couldn’t face the mass of scars over his right side, but neither Fenris, nor Zevran, had ever made him feel ugly, or less.
Fenris teased at Hawke’s nipple, and then gripped his hair, pulling him in for another kiss. He licked his way into Hawke’s mouth, until Hawke’s knees were weak. He groaned, desperate and wanting. Hawke broke away, trailing kisses over the elf’s throat and collarbone. He latched onto a lyrium line, tongue darting and tracing, the faintest echo of its power tingling at his lips.
“Hawke,” Fenris growled, “Your mouth…”
Hawke teased a mark over Fenris’s skin, smiling a little. His own skin was covered in marks and bruises that Fenris and Zevran had left, staking their claim on him. But that wasn’t what Fenris wanted, and Hawke knew it.
“I thought you were going to fuck me?” He asked, a little hoarsely.
Fenris’ smirk was everything.
“We have all night.” He said, before pushing Hawke down.
And that was more than alright with Hawke. He didn’t need to sleep, not a wink, if the other option was sex with Fenris.
He was on his knees, blinking up at the elf with his best handsome smile, tugging the laces of his breeches loose, when the gong rang out, and the smile dropped from his face.
That wasn’t good. That was very, very bad.
It rang again, and Hawke cursed. One echoing ring meant danger. Two meant the Keep was under attack. He watched, still on his knees, as Fenris’ face shifted from hungry desire to alert, ready, dangerous. His bodyguard, again, not his partner.
There was a hammering at his door, and Hawke stumbled upright, looking around for his armour, for his staff or sword. Fenris moved to the door and cracked it open, just as Varric’s voice reached them through the door.
“Shit, Hawke, get up!”
“We’re awake, dwarf.” Fenris growled, somehow looking distinctly unruffled even as Hawke remembered how to breathe, tried to adjust his damned trousers. “What is happening?”
Varric looked grim as he entered. He didn’t even quip about the fact Fenris was opening the door half-naked, the fact that Hawke was clearly stumbling out of the bedroom, hair in disarray and lips kiss-swollen.
“Lord Seeker Lambert has seized the Gallows and annulled the Circle. He’s on his way here with the Order at his back. Hawke, you need to run - now.”