This is for Rebekah. I miss you.

Rated M for sexual content and dark themes. Thanks as always to my lovely beta, Midsummer and to all the readers who have favourited, followed and/or reviewed. FemHawkexFenris

Haunted

The dead do not feel.

He does not know how much time has passed since he has been in this place. He has only a sense of here and not here. In the here it is always night. He follows her through the mansion as she pads through the rooms, sometimes only a breath away from her. The air is not disturbed when he passes and he leaves no shadow. He watches her go on without him in the big empty house they called their own and he has seen her fall apart, pull herself together only to fall apart again countless times and yet and yet his eyes are dry, his chest does not ache. Everything is muted in the here. He is always cold, he is always hollow. He would give anything to feel warmth, her tears, anything.

He watches her from shadowed corners, from the cracks in shattered mirrors. He watches her sleep and he is there when she sits, wakeful, on the edge of her ridiculous bed waiting for the dawn. He sits beside her on these long, quiet nights, close enough to touch but never close enough to feel and when the sun rises for a fleeting moment he knows heat on his face and fancies she sees him, brief as a thought, before he is dragged again into the not here.

This place he recognises, he has been to the not here before, after all. This place is the Fade and he wanders through blasted, long dead ruins with the ever present tendrils of mist tugging icily at his body. He sees no-one. When he first appeared he was confused, raging, spoiling for a fight. He could not understand why the myriad denizens of the Fade avoided him even as he sought them out, howling, sword in his hands and brands blazing white-blue. He knows now that he disturbs them for he is neither fully of the Fade nor the Real. He had thought his nightly vigils in her Kirkwall mansion memories or at the very least Fade projections but he now understands the truth of them. He is trapped. Neither dead nor alive, a shade caught between the realms, out of the Maker's reach, out of anyone's reach.

He appreciates the elegant brutality of it. Of Anders' final act of revenge. Oh, it is the apostate's doing, he knows this. Anders jealous to the last. A vial gifted to Hawke to 'ease his passing'. A vial to prevent him passing fully over, to condemn him to the daily torture of watching her from behind glass walls. And she would never know the truth of it. To be bound to her eternally, never able to touch or feel, only present on the edges of her awareness at the beginning of each day before slipping away.

He knows he is as much as he was in life, his mind and memories intact once more. He finds himself talking to her, at her, in ways he never could when they were together. Then he could touch her. Words were often unnecessary and she never pushed him to share what was in his head. There never seemed to be enough time. Now all he has is time and the words spill from him endlessly.

He murmurs to her still, fire-lit face elegant soliloquies on her beauty, her grace and her ferocity during their long, quiet evenings where he is with her and she is alone. He recounts experiences they shared, laments what they never had the chance to share. He tells her how she excited him, how she made him feel when he fought beside her, when he moved above and inside her. He tells her he loves her over and over, sentences he never uttered in life. In these moments he feels alive, a lonely ghost whispering in her ear. There is no pain and the anger is long gone. There is only this.

He looks forward to the here where he materialises after nightfall, always in the shadows of the mansion. He stands in the corners he used to haunt in his last months, tracing the marks on the wall that his armour and his agonised fingers made and watches her at her desk or sitting by the fire, entertaining the few guests that visit. His eyes move over the lines of her face, fingers idly tracing the curve of her lips in the air before him.

Tonight it is Cullen again. He recognises the look in the new Knight-Commander's eyes. He has been visiting Hawke often, at least once a week and Fenris cannot help but notice that Hawke's posture has become progressively more relaxed, her expression softer as the visits have continued. He begins to have vague misgivings, the first stirrings of emotion for some time. One cold night he watches her lead the templar upstairs and he does not, does not want to see this but he cannot seem to stop himself. He drifts alongside them into their bedchamber, watches as Cullen kisses, caresses and eventually disrobes his Hawke. He kneels beside the bed as she turns her face towards the moon dappled window with Cullen moving slowly over her, gasping into her neck, and he brings his lips close to hers. Her eyes are squeezed tightly shut and he wants to thumb away the silvered tracks on her cheeks. He realises he can no longer remember her smell. He sees the syllables of his name form on her lips as she reaches her climax and feels a small dart of triumph. You have not forgotten me.

Cullen leaves before daybreak and he leans against the wall in the corner of her room after she has finally fallen asleep, clutching her sodden pillow. As the sun begins to rise she turns towards him murmuring his name, eyes opening slowly. He starts towards her, melting away in the sunlight as the mist takes him once more.

Time passes. How much, he cannot tell. He wanders through a deserted elven ruin, remnants of old magic making his brands ache dully. He stops, gazing at the dimly flickering sun and is suddenly aware of a presence behind him. He whirls, sword at the ready, to see a figure standing motionless in front of a desiccated altar. He approaches warily as it slowly turns to face him.

Anders.

The apostate's eyes are a cold, empty blue. His hands are clenched tight on his staff and his black robes are in tatters. Not Anders, Justice. Does anything of Anders remain? The apostate nods stiffly at the elf, expression unchanging. His eyes narrow at Fenris as he moves slowly closer.

"Was this your doing or Justice's?" He asks coldly. "Hawke believed you were not entirely responsible for your actions. It was a subject over which we often argued. She was always more forgiving than I."

He sees the eyes flicker for just a moment.

"Perhaps you imagined my fate at your hands would bring you closure? Satisfaction, perhaps? Peace?" Fenris shakes his head slowly. "I know enough of such things to be sure that this petty act has brought you none of those."

Anders' brow creases, there is a twitch of the hand before he again becomes still, head cocked, eyes following him. Fenris moves closer, hands tightening on his sword. "You will not speak to me, then? Not one word from you? You owe me an answer, mage."

Anders' mouth opens and his shoulders tense but there are no words, just a long, hissing exhalation. Fenris stops then and looks at him carefully, realising the mage's body is taut and trembling, his jaw clenched. His eyes flicker from blue to hazel and back again almost too fast to see, over and over. No. Not completely gone. A fragment remains of him still inside this prison. A stalemate, both of them wrestling for control. His lips twist. If he slips but for one moment he is consumed. A hateful, eternal struggle. This is no life. He hesitates briefly and then sheathes his sword, folding his arms and eyeing the rigid figure in front of him.

"I...have imagined this moment many times" he says quietly. "I had thought to wring from you a confession, an apology, before I took your life. Of course I knew such things were impossible for someone in my situation, yet here you are. Helpless. I could strike you down if I wished. You would not be able to stop me doing so, a lapse in concentration and one of you is lost." He rakes a hand through his hair. "I raged at you, cursed your name, begged the Maker to punish you." He smiles grimly and shakes his head slowly. "You can appreciate the irony. Now I see that He has indeed condemned you...and all I feel is pity. Stupid human, you knew the risks and you have trapped yourself as surely as you have me. But I still have her."

He turns away, hearing another hiss, a faint moan. "You truly are an Abomination now. Maker have mercy on your soul."

Fenris walks away from the lonely figure and he does not look back.

Tonight Merrill is visiting and Hawke leans back in her customary chair listening to her chatter with half lidded amusement. They have drunk nearly two bottles of the elven wine she has brought with her. A good year, he notes from his shadowed corner. She looks relaxed, content.

"So…" says Merrill, propping her elbows on her knees conspiratorially. "I've heard little birds tweeting about you and the handsome Knight-Commander…?"

Hawke flushes, swirling the remnants of her wine in her glass and avoiding her inquisitive gaze. "Yes, I…it's quite early, so…it's not…" She stops abruptly.

"Well I think it's good! I mean, of course, if you do. It's been two years since…and you're both single, so…it's alright, isn't it? Hawke? He's nice to you?"

He watches her roll the wineglass across her forehead, eyes closed. "Yes, he's nice, Merrill. He's kind, courteous, affectionate, but…he's not him." She buries her face in her hands, the wineglass rolls forgotten along the rug. "Oh, Merrill. I can't seem to...why can't I move on? He's still all around me, every day. I wake up and it's like he's just left the room or...or...he's just finished speaking to me. I'm trapped, Merrill. I see him everywhere and I miss him so much. I can't let go." Her shoulders heave slightly and Fenris crosses the room to kneel in front of her, peering up at her hidden face. Damn Anders. He punished you just as much as he did me.

Merrill makes a soft, choked sound behind him and he turns to find her staring, eyes wide, hand over her mouth in shock. Don't just sit there, witch. Comfort her, hold her, soothe her with some meaningless platitudes. He stands impatiently, hands aching to smooth Hawke's hair but the elf's eyes follow him as he rises. He freezes, mouth dropping open in surprise. She sees me. She removes her hand, opens her mouth to speak and he shakes his head quickly, makes a negating gesture. No. Hawke must not know of this.

Merrill nods slowly, eyes filling with tears. He scowls at her. Save your pity, witch. I do not need it.

She leaves shortly afterwards, hugging Hawke fiercely and watching him carefully over her shoulder. She promises to return in a few days and smiles as Hawke strokes her face gently, eyes bright. She loves Hawke still, after all these years.

"When are you seeing Cullen again?" she asks, looking at him. Fenris stirs from his position in the corner of the room, eyes narrowed.

"Tomorrow, I think."

"Well, he's a nasty templar and all but give him my best!" She smiles brightly and then departs, shooting him one last searching look before she disappears. Hawke retires to bed but he lingers in the front room, hand pressed to his mouth in thought. Merrill returns later just as he knew she would, slipping through the front door silently as the last embers of the fire dull. She circles him silently, muttering under her breath and he feels his skin tingle unpleasantly. Her wide, usually guileless eyes are hard and focused and he stiffens, arms folding reflexively as he catches the dancing sparks in her gaze.

"By the Dread Wolf" she breathes. "It is you. I thought you were, I don't know, a ghost, a desire demon maybe – and by the way those are perfectly acceptable consorts if you're careful enough – but you're not. Thank goodness, I thought Hawke had, well, I was worried. She's not like me. But...she doesn't know, does she?"

He shakes his head. "She does not."

Merrill tilts her head. "Can't hear you. Can see you but then I have been making certain...agreements with spirits in order to be able to understand the Fade better, so that's probably why." She sees his lip curl and rolls her eyes. "Oh, don't you start telling me off, I can lip read, you know." She hesitates as if unsure how to continue, biting her lip. "Besides, I think I can help." He straightens at that and unfolds his arms abruptly.

"It's a binding spell. A powerful one, holding you here, has to be. But I can break it, send you on. You know..." she makes fluttery motions with her hands. "Away from here." His eyes widen and there is a surge of anxiety, the unexpected intensity of feeling making him shiver suddenly. Wait. Not now. I need to...I need to tell her...His eyes move in the direction of her room. It's too soon.

Merrill watches him, his sudden anguish making her chest ache. "I'm sorry. It must be hard. To say goodbye when she can't hear you. To love her when she doesn't see you. I...I...understand." She presses her lips together, tears pricking at her eyes. I know what I have to do. "I need to prepare anyway, so it'll be tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll set you free, Fenris."

He gazes at her for long moments and then nods. She leaves quickly, eyes shadowed.

He lies beside Hawke watching her sleep. She is restless, hands reaching towards him, tangling in her sheets. He is leaving her. Again. And all the words that tumbled from him unheard are suddenly gone leaving a desperate need to touch and hold one last just one last time. After daybreak he paces the Fade restlessly, impatiently, fear and anticipation crawling in his gut. I had prepared for this. I had accepted my fate, sought release from the pain and fear of the last days. Now I would rather walk a ghost by her side than move on without her. He slams his fist into a nearby rock, hissing approvingly at the sudden pain. But she must be free of me or live a half life as I do. I have to let her go. He howls at the gunmetal sky until his throat is raw, relishing the dull ache in his chest.

He reappears that night in her bedchamber and Cullen is there. He starts from the corner and circles the half naked couple in the centre of the room, snarling furiously. Is this the final insult? I must watch this before I am taken from her again? At once he feels the pinprick tingle of magic across his brands. Wait, please. Wait-

"Wait-"

Hawke raises her face to his. "What's the matter?"

He is dizzy suddenly, confused. He is...holding her? She is warm, smells of lavender and armour oil and he can feel her breath on his face. What is happening? He looks down at square, unfamiliar hands, a broad muscled chest. Cullen? He steps back suddenly.

"Are you well?" Her eyes are concerned and she reaches out to touch him gently, the sensation of her hand on his chest makes him gasp. "Cullen?"

Magic. He curls a lip in disgust but the feeling dies as he looks at her. He's here, with her, and all of a sudden the wherefores don't matter. Nothing matters but her.

"I'm not...it's not Cullen. It's me. It's...Fenris."

"What?"

"I am not sure I can explain. But I am here. Hawke, it's me."

She jerks back from him, her face a mask of fury. "Stop it, Cullen." She begins to turn away but he grabs her arm, pulling her, struggling furiously, back towards him.

"Why are you doing this? You think this will turn me on, this stupid game? Where you pretend to be my dead lover? Do you think this is funny?"

"No. Wait. Please, Hawke. Please." He goes to rake a hand through his hair, fingers twisting through Cullen's much shorter locks and notices her still suddenly at the familiar gesture.

"I should have given you a child" he says desperately. Her mouth drops open. "I should have gone back to the elven woman and done what you asked so you would not have been left alone. I'm sorry."

She is shaking now and moves closer, peering into his eyes. "We never talked about that afterwards. I told no-one."

"Nor I." His trembling hands frame her face. "It is me, love. I am here."

"Fenris? How is this possible? I watched you...I buried you. Is this...are you staying?"

"I do not know." He rests his forehead against hers, brushing a hand across the back of her neck.

She presses herself against him then and he slants his unfamiliar mouth against her familiar lips, hands dancing over her body in ways she remembers only in dreams. She pulls him towards the bed, kissing his chest and he reflects that without the brands his skin is less sensitive. There is no pain, true, but he wants to feel all of her again, just as he used to.

"Don't go. Please. I missed you so much."

"I do not wish to. But I believe it is out of my hands." His mouth moves over her shoulder. "Hawke, I-"

"Shhh." She pulls him on top of her, kissing him fiercely and he gasps as he is suddenly there, buried in her. "Fenris." He moves within her, slowly at first, feeling her hands tracing invisible whorls and sweeps on his back, fingers cool on his not his skin. Her back arches as he circles his hips against her and he smiles as she hisses an expletive. He remembers her body and how to please her, has re-lived these times with her in the long hours of the night while she slept. But to feel her again...he does not have the words. He looks down at her in the dim light, noticing the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the beginnings of grey in her hair and thinks she has never looked more beautiful. She clings to him as he increases his pace and he pulls her tightly to him, gasping into her hair as he spills into her, feeling her clench around him as she cries out.

He rolls, tucking her into his side, arm over his chest as they recover. His lips rest against her forehead.

"Where were you?" she murmurs. "Do you remember? I need to understand what's happened..."

He pauses. "I was-"

"What was that?" Hawke sits up suddenly, face alert. "That noise." They still, listening, eyes meeting as there is a soft thump from downstairs, before rising as one and throwing on underclothes. She moves to her chest, removing her daggers before retrieving his sword and handing it to him. He touches her face briefly and they creep to the door, padding down the stairs and squinting into the dim room lit by the glow of the dying fire. For a moment there is silence, then a faint whisper drifts from the corner of the room.

"It worked, then. I'm glad."

"Merrill?" Hawke hastily lights a candle, moving in the direction of her voice.

"Merrill!" The elf sits, back against the corner of the room, legs splayed. She smiles weakly at the both of them and Fenris realises with horror that her tunic is soaked in blood. Blood runs in small rivulets down from her arms, her legs, pooling around her body. There is a small silver knife in her hand.

"Merrill, what did you do?" Hawke kneels before her, face ashen.

"I made a promise. To him. He has to move on, can't stay here. But I wanted you to have one last evening together. A gift for my Hawke. My poor, sad Hawke." She smiles faintly. "I'm sorry, you should have had more time but I'm running out. Didn't have enough." She is so pale, her breathing shallow and rapid.

"You should not have done this." His limbs are beginning to feel leaden, his vision blurry and all at once he knows that when Merrill fades, he will also. "Hawke..."

"Just kiss her goodbye, Fenris" Merrill says, her voice barely more than a whisper. She reaches out and grasps Hawke's wrist. "I'm so sorry I couldn't do more. I love you, Hawke."

"No!" Hawke's gaze flits frantically between their faces, eyes widening as the realisation hits her. Fenris moves towards her, presses his mouth against hers, murmuring, "I have loved you for so long." He feels her tremble against him.

Hawke's eyes are blurry, her throat tight as her mouth works but no words will come. She feels Merrill's cold hand on hers and Fenris' lips on her forehead before they both fall away leaving her, gasping, on her knees. Merrill is slumped against the wall, Cullen's body is collapsed on the floor before her. There is no sound other than the faint crackle of the fire and her own racing heartbeat.

She picks up Fenris' sword, settling back against the wall, resting her head on Merrill's shoulder. Her eyes are dry, her face feels numb.

I can't do this. Not again. To lose so much. Bethany, Mother, Varric, Merrill, oh Merrill...Fenris. All of you parts of me, all gone. There's nothing left. To have you given back to me, my love, only to have you torn from me again. All those years you followed me without question. Now it's my turn to follow you.

Only one way to do this. Quickly. She kisses Merrill's pale cheek and fancies she sees a slight smile on her lips, takes her knife even as she sees Cullen begin to stir. I'm sorry, Cullen. You did not deserve this. There is barely any pain.

She closes her eyes. There is warmth on her face, the sun is bright against her closed lids and she hears a low, familiar, delighted chuckle. She opens them and he is there walking towards her through endless summer meadows, expression soft and hands outstretched.

He is so beautiful. Hawke smiles and then laughs aloud, all the years of pain and weariness falling away from her, the weight of her sorrow suddenly lifted from her shoulders. With a sigh that is pure joy she runs into his waiting arms.

*END*