A/N: This is another of my m!Hawke/Fenris ficlets. It can be read as a one-shot, but it's also a direct sequel to Sweet Revenge. For the complete series, check my profile. Many grateful thanks to Zevgirl for her hard beta work.

Hawke digs a broken fingernail into the minute crack of the granite tabletop and traces it until it disappears under the mug of ale sitting before him. The mug is as yet untouched and has been since Varric set it there two hours ago.

"Drink, Hawke. Corff's brew may be vile but it'll numb the pain better than elfroot."

Then Varric had returned downstairs to supervise the cleanup of the wrecked barroom. Hawke can still smell the sweet stench of charred flesh wafting from below, but it barely permeates the veil of darkness that clouds his mind. He has no desire to drink or drift into an alcoholic stupor. The pain is sharp, locking him immobile in the frigid stone chair, but it's better than nothing. He embraces the pain, every nuance of despair amplified tenfold, because when it is gone, all that will be left is a chasm of desolation, and he can't bear the thought of it.

We should be celebrating our victory. Danarius is dead; the only corpse not shriveled into scorched tissue and blackened bone. Hawke's magic had consumed the slavers who accompanied the magister, incinerated them with power of a magnitude that Hawke rarely unleashed. Danarius's spiteful words to Fenris had incited a maelstrom of rage, and Hawke hadn't held back, except when it came to Danarius himself. He had left the magister to Fenris, had known the elf's need to exact his revenge. Now Danarius lay sprawled across the blood-soaked floor of the Hanged Man, his heart crushed and left abandoned next to the lifeless body. Well, Varric's crew had probably removed it by this time, tossing it into the bay along with Lowtown's other trash. Good riddance.

It might have ended then, except that Varania still huddled in the corner of the tavern, wide-eyed and clearly terrified of her brother. Hawke doubted that she had ever seen such a display of Fenris's power before, and when Fenris had turned murderous, jade eyes on her, she had probably believed her fate would be to join Danarius. It might have been, except Hawke had intervened when Fenris had raised one glowing hand to his sister.

"She's your family, Fenris. Consider before you do this." Hawke's voice was soft, but it broke through the tempest of Fenris's fury in a way that nothing else could have. Even here, in the midst of cold vengeance, Hawke's presence was a soothing warmth at Fenris's back, an intimate connection deeper than any layer of skin. It halted Fenris's attack, brought clarity back to Fenris's hate-infused thoughts.

"You… betrayed me." Through the anger, Hawke heard the thread of honest bewilderment, and his heart ached for Fenris.

"Danarius promised me apprenticeship. A life better than the one you left me with." Relieved of impending death, Varania was filled with her own fury, and the venom in her voice caused Fenris to take a step back. It was just one step, but Hawke could feel Fenris's surprise in the motion.

"I don't understand."

"You left us with nothing, Leto." She spat the name at him, smiled maliciously at the spark of recognition in his face. "You remember now? Your name is Leto, but he named you Fenris. His wolf, his pet. You were favored, not left penniless and cold on the streets!"

"You think I wanted that life?" Fenris was recovering now, bitterness returning in the clenching of his fists. "A life of slavery?"

"You did want it! You entered a competition to win the right to be Danarius's wolf, killed all the others to get those lyrium brands. You claimed you did it for me and Mother, to free us. That was the prize, you see. You could ask for any boon you wished, and you asked for our freedom. Like it was a gift!" She was shaking, a loose tendril of fiery hair brushing against a flushed cheek. "Do you know what freedom was, Leto? It was huddling in the cold alleys, hoping to escape the notice of bandits and thieves. It was begging in every shop for work, but free elves aren't wanted for hire in Tevinter, Leto. It was watching Mother die from sickness because no healer would tend to an elf with no money. You killed her!"

"Now see here, miss…." Varric stepped forward as a horrified silence blanketed the pub. Even Hawke was frozen before the spectacle of an enraged Varania, and Fenris…. Maker, he couldn't even bear the pain in Fenris's eyes.

"I didn't know. I didn't…." He reached out to her, not to harm but to entreat, to beg, and Fenris never begged.

"And now, you've destroyed this, too!" Tears streamed down Varania's face as she backed away from her brother. "Enjoy your freedom, Leto. May it give you as much happiness as it gave Mother and me." And she was gone, swallowed by the night lit only by cold stars shining in the great emptiness overhead.

If Hawke had cast a paralysis glyph over the Hanged Man, it would have had no better effect than the current stillness in the tavern. Even Anders was silent, for once keeping his stinging barbs to himself. Fenris was staring blankly at the floor, and the void in his eyes is what finally pushed Hawke to speak.

"Fenris…." He reached out to touch the leather-clad arm, but Fenris jerked, pulling away from Hawke so roughly, he threw the mage off balance.

"I… cannot be here. I cannot." And then he was gone, a vanished shadow that took the light from Hawke's heart with him.

Hawke didn't remember going up the stairs or sitting down at Varric's table. One of his friends must have brought him here, but he can't recall which one. For the past two hours, he has sat at this table, letting the cold seep from the stone into his soul.

"Hawke." Varric appears from the stairway and sits beside him with a grunt. "Have you even moved since I brought you that ale?"

"Don't know," mumbles Hawke.

Varric sighs, and Hawke finally raises his eyes to look at him. When had Varric developed worry-lines at the corners of his mouth?

"Hawke… what happened down there… that was bad. Family hurting each other is bad business. I ought to know. But Broody is tough, and I think he'll pull through."

"He left, Varric." Hawke's nails scrape futilely against the rough granite. "He's gone."

"Hmm. He's probably holed up in that shack he calls home."

"He's not. Isabela went and checked. He's not there, she told me." The pirate had told him the news with uncharacteristic melancholy. Hawke didn't even remember if he had thanked her.

"Then he's probably wandering around Kirkwall kicking cats and slashing flowers with those claws of his." At Hawke's narrowed gaze, he lays a hand on Hawke's arm. "Look, Hawke. We all know how you feel about Broody. If he's gone, we'll find him. We'll all help find him, okay? It's not like that glowy elf can just melt in with the crowd, you know."

Hawke puts his hand over Varric's but has to look away so the dwarf won't be embarrassed at the moisture in Hawke's eyes. "You're a good friend, Varric. Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Now go home and get some rest. We'll look for Broody in the morning."

The streets are full of shadows, the glitter of eyes following his path from the Hanged Man to Hightown. No one is desperate enough to attack the Champion, however. Hawke remembers laughing about his reputation with Fenris only a week ago during one of their evening strolls.

"It's strange to think that I don't need to worry about being mugged anymore," he had said, intentionally leaning down a little closer than necessary to Fenris's ear. "If they ganged up on me, they could take me down easily, but it never seems to occur to them."

Fenris's voice was steady, but Hawke felt the elf shiver as his warm

breath heated Fenris's ear. "Are you saying you want to be attacked, Hawke?"

"Well, no… but I have you to protect me, don't I?" The corner of Fenris's mouth twitched ever so slightly, and Hawke straightened with a grin of victory.

The connection formed during the cave-in two months ago had strengthened into a close friendship between Fenris and Hawke. The barrier that had separated them since the night Fenris had fled Hawke's bed had been steadily crumbling to be replaced by trust. Physically, they had not progressed beyond sensual kisses and teasing caresses, but Hawke was too dizzy with happiness to care. He knew that what had happened the night of Hadriana's death had frightened Fenris; the fleeting memories in the height of ecstasy had driven him into a rage of frustration. Fenris was still feeling his way back from that pain, and Hawke refused to rush him. Fenris would let him know when he was ready, and until then, Hawke could wait. He had already waited nearly three years.

Now, all that had been gained in two months was lost. Fenris had faced his worst enemy only to find that it wasn't Danarius. The past had reared its vicious head in the form of Varania, and it was she who had defeated Fenris and sent him fleeing into the dark. Maker, the look in Fenris's eyes when she told him about his mother…. It was the same haunted look Fenris had given Hawke just before he fled Hawke's bedroom three years ago. And now he's gone again.

The foyer of his estate is cold and dark when he enters, but the fireplace is still lit in the main room beyond. Bodahn has arranged the mail on his desk, and Orana has left a small tray of fruit and bread on the sideboard. He barely glances at the food, and the mail can wait until the next day. Exhaustion and sadness weigh heavy on his shoulders, and he climbs upstairs trailing listless fingers along the polished banister. A soft, flickering glow emanates from his room, and he's glad to see that Bodahn has left his hearth alight.

He is already removing his leather gloves as he enters and freezes, heart lurching forward as he struggles to calm his breath. Fenris stands before the small fireplace, resting his forehead against one gauntlet that is pressed against the mantle. His other hand twitches at his side as Hawke enters, but other than that, he doesn't move. The shifting flames outline the silhouette of his bowed back, throwing spiked shadows on the wall in gargantuan proportion to the ridges of his armor.

"Fenris?" Hawke means to sound strong and reassuring, but the word sticks in his constricted throat. "Or is it Leto now?"

"Leto is dead." A shriek rips through the silence as Fenris clenches his hand into a fist and the claws of the gauntlet scrape against the stone of the hearth. "Whatever it was that he did… it wasn't enough. Whoever he was, there is no one left who cares."

"But there is still Fenris, and Fenris is free."

Fenris uncurls his spine from the defeated hunch he has assumed, but he doesn't turn around and darkness hides his face. "I thought I understood what freedom meant, but reality is nothing like the idea. My ignorance destroyed my family."

Regret is such a wistful, vicious tease, and Hawke knows it intimately. It ate a deceitful path through his soul when his mother was murdered, and for months, he truly believed her death was the result of his negligence. It was Varric who pulled him from that abyss in the lonely days that followed, Varric because Fenris had never known the words to assuage grief and thus had been unable to help. Now, Fenris teeters also on the brink of despair, but Hawke will not let him fall.

He moves without thought, robes brushing silently against muddy boots, until he stands directly behind the frozen elf. "You gave them opportunity, a gift. What happens beyond the act of giving is not for you to decide. Leto did what he could and sacrificed himself in doing so. Fenris was born, and now it is your choice where Fenris goes from here."

"To be honest, I hadn't thought much beyond killing Danarius. Perhaps I never believed that I would get this far."

"Then it's time to face forward and not backward."

Firelight dances along the silver strands of Fenris's hair as he swivels his head to the side. "Face what, Hawke? I have no family and no home. Where do I go from here?"

Hawke inhales slowly and makes the decision to bare his heart. "You're already here, Fenris. If you want it, this is your home. If you want me, I have already been yours since you first asked me for help." Hawke reaches out tentatively, placing one hand at the nape of Fenris's neck.

"Then it's not…." Beneath his fingers, Hawke can feel the muscles of Fenris's throat work, pushing against the ache lodged there. "It's not too late?"

Oh, my love. Hawke presses cracked, chapped lips to the place where his hand rests. "Too late? I've been waiting for you, Fenris." His lips curl up slowly. "Have the past two months not proved that?"

Just like that, the tension fades, seeps away like ice melting into warm, green grass. Fenris turns his head even more to meet Hawke's gaze, and the emerald of his eyes remind Hawke of the sea and a time when Fenris's laughter rang across the surf and sand.

"I have allowed my fears of the past to make my choices. I will do so no longer."

It is all the answer Hawke needs, and his fingers do not falter as he removes Fenris's armor piece by piece, refusing to allow the elf to move as he does so. The Maker knows he has been patient, has longed for this, and he will do this now at his own pace. The hardened leather and woolen robes fall to the floor, their protection no longer wanted.

It is a versatile thing, skin, with so many different textures: coarse like sandstone, smooth as a silken kerchief, covered with fine hairs that tickle your fingers as you drag your nails through them. Fenris's skin is none of these; it is its own unique character, tough like leather, yet supple as doeskin. Raised trails of white follow hard lines of muscle, and if you are a mage, you can actually feel the tingle of lyrium in those lines, like a hum of desire. Hawke never forgets that it is a privilege he has been granted, to be allowed to touch those tattoos that have brought Fenris so much pain. It is a gift that he can bestow, to layer those distant memories with newer ones, laced with pleasure instead of agony.

He presses his lips against the nape of Fenris's neck, tasting sweat and the faint tang of lyrium. He feels the elf's reaction, a clench of muscle, little more than a spasm and a twitch of the hand. Hawke traces the ridge of Fenris's spine with his tongue, lavishing warmth against skin suddenly pebbled with goose bumps. When he reaches that hollow between the shoulder blades, he rests his forehead there, just breathing deeply of Fenris's scent, the growing musk of arousal. It is intoxicating, and he rests a hand on Fenris's hip to steady himself against a sudden wave of dizziness.

Fenris tilts his head back, resting the base of his skull against the top of Hawke's head. He stretches back one arm, seeking, and finds Hawke's free hand, twining his fingers with Hawke's. They stand like this for a long minute, simply resting in closeness, letting the tension build between them like a rope being drawn taut. When Hawke finally draws his fingers up from Fenris's hip to his chest, the elf takes in a slow, shuddering breath, and Hawke places a soothing kiss on the cusp of one raised vertebrae.

He steps closer to Fenris, raising his head to touch his tongue to the tip of a pointed ear and reveling in the gasp he hears. He grazes the soft skin there with his teeth, and the slender fingers entwined with his tighten convulsively. He traces the shell of Fenris's ear and nips at the earlobe teasingly.

"Hawke." Fenris's voice is little more than a whisper, a plea that hardens Hawke's length more surely than any touch. He flattens his hand against Fenris's chest, drawing him back against Hawke, so that the elf can feel the effect he has on the mage. His cock brushes against the cleft between Fenris's buttocks, and Fenris presses back against it with a low growl. They both shiver at the contact, and Hawke drops his lips to Fenris's neck and brings his hand up to caress the curve of Fenris's throat. His thumb brushes against a racing pulse, and his teeth bite into a protruding tendon. Fenris swallows hard, the muscles working under Hawke's fingertips that are tracing feather-light touches down the length of Fenris's long neck.

The lithe body against him turns at last, eyes molten with heat. Olive fingers delve into his hair and pull Hawke down to meet full lips, chapped from the sun. Fenris kisses the same way he fights, aggressive and strong, plundering Hawke's mouth thoroughly before allowing the mage to come up for air. Hands that easily wield a two-handed axe push him to the floor before the flickering flames, onto a bear-skin rug. The coarse fur caresses Hawke's back as Fenris straddles his legs, swollen lips parted and eyes raking over Hawke's chest and stomach to rest at last on Hawke's erection. Mischievous, mossy eyes meet Hawke's glazed ones as a pink tongue darts out to lick the bead of clear fluid at the tip. A smile ghosts over Fenris's usually stoic face as Hawke's length twitches in response, and Fenris offers him a teasing quirk of the lips before dipping his head to take Hawke fully into his mouth.

Hawke's fingers scrabble into the rug desperately as his back bows in ecstasy. His face turns into the fur with a groan as Fenris swallows, muscles working the thick cock that presses against the back of his throat. It doesn't take long before Hawke is tugging at silky, silver hair, begging wordlessly for Fenris to pause before Hawke reaches his peak far too soon. Fenris releases him with a long, reluctant suck that has Hawke gasping with the effort to hold back, mouth agape, pupils blown wide, and toes curling into the black fur beneath him.

They have both passed the moment for tenderness, their need a palpable force driving them together with low growls and nails digging into flesh. Fenris devours him with a clever tongue and skilled lips while Hawke bucks up to brush his erection against the elf's. Skin slides against skin moistened with sweat, and Hawke touches the pale tattoos at Fenris's hip with reverence, lyrium adding its song to his desire.

"Fenris," he gasps, and the elf rears up panting, eyes half-lidded, his cock so engorged that it curves up toward his stomach, leaking precum. He starts to reach for a vial sitting on a nearby chair, but Hawke lashes out and grabs his wrist.

"No. Take me."

Fenris's eyes widen, and he opens his mouth as if to speak, but there is a flash of light as Hawke raises one hand to cast a grease spell, and Fenris's markings flare in response to the magic. Fenris leans his head back, gulping, and shudders once uncontrollably, a moan escaping his throat. Hawke reaches out with his dry hand to grasp the base of Fenris's erection and squeezes firmly, waiting for his lover to drift back from the precipice. Another shudder and Fenris drops his chin to his heaving chest, struggling for control. Hawke releases him and Fenris scoots to one side to allow Hawke to spread his legs. Glazed eyes watch Hawke avidly while the mage prepares himself with a little more show than is necessary, enough to have Fenris balling his fists to keep his hands from doing some wandering of their own.

Hawke pulls his own knees back, exposing himself, slicked and ready. Fenris kneels before him and fixes his gaze on Hawke's as he penetrates with exquisite slowness, both of them gasping in unison as the head of Fenris's cock breaches the tight ring of muscle. He slides home with ease and leans forward to touch his forehead to Hawke's, both of them quivering with the sheer sensation of being joined. For Hawke, it is the realization of a dream that has finally emerged from the Fade. For Fenris, it is coming home.

Fenris finally pulls back enough to allow himself to move… slow, deep thrusts that leave Hawke breathless, a rivulet of clear fluid trickling down his weeping erection. He keeps his eyes fastened on Fenris, on the slim, powerful body sliding above him with an abandon that Fenris so rarely displays. This is the most beautiful sight Hawke knows: Fenris, flushed and wild, moving with the grace of an unleashed predator, eyes darkened with uncontrolled passion. At one time, he had never hoped to be granted this, and now that he has it, he will never get enough.

Hawke reaches up with one trembling hand and grasps Fenris's shoulder, and the elf slows in understanding. His eyes meet Hawke's briefly, and he braces himself firmly with both hands clutching the rug. Hawke reaches inside himself and draws forth his magic slowly, letting it build before finally releasing it through his hand and into Fenris. The lyrium tattoo beneath Hawke's hand flares into an incandescent blue that flows like a river throughout every marking in Fenris's skin. There is a shout, and Fenris arches back, eyes wide, fingers digging into the fur so hard that Hawke hears it rip.

He is a magnificent sight, every inch of skin lit with flowing lines of sky blue. Hawke watches in awe as he convulses and then flares even brighter, sending out a wave of magic that hits Hawke like a crashing surf. Warmth floods every limb and muscle, and Hawke goes rigid with pleasure, his magic rushing to the surface to meet the call of Fenris's lyrium. He forces his eyes to remain open, to see the miracle they have created: a sphere of blue sparkling around both their bodies, radiating from Fenris's markings and fueled by Hawke's power, the physical manifestation of their unspoken love.

Fenris cries out again and slams his hips deep as his release overcomes him, and Hawke feels the pulse of his ecstasy inside. His lips part in a keening wail as the shimmer of the glow around them intensifies, and he jerks helplessly as streams of milky fluid shoot across his stomach. It seems to endure forever, the pumps of his cock and the storm of pleasure consuming him until he is left hollow and boneless, magic ebbing away like the tide. The glow subsides, and he feels Fenris slump to his chest with a groan that sounds as if it is torn from his soul.

Time passes, and the flames subside into flickering embers. Hawke cards his fingers through Fenris's hair, which is now ruffled from their lovemaking. The elf murmurs sleepily in response and curls into Hawke's side, his head nestled against Hawke's shoulder. Hawke is loath to move and disrupt the peace, reaching out instead to snatch a blanket from the arm of the nearby chair. He drapes it over their entwined bodies and wraps an arm around Fenris's waist. The Fade beckons, and Hawke enters it willingly, fingers securely entwined and anchored within those lined with lyrium.

In the morning, as the first rosy rays of dawn slip through haphazardly closed curtains, Hawke wakes and experiences those first terrifying moments of déjà vu, a hollow memory echoing through the long corridors of the past. But this time, there is a solid warmth at his side and snowy hair tickling his chest, and those slender fingers are still there alongside his own. Through it all is the comforting hum of lyrium song, reminding Hawke that yes, this is real, and Fenris is here. They are home.