Warnings: complete disregard for DA2's timeline.

Originally wrote a short romance ficlet, but it just took off from there into something else. M!Hawke/Fenris and a host of all other characters.

The Hanged Man was rowdy that night, full of weary men eager to forget the hardships of daily life in Kirkwall. The smell of bitter swill and spilled ale hung heavy amidst the raucous crowd drunk in loud revelry. At the corner table by the stairwell sat an eclectic group. To the old patrons, the sight of a dark looking elf and a stout dwarf in the company of a couple humans was no longer an odd sight, and so they paid them no mind. Some of these patrons had to learn the hard way about the consequences of speaking their mind.

"Elf, how is it that your so good at diamondback?" Varric said as he pushed a stack of silver across the scuffed table. "Something you picked up in servitude?"

"It's no fault of mine that you're bad at it, dwarf," Fenris said.

"Oh Varric, you just don't know the rules. As in, there are no rules. Full house, my win," Isabella said. She placed her cards flat on the table and raked in the coins.

Varric gaped and spluttered, "No no, elf boy here I can understand, but you? The only way you ever win is by cheating!"

"Did you see me cheat? I think not." Isabella gave a surreptitious wink to Hawke, and he laughed. Hawke saw her slight of hand, a quick and subtle movement, but did not feel the need to mention it. It was the same routine every time they played.

"One more game. I'm not giving up till I win at least one game," Varric pleaded.

Hawke, who was sitting right beside Fenris, slipped his hand beneath the table and placed it on Fenris' thigh. Fenris shifted a little in surprise and his face grew stiff. He huffed, an almost silent exhale of air, and dropped his cards onto the table.

"I'm done for the night. Same time next week?"

"What's the hurry elf? Forgot to choreograph your dance routine?"

"One joke, and you never let it go."

"Not in your lifetime, elf. Say hello to Leandra for me!"

Fenris rolled his eyes and gathered slung his broadsword across his back. Although the tavern was crowded, people hastily parted as Fenris strode to the exit. The returning patrons, even drunk, had some sense of self-preservation in them still, Hawke thought with amusement.

"So you and Fenris, eh?" Isabella teased as she watched Hawke's eyes trace Fenris' retreat. She deftly shuffled the deck, her movements quick and swift as she dealt out the cards. "If you hadn't already laid claim to him, I would've eaten up that brooding hot body long ago."

"I love it when you talk dirty Rivaini, but not about ser broody-pants. There's not enough ale in this tavern for me to be prepared for that," Varric said with a grimace, and then shot Hawke a grin to show the lack of intent behind that statement.

"I don't have 'claim' on anyone," Hawke said. From the knowing looks being aimed at him, that protest was evidently a weak one.

"Despite what you may think, that wandering hand was not exactly subtle. And if I saw that, for sure Rivaini here did as well."

"I've no idea what you two are talking about," Hawke said. He rearranged the cards in his hand and changed the subject. "Ready to lose again Varric?"

"Not this time."

And much to the dwarf's chagrin, he did lose badly. Twice. The third and final time, Isabella forced him to buy them a round. Varric may have been the merchant prince and Isabella the pirate-thief, but Hawke had some magic tricks up his sleeve too.

Hawke ended up bidding Varric and Isabella farewell when the noise began to taper off and people slunk back into their hovels. The air outside was chilly and the streets that were carved from the large quarry it was situated in glowed a chalky white in the pale moonlight. Pinpricks of stars glittered in the sky, for once not hidden by passing clouds, and Hawke admired the vastness of the void.

As he walked away from the bright tavern and down the solitary pathways of Lowtown, a still figure broke away from the recess of a shadow and joined his side.

"I thought you would've already been back in Hightown already," Hawke said. He was unsurprised by the sight of Fenris standing in wait. "Unless you had something else in mind...?" He shot Fenris a lewd grin.

Nearly barefoot, Fenris' footsteps were as silent as a wraith's. It made the sound of Hawke's boots clapping against the stone floor seem to echo louder. Hawke observed the tension in Fenris' shoulders, and the way his eyes kept darting to the side, as if searching for an escape route away from an uncomfortable position, never mind the fact that it was he who sought Hawke's company voluntarily.

"Night in Lowtown isn't safe for one person, and you are a rather conspicuous Fereldan," Fenris said. "I didn't think you'd ask for Varric and Isabella to escort you back to the mansion."

"If I'm a conspicuous foreigner, you are more than a conspicuous looking elf."

Fenris stiffened and looked away. "If you'd have me leave, command me, and I shall."

Hawke sensed the significance of those choice words and mentally filed it away.

"I'm hardly the helpless damsel, but I do appreciate your concern. Besides, how could I deny any time alone with you?" " Hawke said with a laugh at the mental imagery of him in a dress. He undid the obscure charm so that the staff slung across his back was visible. Fenris grimaced at the taste of magic in the air, but did not move away.

Hawke gently touched the bared portion of Fenris' arm and trailed his fingers down till he was able to hold his hand. It was a good sign that Fenris didn't shake away his touch. If it wasn't too dark to see, he could've sworn there was a flush rising on his cheeks and pointed ears.

"Did you really stand out in the cold for a couple hours to see me safely home, or did you want something else?"

He saw Fenris' mouth open and close, as if thinking hard about an appropriate answer. Perhaps he could help with that. Hawke lifted Fenris' gauntleted hands, carefully avoiding the clawed tips, and kissed the exposed palm. The area where his lips touched made the lyrium markings glow blue with life. Fenris shuddered. An interesting response.

"Don't," Fenris croaked, and weakly tried to pull his hand away. Hawke held on for a second longer and let go. "You don't know what you do to me."

"Good things, I hope. You really are something else."

"An escaped slave whose past is forever branded on his skin?" Fenris said harshly. Hawke knew that sighing out loud would probably make this turn in mood worse.

"Your life should be defined by more than the past," Hawke said gently, neither taking a step back nor forward in proximity. "You scorn Merrill for chasing after lost history, a life that can never be recovered, and yet your need for revenge and self-loathing consumes every aspect of you. Let it go."

"It's not that easy!" Fenris said. "If I could release this...hatred, I would. But not until I am no longer hunted by my master. I would see him dead first."

"I've already pledged to help you in this, but have you thought of what after?"

They had stopped in front of the empty pier. The sound of tethered boats gently bumping against the quay and their breathing filled the silence. Fenris looked at into the water, at the reflection of the moon and stars broken by the lapping of water.

"I don't know what I'm doing," Fenris finally said after a long moment in contemplation. "It frightens me that when I am with you, I desire to serve. This want to stay and be yours when all these years I've been running and hiding like a mouse is something I cannot place. It is like a different kind of slavery."

The fact that Fenris compared the two of them to slavery told Hawke much about how inexperienced Fenris was when it came to different type of relationships outside that context.

"Perhaps I can help you sort it out," Hawke said, leaning back against a wall so that their eyes were at equal heights. "When I look at you, I do not see a fugitive nor a slave. I see a strong elf who has done everything he can to carve out his own existence, unyielding in his actions, but also lonely. Some would say that being in a relationship, especially the loving kind, is a type of slavery. But in a true relationship, it is a mutual desire to please and to do anything for the other's well-being. The only power I have over you, and you over me, is what is freely given."

A strange glint flashed in Fenris' eyes as they gazed at each other, blue orbs meeting green. "I...I've never been in a 'relationship' before, and do not know what to do in one," Fenris said carefully, as if tasting a foreign concept. "You and I don't always see eye to eye, but all I ever think about is you."

"And I to you. But how do you feel about magic now? Magic is a part of me. Without it, I am nothing. Could you love me still, and come to terms with this apostate?"

"It will take...time. My reserve against mages is not so strong when I am with you, but Anders and Merrill still repulse me. I cannot make any promises, especially those I do not know that I can keep."

"It's enough that you'll try," Hawke said, and reached out to palm his cheek. "I have not lived your life nor seen through your eyes the horror of what went on in Tevinter, and promise you that I will not trivialize your experiences because of this. Magic is useful, but it is innately dangerous; that I can agree with."

"And yet you continue to use it," Fenris said.

"Can you imagine anything else? It is who I am, and the only way it can be gotten rid of is by making me Tranquil."

"I wouldn't let them," Fenris said with vehemence. He laid his hand atop of Hawke's and turned his face to kiss Hawke's hand; a returned gesture. "I cannot sort through all that I feel for you, but I know that I would not let that happen. Not while I'm alive."

Hawke pressed his lips firmly against Fenris' and they both moaned at the contact. Eager hands gripped and explored each others bodies, making them burn with desire. "We'll work this out-" Fenris gave a hard kiss-"mm, together. We'll make it work."

They continued to revel in each other's touch beneath the dark sky till a chilly wind swept through the dock and made them shiver with something other than desire. With great reluctance, Hawke leaned back to break the kiss and prevented Fenris from following. "Let's not scandalize the poor bandits out at this time. Your place or mine?"

Fenris laughed, a genuine gravelly laugh from the throat. "I doubt your mother would appreciate us ruining the tapestries and making a mess of the floor."

"I like your ambition. Your mansion is long overdue for a good breaking."

The candles had long snuffed itself out, but daylight was breaking on the horizon. The bed was an absolute mess. Half the sheets were on the floor, and the pillows were flung somewhere into the corner. Hawke had hurt his hand after accidentally knocking over a pile of heavy tomes on the bedside table that were being used to prop up deformed candles lacking placeholders.

When the fire from the knocked candle accidentally hit the cotton sheets, Hawke was glad that Fenris didn't flinch at the sight of him using magic to smother it before it burnt them both alive in a fiery cocoon.

Fenris was still asleep, his usually tense and melancholic face now relaxed and peaceful. Hawke had a feeling that Fenris hadn't had a restful sleep in a long time, and he was glad that he was able to remedy that.

Hawke watched his lover sleep until he felt the burn in his bladder and got up to relieve it. Even though dawn was fast approaching, the windows were but mere slits in the wall, so the room was still mostly cast in darkness. As Hawke walked back towards the bed after relieving himself outside, he felt his foot collide with something hard and sharp. Suppressing a curse, he nudged aside Fenris' clawed gauntlets and felt something smooth and flat fall out and slide beneath his foot.

A quick glance at the ruined bed showed Fenris still unmoved. Hawke quietly summoned a light mote to hang above his head and had to bite his knuckles to stop himself from outright laughing.

It was cards. The highest ones in diamondback nonetheless.

No one knew honesty and fairness in games anymore, it seemed. Or at least not in their company. Except for poor Varric.

Hawke slipped back into bed and buried his face against Fenris' neck.

"I see you found something interesting," Fenris said, his voice rougher than usual from sleep.

"You are more of a sneaky bastard than I give you credit for," Hawke teased. "Were you awake the entire time?"

"Long enough for you to find the cards."

"So every time we play, do you have those with you?"

"Only when I know you and Isabella will be playing."

"Why I never," Hawke said with mock outrage. "You wound me so with such accusations."

"Oh? Then I must be mistaken. Sleight of hands are a true rarity after all. Let me make it up to you," Fenris said as he slid under the sheets.

"You're going to be making it up to me every night."

"It'd be my pleasure."

Needless to say, they spent the entire morning in bed.

Kirkwall's Lowtown used to house the Imperium's slaves. The city itself was a sprawling maze, and it wasn't unusual for denizens to find themselves in unfamiliar areas. It was meant to deter slave rebellions. And it worked.

Very few people knew about the glyphs carved upon the quarry walls, floors and tunnels. Time had eroded away much of the markings, but here and there were some that could still be traced by sensitive fingertips and soft cheeks.

When Hawke and his family had first docked into Kirkwall with the mass of other Fereldan refugees, he tasted the old power contained within the city as soon as he had stepped onto the quay. It was a numbness on his tongue and a tingle in his spine. If Bethany...if Bethany had made it, perhaps she would've felt it too, some sign that Kirkwall was more than it seemed to be.

All cities carried the spirit of history within its walls, and like the glyphs, it may not always be visible, but it was felt. It had been three years since Hawke had first arrived and found riches in the Deep Roads. The Amell Mansion he purchased in Hightown delighted his mother beyond all compare. Between Carver, his mother and himself, Hawke thought that the one to suffer the most was their mother. There was no use dwelling in the past-they were Hawkes now, not Amells, but anything to keep away his mother's sadness he would do in a heartbeat.

Carver never came to see the Amell Mansion restored. He was as resolute to focus on his Templar training as the day he left to join their ranks. Hawke did not know what it meant that he was relieved to see his little brother go, even though it broke their mother's heart. Carver had always felt the need to prove himself, and constantly questioned his decisions in a one-sided competition that Hawke never satisfied for him.

Carver was no longer a little boy a head shorter than him, begging to see magic tricks and asking to be swung around or to ride on his shoulders. Carver changed when their father passed away. Perhaps one day they'll be able to talk civilly to each other. Bethany was always the calm one, the mediator, and the one who forced them to shake hands and apologize. He didn't think anyone could've foreseen that Carver would've become a templar. Bethany would've been horrified.

Kirkwall was their home now, for good or ill.

The stench of the city, a mix of sweet rot and briny water, was at its strongest in Lowtown. He often kept himself busy through volunteer work with Anders, assisting Aveline in her guard duties, cards with Varric and Isabella, or taking his mabari hound to the Wounded Coast for a good exercise, with the occasional request to quietly be rid of some "undesirable" fellows. It was an easier life outside of the confines of the mercenary group, though on occasion, when Hawke felt the need for a good fight, he would take an assignment from the Red Iron.

The buzz of magic coursing through his body demanded he do something about it. And so he did. He had stopped carrying his staff a while ago-it was no longer required as a conduit.

He had just finished completing a Red Iron job in an underground basement within Darktown. It was filthy work, full of blood and dirt. By the time he was through, there were no survivors and eyewitnesses to report the deed. He took none of his usual companions with him-they would not approve. Even Fenris. But at least the agonizing rush of power was depleted. For now.

The city was like a conch shell that still the echo of the ocean if one listened closely enough. A thin overlay of old magic pulsed through the underground tunnels, the well-worn roads and rough-hewed walls. The longer Hawke remained in Kirkwall, the more he could feel its stain upon him in ways that made him fear.

He had first noticed a change with his connection to the Fade while still in the one-year bound contract with the Red Iron. Working with the mercenary group was hard work, and both he and Carver did not come out unscathed. Every time they were sent out on a mission, the end result would exhaust them both to the core, and it took all his concentration to quietly heal the worst of their wounds without their mother or Gamlen noticing.

At first the change was welcome. He had a deeper mana pool and it did much to alleviate his fatigue, as well as improve his capabilities for both himself and Carver. If Carver noticed the gradual ease of dispatching certain people, it was left unmentioned.

Hawke thought that the inflow of magic would stop in time, especially now that the fight for survival was no longer a threat. When they had left for the Deep Roads, the echo of Kirkwall continued to resonate in the hollow of his bones. Coming back, the influx had grown from rivulets to a stream. He feared a flood.

Too much magic can corrupt the soul, his father once said during a training mishap where he blew up a young sapling in a shower of flames instead of encouraging it to sprout leaves. It is a tool that is an extension of yourself, but must be wielded carefully. The sharper and stronger that tool is, the more likely it will become a weapon that knew only to hurt rather than to mend and defend. Losing control means to lose one's sense of self, and that only lead to darker paths. They had put out the flames together.

There was much wisdom in his father that was never fully imparted, both because of his youth and his father's untimely death. Hawke didn't think about his father often, it brought up too many conflicting feelings, but he desperately wished he was still alive now.

His hair was still damp from washing himself in a secluded area that had access to the sea. His scalp and neck itched from the salt, but he figured it was better to come home smelling like brine than blood.

Owners at their stalls harked their wares to passersby with enthusiasm, neighboring stores constantly raising their voices to drown each other out. The market was a mess of bodies hot from the sweltering sun, and the buzzing of flies trying to taste their sweat.

Hawke wandered through the market and into a shadowed alleyway. He knew not where he was going, and let his feet guide him through the empty path. Although he spent most of his magic reserves on accomplishing his task, his body was still humming with power. Perhaps he'll skip the party at the Hanged Man tonight; he'd find an appropriate excuse another time.

The orange banners slung from roof top to roof top in a haphazard pattern blazed with fire from the sunlight, and beneath the glow of their shadow, a jolt of lightning shot through his leg. With a grunt of pain and surprise, Hawke's shoulder hit the side of the narrow alley hard as he slid down onto the dirty ground to clutch his aching bone.

"Are you alright, serrah?" A wizened crone asked from the window above him. She had a threadbare grey blanket in her hand that was halfway draped across the clothesline. Her eyes were a bright golden yellow.

"I don't know who you're trying to fool," Hawke said through gritted teeth, "but at least put some effort into it. I'm not stupid, despite what you may think."

The crone cackled and disappeared from the window ledge. Hawke put his head against his raised knee and breathed deeply. The pain in his leg throbbed weakly and a slow wave of numbness crept down from his shoulders. His fingertips tingled like it was being trod on by a thousand ants.

"Clever child, I knew I liked you for a reason," the golden-eyed crone said, casting him in the dark with her shadow. She was draped in a long sleeved dress with a shawl over her shoulders. A long cowl covered her head, making her eyes appear all the more stark. At least her voice ha changed; it was definitely more recognizable now. The grey blanket she had on the clothesline was folded neatly in the crook of her arm.

"Flemeth. Under any other circumstance I'd give you a warm greeting, but as you can see," Hawke casually waved at his prone body, "I'm not in the proper setting."

Flemeth laughed and unfolded the blanket. "Oh I know child, I know," she said, draping him in a shroud of grey. "It's not everyday I make personal visits."

Hawke frowned at the blanket. The temperature was still hot and air stifling, but strangely enough, the blanket was cool and light like a midnight breeze. Feeling in his arms and legs returned in slow stages, but it was coming back.

"Why are you helping me?" Hawke asked.

"So suspicious, child," Flemeth said. "But alas you are right. I require your services once more."

"And why should I help you?"

"A favor for a favor," Flemeth said, baring her teeth.

"Then you can have this...whatever blanket this is back," Hawke said and made a move to unwrap the it from his shoulders.

"Keep it," she said, reaching out to tighten it around him. "Consider it a gift. A peace offering if you will, showing my good intent."

"Since when does a fly in the ointment have good intent? How do I know that you're not the cause of this?"

"As if I had nothing better to do with my time than to torment a Fereldan apostate. You've made quite a name for yourself, and undiscovered too!" She said. "Either you are extremely skilled, or the Templars here are not as formidable as they seem. But how long will that last? Especially when you are no longer in full control of what you wield."

"For someone claiming to not be the cause of this, you seem to know an awful lot."

"I know a great many things, clever one, and it is this knowledge of your...affliction that I offer you," Flemeth said. "The task I ask of you is of consequence and severity, but you shall have a great reward as your due."

"Your words suggest many things, but holds no promises," Hawke said. "Just because you offer me knowledge of my ailment does not mean it holds the key to its cure. And that's if there's even one to be had."

Flemeth's laugh echoed through the alleyway, her rusty voice amplified in waves. "You have more than proven your worthiness. No, I will not give you cheap advice; that is for lesser men. I will be your teacher, and under my tutelage, you shall harness what you are becoming."

Hawke felt sick. What he was becoming? Maker, surely not an abomination. He could not recount making any deals with demons. He'd rather die.

"Here is a small piece, a taste of what I know. Listen well," Flemeth said, striking a dramatic pose, "The Fade is as vast as the void, always changing and shifting, like a leaf drifting in the wind. The area that ordinary dreamers occupy is but a single thread in a tapestry. To cross into another thread is to travel into another realm, one that is full of secrets and wonders unbeknownst."

Flemeth's shard of knowledge was like an arrow through Hawke's mind. He had never heard of the Fade being described in such a way before, but the words resonated deep within, and somehow he knew it to be the Truth.

She observed his change in manner, the slump in his shoulders and the inward reflection of his eyes, and knew she had won over his reserve.

"Meet me in a week's time at the altar from whence I was released," she said. Hawke lowered his head in silent agreement. "Arrive well-equipped, and tell no one of our meeting. Settle your debts; you will be gone for some time."

She took a step back into the lee of an broken archway and disappeared.