Warning: contains a few brief references to childbirth and bodily fluid.

A Different Kind of Magic

The wailing bundle in his arms – the second to arrive in a nearly matched pair - is all pink, wrinkled flesh and flailing limbs. It seems to have all the expected parts; ten fingers, ten toes, two eyes and ears – the latter of which look neither human, nor elven, but rather a subtle combination of both. A sparse cap of dark hair is matted down with the same disgusting concoction covering most of its skin – a mix of blood, clear fluid, and some waxy substance that looks a bit like curdled milk. For the second time today, Fenris soaks a cloth in some warm, soapy water and starts to gently scrub the mess away. Just like the first time, this process makes the baby cry harder, no matter how gentle he tries to be.

The grime slowly discoloring the bucket of water at his feet is rather reminiscent of the unsanitary conditions in Kirkwall's undercity. Some deep, recently buried part of Fenris's mind knows he would once have been revolted by it. But instead; as the child in his arms – his son - screams out the too soft wail of one who has not yet grown into their lungs and wraps a tiny fist around one lyrium veined finger, Fenris wonders if he's ever seen anything quite so beautiful.

The pale, sweaty woman on the bed stirs, reminding Fenris that he has indeed.

Wrapping their now clean child in a soft cloth, he hurries to his wife's side. "How do you feel?" he asks simply, aware he is not prepared to answer the question himself.

"Well, I'm not going to be summoning fire storms anytime soon," she softly quips, "but I'll never consider battling templars to be such a trial again. Hell," she laughs, "bring on the bloody dark spawn; it'll be a picnic compared to delivering twins."

Fenris returns her grin, overwhelmingly relieved to see her usual good humor returning, despite being muted by pain and exhaustion. "Do not joke about that," he says, but there's no bite to the command. Giving birth was more straining on the ex-champion than any battle for Kirkwall ever was; the experience terrifying Fenris more than anything in recent memory. In order to save her and both of the twins, the healer in this small village needed to use quite a bit a magic - once more leaving Fenris beholden to a mage. He couldn't find it in himself feel anything but grateful for it though; there was so much blood…

"Is that my boy?" she asks, suddenly pulling Fenris out of the downward spiral of his thoughts. Her eyes fill with tears and excitement as she reaches for the whimpering infant in his arms. He hands the child over without comment, unwilling to cause either of them more distress. The second he's tucked close to his mother's chest, their son quiets completely.

"Oh, he's so beautiful!" she sighs, finger tracing the outer shell of his ear. "Look at these tiny little points. I was so hoping they'd look at least a little like you. The other one's a girl, right? Can I have her too, please?"

It's a simple matter to snatch their sleeping daughter from her cradle and place her in her mother's arms as well. Unlike her brother, this one has a light fluff of hair on her head, as opposed to dark. Aside from that – and the obvious of course - there is little difference. His wife is correct in her assessment. While appearing mostly human, their children bear clear signs of their elven heritage. Despite Evelyn Hawke's delight in this fact, Fenris would have preferred the opposite. The children of a famous apostate and an ex-slave don't need another reason to stand out, especially with all of Thedas on the lookout for them.

Obviously noticing his frown, Hawke looks up at him in concern. "Come here," she urges, gesturing with her chin to the empty space beside her. He balks for a moment, worried jostling the bed will cause her pain, but she rolls her eyes until he gives in and slides onto the mattress. Evelyn shifts the babies to lay in the narrow space between them, before once again meeting his gaze.

"Are you happy, Fen?" She asks him, heart in her eyes, all sarcasm gone in one heart stopping moment of sincerity.

Taken aback, Fenris sputters uncomfortably for a moment. How can he possibly answer that question?

Despite his progress over the past few years, emotions are still not always an easy thing for him to process. For most of his life – the parts he can remember at least – he tried not to care about much of anything. Loving a thing made it a target, made the one loving it vulnerable. Hate was the only emotion he allowed himself and it festered in his soul until it was the only thing left…until Hawke.

Loving his wife was not always easy but it was simple. She was a balm and fire alike for his soul. She treated him like a person and not a thing to be owned or feared. She led by example and showed him how to open up, how to let someone close to him without flinching with every step nearer. His time with her, and with all their friends in Kirkwall, helped him become someone new, someone who not only knew what happy felt like, but who actively sought it out.

But it has never felt like this before.

His heart is not soothed now, nor is it on fire. It is swollen in his chest, seemingly three times its normal size and trying desperately to climb out of his too-tight throat. The sight of the woman he loves with their tiny children is as humbling as it is frightening. He wants to reach out and touch their velvety skin with his bare fingers, wants to smooth the drying tendrils of their hair around those slightly elven ears, but worries his hands – made for nothing more than death – will do more harm than good. He knows someone else could love them better, protect them more, but the thought of their removal from his life terrifies him beyond all reason. He will fight to the death to prevent that from happening, slay anyone in his path.

They are the family he never let himself want; the new song in his too thick blood as it pounds hotly in his veins. In less than a hour, two tiny, defenseless infants have bewitched him in a way no mage ever could, have enslaved him more thoroughly than Danarius ever dreamed possible. And the thing of it is, he realizes; despite the fear, pain, and uncertainty, he stands in those shackles willingly. He throws the key away with a smile. Wouldn't the magisters be surprised to learn that this is actually the most powerful kind of blood magic?

"I…" he tries to answer, to reassure his anxious, too-pale wife that all is well, but nothing but a stunted croak comes out. Is this happiness that he feels? No, he decides. It is too complex, too powerful, too violent an emotion to be called that, but he does know it is vital, it is right. He promised to follow this woman into whatever future they made and he does not regret that decision.

Wordless and without breath, he reaches for Hawke's hand and holds on tight. A small smile stretches across his lips and he nods once, frantically blinking the itchy threat of tears away. It is too simple an answer to be the truth, but it is all he has.

Hawke lets herself cry where he cannot. Tears glisten against her fair cheeks as she lets out a relieved chuckle. "I'm happy too," She tells him, her joyful words soothing over the ache in his heart. "Lets just not do this again anytime soon, alright? We got two for one anyway? A real bargain!"

Three, he thinks, leaning over to brush his lips against her dry, chapped ones. There are three souls that own his heart now, all of which lay on this bed, and they were by no means a bargain. It's been a battle every step of the way, but they are a family now and it has all been worth it.

"Mmm… " She sighs against his lips, "I love you, Fen."

"I am yours," he answers, holding her palm to his chest, vowing his protection and love above all else. He means the words as much today as he did the very first time, but unlike then, he has more promises to make. Bending down to kiss the brows of each sleeping babe in turn, he adds, "and yours, and yours."