Too many obsessions

Hand on your head. She touches your hair, your cheek, your jaw where your teeth still ache. She touches your hair, restless, ceaseless, hand to your lips wet and smearing.

You bite. Never learned not to. Never could tell the hand that feeds from the hand that hurts, never could make yourself care about the difference when even the feed tastes of ozone and metal (and salt and skin), but first press of your teeth earns a gasp and first taste of your tongue flexes her hand, a new shape in the dark corners of your mouth.

Clever trick, little wolf. What others do you know?

This: you dip your head (saliva smears your cheek, cooling-cold on your scars) and lick, and her thigh trembles lightning-hot static-sharp against your cheek and her moan hits your ears staccato like a sob.

You know your tricks well. Soon enough, your skin is fire, walls and bedsheets and soft bare skin washed foxglove, and there are chasms of ice down your arms, your lips, the frozen ridge of your spine. She touches your neck and says your name, and obedience wraps its jaws around your throat and grips you tight.

“Fenris—”

“Jasper.”

More a growl than a word. Rasping against the soft dark inside of your throat, the last warm place in your body.

“Here—” she’s breathless, wordless, pulls you up and wraps her arms around the searing cage of your ribs, presses herself to your mouth, length of her body eclipsing yours as the pain washes through you. In the dark corners of her world, her bedroom, her mouth, it takes on a shape like ecstasy. “Are you okay?”

Fingers against the crack in the world that should be your spine. You didn’t howl for him, but you could for her. Could for her, if only you could.

“I have to go.”

“Fenris—” frowning, now, fingernails against your ribs as she pushes on her elbows, tries to smile. To meet your eyes. “Was it that bad?”

“It was fine.” You don’t let her. Pull back, cast about for your clothes, so hastily discarded. Metal glistening firelight-umber on her rich warm carpet. It weighs on your shoulders like shame, like anger, knits your body tight in on itself with every buckle. “It– that– no.”

How do you tell her you’re hurting me? What do you have, little wolf, but tooth and jaw and the will to use them? You pull your vambrace too tight, feel the tips of your fingers start to numb. Jasper sits up, head to one side, bleach-bone hair pooling at her collarbone. No shame, nothing to be shy about, she watches you with the same gentle worry she watches all of you, her pack of misfits. The bruise on her ribs is lurid purple, and, ungenerous and possessive, you wonder if she’ll have her mage wipe it from her skin.

So there it is: like a stray snapping over scraps, your teeth ache at the thought. Fiddling with a buckle, you look into the fire.

“Did I hurt you?”

Her voice is soft, pre-laden with guilt. Your Jasper (your Jasper, already, since the day you met–), always taking on others’ burdens. In the face of her offering, brittle bones and brittle smiles, what can you do but lie?

“No. It– it was better than I could have dreamed.” A sideways look; she blinks, eyes firebright. A soft landing for your words. “I started to– remember. Flashes.” Dressed, now, metal and sharp edges against her bared skin. “My life before. I– I can’t do this.”

It was past dawn and a hazy dew lingered in the air over the Vinmark Mountains. Corrine awoke to the high-pitch ringing of a whetstone against steel and the glint of the dying fire against metal. She sat up abruptly only to see Fenris looking over his blade. The dim sunlight dappled over his bare arms and highlighted the lyrium marks wrapping around them as he turned the blade over. His eyes scanned the length of it and over every detail before his ears pricked to the sound of her movement. Pausing, he gave her a sideglance.

“So much for keeping watch,” he said dryly. Their squire, Valentin, was passed out facing the rising sun with his mandolin still clutched in his arms. Meanwhile, other members of the camp were already stirring and Athenril was already on the far end of the camp directing the elves with the limited patience that they had paid for.

“I couldn’t have been out that long…” Corrine muttered to herself as she wiped the sleep from her eyes. She had stayed alert for at least a couple hours with her mind racing with thoughts of the tournament, of risk, and of the complexities that were already unfolding with this mission. At some point, all the thoughts had run together and everything had gone black.

“It was enough, I hope.” Another dry response. Was it sarcasm, concern, or a bit of both? He didn’t follow up to confirm it was either. They had shared a bottle of wine the night before and then a dance to celebrate with the freed elves; now a new day lay ahead to tackle the joust and the simmering emotions between them.

Before she could respond, his attention was back on his blade. Taking some wood ash, he appraised its grit between his fingers before mixing it with some oil from his pack and applying it to the blade with a soft cloth. He ran it along the blade in long strokes. He seemed lost in thought; it was part of a long-practiced ritual, a sort of meditation.

“It was. Thanks.” She started. “Good that you let me rest; they say the Fade calls to sleep-deprived mages and leads them astray.” The head turn was abrupt and immediate. He had a noticeable grip on the blade as he stared at her.

“Really?” He asked wryly.

“No,” she stifled a laugh. “Not really.”

“Another bad joke…” He exhaled through his teeth before turning the blade in his grip and turning back towards the dying fire.

Grinning, she cupped her face in her hands, still sitting up from her bedroll. “No need to worry. I’m just a normal girl, after all.”

“But you’re not.” Fenris countered.

Her heart sank as he sighed and looked to his blade to pick up where he left off but paused before speaking. His tone was conflicted but thoughtful, as if saying more would betray him. “You’re…something more.”

Her expression softened. Something more. Her magic indeed made him wary but there was something else that pulled at him. At both of them.

“You as well,” she responded.

Caught off-guard, he gave another side-glance. He looked downwards while in thought for a moment before returning to his work, though she caught the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his lips.

She ran her fingers through her hair, untangling the knots she had gotten from tossing and turning before noticing the extra roll that had been placed top of her sometime in the night. She felt the thick, worn material with her fingers. It smelt of leather, petrichor and ash; it smelt like him.

Closing her eyes, she took it all in for a moment. His smell, his words, everything that had transpired before and what laid before them and what felt inevitable despite her denying what she had seen in her cards. She got up from her bedroll and folded his across her arms before approaching him.

“You didn’t need to do that for me. Did you even sleep?” She asked as she set the folded roll by him.

“The Dalish advise covering and hiding hapless travelers spending nights in the Vinmark Mountains, lest the Dreadwolf take them in their sleep.” Fenris stated flatly.

Corrine blinked in confusion, wondering if this was something new he had picked up on from his travels or from Merrill. “Wait, what? They say that?”

“Seeing as I’m not Dalish, I wouldn’t know…” he trailed off before a grin spread across his lips. “So no, not really. And I am accustomed to little sleep. It seemed you needed it more.”

“I’m not hapless…” she asserted. She shook her head at being fooled once again by the elf’s perfect poker face.

“You were trembling in your sleep,” he pointed out.

Her eyes fell to her hands as she sighed. It wasn’t from cold but from the same recurring nightmare she had had since Bethany’s death. What awaited them at the tournament was weighing on her and with it that ever growing fear once again.

Noticing her expression, he leaned in. “Hawke, I-“ he cut himself off. A force of habit. After the other day, she had a new name and one not even Varric called her. It still felt too foreign on his tongue and to call her “Lady Corrine” felt too painfully familiar.

She smiled solemnly. “When we get to the tournament, it’ll have to be My Lady or Lady Corrine. If I’m tied to the Hawke name, they could very well also tie my knight to it as well. Risky if Danarius is involved.”

She was met with silence as he looked away as his brow furrowed. Titles left a bitter taste in his mouth after his escape from the Castellum Tenebris but was a necessary charade.

“Is that all?” he asked with a dark chuckle. “Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy this little play you’ve put on.”

She cocked her head slightly at his remark before leaning in close. Her lips parted in a mischievous smile as she spoke. “I won’t deny that I enjoy how my name sounds when you say it.”

He was taken aback before she continued. ”Do it for the tournament and after, we can go back to routine and I can be ‘Hawke’ again, if that’s what you want.”

”It’s not that…,” he started before they both heard a loud yawn as Valentin roused from his sleep. He stretched out all four limbs before looking over at them lazily. Looking over yonder, the skies had lightened and it was high-time to head out.

Valentin, true to Athenril’s description, was a skilled squire and assisted Fenris with the armor Corrine had provided. He was soon unrecognizable under the sheets of steel and under the helmet. The white charger Athenril provided was tractable enough that he seated it with ease and soon the three bid farewell to Athenril and the elves and went in separate paths through the Vinmark Mountains.

-

Despite what he had heard from Donnic and Aveline, nothing could prepare Fenris for the sight of the tournament grounds that stretched from end to end. Corrine had asked him to let her do the talking with guardsmen at the front and, brandishing the invitation she had, the three were able to make it through with minimal fuss though talk of the Amell House entering the grounds with just a small crew instead of an entourage did raise eyebrows. Lady Amell and her knight Blaidd received a mix of tepid welcomes and curiosity from the other nobles. Talks of the “wild-card” Amell quickly began to make their rounds among the other lords and ladies during the opening ceremonies.

Arriving, Corrine and Valentin already noticed small signs of tampering. Perhaps a noble, upon seeing their entrance, had tossed some coin at attendant with loose enough morals to tamper with the straps on their horse’s saddle and weaken their lances. It was something she already expected and it only made her more sure of the plan she had been racking her mind over.

There was only a short break before the tournament started where Fenris was able to see Corrine before she was to head to the stands. In the midst of all the hustle and bustle of the crowds, they hadn’t spoken but he had kept his eyes on her. She was a vision in red; fully committed to her role as “Lady Amell.” No longer in mage robes, she had adorned herself in a dress befitting a noble lady. It was impressive how quickly she had camouflaged herself though, with how many eyes were on her and her team as a defiant new challenger, he wondered if it would be enough.

Fenris had removed his helmet in order to get some air before the first rounds. The pavilion they were in offered a welcome reprieve to be away from the wandering eyes and whispers. As Valentin fussed over the finer details of his equipment, Corrine noticed his eyes on her.

”How do I look? Convincing enough…?” She asked as she did a turn. Her tone was playful but there was that bit of hesitation in her voice as she looked up at him for approval.

”You look…different,” he said with some reluctance. In reality, he was struggling with his words. Seeing her in the dull light of the pavillion, adorned in gold and red and without the facial markings she normally had during missions, was different. She looked almost regal. The way her hair cupped her face and how the fine silk folded over her delicate form made his breath catch in his throat.

“What?” She choked out a laugh as she looked over herself, suddenly self-conscious. “Is it that bad?”

“It’s an improvement.” Another gruff response and another failed attempt at trying to get his words across. He caught his squire cringing at the entire exchange as he tended to his lances from the other side of the pavilion. Fenris sighed as his hand cupped his face in frustration.

She grimaced. “An improvement. What are you trying to say?”

He sighed and pushed through his embarrassment and continued, casting his eyes to the side “…that you’re beautiful.”

She was speechless for a moment before smiling and taking the sight of him in. The old armor they had found rotting in the basement of the Amell Estate so long ago was unrecognizable now on him. There he was, her knight donned head to toe in Amell armor, sharp-eyed and battle-ready. It filled her with pride and awe.

“Thank you. And you make for a stunning knight,” she said softly as she approached him. “I’m honored.”

Their moment was interrupted by the sound of a horn going off in the distance. “FIRST PASS TO START IN FIFTEEN MINUTES!” came the cry of the announcer across the field.

She looked pensive for a moment, internally deliberating on her choice. “You’ll need to finish up here. I have one last thing to give you, if you’ll indulge me.” She pulled from her side a ribbon in the same color as her dress.

“A ribbon?” He muttered skeptically.

“A favor,” she corrected. “It’s customary for a maiden to give her knight a favor. It’s for luck, though hopefully, you won’t need it.” They had less than fifteen minutes left. It was time for her to enact her plan - the card she had been saving.

He scoffed. Luck was something he felt had long evaded him, though his freedom and progress in Kirkwall had all been fortuitous after joining in with Hawke and her team. Her sapphire eyes looked at him eagerly until he relented. “Fine. Have at it, then.”

Smiling, she took out a small blade from her pack. He eyed her with suspicion as she cut a lock of her dark red hair before taking it her hand and stretching the fabric out in front of him.

“Give me your wrist,” she instructed.

He held out his right arm to her and watched her work as she worked the fabric around the hair lock and in circles. Each movement was deliberate and careful to tie the lock tightly in place.

She gently pulled his wrist to her lips and kissed it before looking up at him. “Done.”

He didn’t pull away but eyed her and exhaled a breath he had held from the moment she had began tying the favor. Even through the armor, it was almost as though he could still feel the warmth of her lips against his wrist. It felt out of place to have her looking up at him, an elven slave wrapped in armor, as if he was her liege. As if she was the one in his service instead.

“Are favors normally sealed with a kiss?” He asked with a grin, raising an eyebrow. “Is that part of your luck?”

“In a sense.” She smiled to herself as she let go of his gauntlet. He was skirting too close to the truth. “I’ll be with you on the field, in spirit.” She turned to leave but he caught her hand. There was a pause before he spoke.

“I’ll make every strike count and look for you in the stands,” he promised. His thumb caressed the inside of her palm as he held it gently.

“I’ll be cheering for you,” she responded with a grin while reluctantly pulling away. “I’m sure you’ll make me and House Amell proud.”

As she left to the stands, he found himself admiring the favor that she had wrapped around his gauntlet with such care. Her dark red hair was secured in the same red material as her dress. He brought it to his face, smelling the bergamot and vanilla he’d come to associate with her on so many nights back at the mansion.