#askbroodyelf

Holy shit I’d forgotten what it felt like to work on a good lineart after spending so much time coloring my shitty sketches QuQ 

notes: I had always wondered how the beginning of the Hawke/Fenris relationship would look like with Hawke as a blood mage. This is the result. Fenris has pretty much just joined Hawke & the others.

summary: Turns out, Hawke is not only a mage: he's a blood mage. Understandably, Fenris is less than thrilled.

Darktown is dingy and depressive. As always.

Hawke scratches over his beard, making a disgusted noise when blood flakes from it.

"You lied to me," hisses Fenris, stepping over a dead Carta thug in front of him.

This is an entry for askbroodyelf's comic contest. I decided to write as if it already was a comic, describing some [pictures] that might help convey the story. Obviously only the bolded text would show up in the final comic :) Thanks for a fun contest, broody!

[Older Hawke, a bit of gray in his beard, and Fenris w/ longer hair; Hawke is taking off Fenris’ top from behind, Fenris looking back at him over his shoulder]

No matter how much time passes, some things always stay the same. 

[Side view, shoulders up, of Hawke and Fenris - normal DA2 age. They’re in bed, Hawke on top, kissing Fenris’ shoulder, eyes closed. Fenris is staring up at the ceiling, hand on Hawke’s shoulder, white knuckled]

I had no idea, that first time we were together. 

[A triptych: 1) simple silhouette of older Hawke/Fenris (longer hair) facing each other in bed. 2) a tattooed hand resting on tanned abdomen 3) Fenris’ downcast gaze]

But now I can tell - when his touches slow down, when his eyes go distant. 

[Horrified looking Fenris, DA2 age, sitting up in bed in a cold sweat]

I used to wonder why he was so afraid of remembering. 

[Young Leto’s upper body, face horrified, arms in the air to shield himself, and the shadow of a whip cast over him]

The story came out piece by piece, 

[a needle-like instrument infusing lyrium into Fenris’ neck - his head thrown back in an agonized scream]

year after year, 

[Shoulders up view of Denarius and Fenris, neither showing signs of clothes; Denarius looking down at Fenris, dark, hungry, nails imprinting in the skin on the back of Fenris neck; Fenris hopeless, defeated, resigned]

in horrified whispers where there should have been tender sighs. 

[Older Hawke and Fenris, foreheads touching, eyes closed]

Now I know. 

[Eyes open]

It’s just part of loving him. 

[Hawke’s lips on a tattooed cheek]

Realizing that even in our most private moments, 

[Hawke’s hand on a tattooed hip]

no matter how much time passes,

[The opening shot again, except this time Denarius’ shadow is there, his hand on the elf’s neck, fingers imprinting in the skin]

A dwarf, small even to her people’s standards, is bent over a table with an expression of determination. Her nimble hands work with needles and bottles of lyrium. These are not the tool she is accustomed to. She is a smith, not an artist. But that night, she is called to be both. In any other moment, she would titter about the dangers and the silliness of tattooing with lyrium. She would ask too many questions too quickly but she has no time.

A mage stands beside her, magic flowing from his fingers. Among the mages surrounding them, he is most qualified to assist, though he has no crafting experience. Long ago, he had heard a Magister boast about resurrecting the art of lyrium tattooing. Then, and now, he did not believe it to be a worthwhile experiment. But he keeps his tongue silent. Now was not the time for glibness, not when a man’s life is at stake.

A human man stands still as he watches her work. He makes no sound. He watches, he waits. He waits for some sign that the work is complete, that the elf laying too still on table is fine.

It wasn’t the most pleasing life style, But after Kirk wall, there was little else to be done. Each week the lovers would set up a tent and camp site in some hidden spot along the wilderness they traveled. each week to take it down again. Normally The warrior fenris, would complain about being done with running, bu hawke had given the two a reason to stay away from trouble.

Like picking up a stray they had managed to some how adopt a young half elf boy, he was no more than 2 years old, and had tan skin like that of fenris, with blue eyes that some how fit his black hair just fine. When the boy came into the tent, he ran straight to fenris’ lap.

“Hello there little Tehleal (*Sword in elvish or delish) “ fenris said with a small smirk, just as hawke stepped into the tent.

“He helped gathering the wood.” hawke chirped pleased at the tiny twigs the little boy had gathered.

“really?” fenris said, raising a brow, just as tehleal giggled.

Merry Christmas, askbroodyelf! Santa maybethings was more than happy to sprinkle a little more Ashaemad on your Christmas. Hope you enjoy!

——-

i.

The Qunari, it turns out, are a more physical people than most. Saemus finds this out for himself one day on the Wounded Coast, when the wind is high and makes the beachgrass chuckle amidst the rocks. He tells a really bad joke and Ashaad has to think the punchline through, but he has the satisfaction of seeing him actually get it. The quiet, coughing laugh is accompanied with a close-handed tap to the shoulder that almost makes Saemus jump. While the Qunari apologises for the bright warpaint left behind, brittle red flakes he warns his companion not to touch as he brushes them off, he does not apologise for the contact.

It intrigues the young man. If he has learned anything in his years in high society, it is to watch, and listen, and plan. So he does just that, to try and understand.

ii.

Ashaad patrols a certain stretch of the Wounded Coast each day, come rain or shine. Nothing seems to escape him—any rock out of place, any unsettling footprint, any new sand dune.

Any new shell on the tideline. Any odd bird, turned from its migration route, lying on the sand looking somewhat insulted. Saemus watches Ashaad watch the gull for a long time, and there is a loneliness in his eyes that does not fully disappear once the bird has steadied itself and taken wing again.

(Later he will tell Saemus the bird is very similar to those that prowl the ports of Par Vollen, looking for fish scraps, mewing shrilly like an Antivan merchant, and the loneliness will disappear.)

iii.

He spends a whole day with the Qunari once: watching the soldiers go about their work, building fortifications, discussing intelligence, looking out on the ocean, their thoughts their own and their speech, the hiss and rush and roar of the ocean, for their ears only. “Your words are difficult,” Ashaad has told him. “Too many…too many dead sounds, like rocks falling together.” Across his tongue Kirkwall becomes Karkhaal and Hightown Haitaan, and some other unpleasant monikers beside. One of them translates to ‘place-of-people-talking-too-much’.

To the outside world they are an unfeeling monolith—among themselves, there is a clear solemnity, but also humour and feeling and rather more people getting cuffed upside the head than Saemus would have ever thought. They demand their space and fill every inch of it.

What others may see as the Qunari shoving and butting among their own, rude and uncivilised, Saemus interprets as them letting others know of their presence: the hand on the back, the nudge of the elbow, the tap on the shoulder. They are big and solid and inescapable, and—there. 

His reverie only ends when Ashaad nudges him out of it. The man goes on one more patrol, and tells him to head back before true night falls over Karkhaal.

iv

The days grow short and cold and Ashaad’s treks continue, at dawn and twilight on the very edge of the sea. Saemus makes it a point to meet him at the end of each circuit, sometimes just to talk, sometimes with a flask of hot tea if the weather is chilly—and most days now it is.

It happens one too many times to be even considered a coincidence. Neither one minds.

"I guess you don’t get holidays," Saemus says as Ashaad warms his hands by a small fire, the tea already spreading heat from his belly.

"Not as you know them."

"Could you—ask for one?" His ears are suddenly very hot. So are the sides of his face. "Because tomorrow is a feastday in the city and I’d like to spend it with you. If you’re willing. Is that allowed?"

Ashaad is…yes, he’s smiling in his own odd way, one side of his mouth curling slightly upwards. “I can arrange that,” he replies. “Meet me here, then, tomorrow. When the sun sets. There is something I would show you.”

v.

It snows. After fifteen years in Kirkwall without a single flake to be seen, one drops right on Ashaad’s nose and he sneezes fit to wake the dead. Soon the ground is dusted with white, and the sunset is turned hazy with grey clouds. Ashaad, wordless and nose running behind one hand, gestures for Saemus, sides aching with unspoken laughter, to follow him behind a clump of rocks.

There’s a snug natural alcove there, away from the biting wind, and a small ring of stones that has encircled many a fire. On one side is a small pallet and a blanket, a wide, thick square of fabric folded just so. Away from the outside world, Ashaad lets his shoulders fall just a little as he makes the fire.

"You wanted to show me the sunset?" Saemus asks, eyes watering as he peeps out at the snowy world.

"Something else," comes the reply, as he continues blowing on the kindling. When he’s satisfied that the flame will continue to burn, Ashaad picks up the blanket and throws it over them both. "Come closer. This is not very large."

They wait out the weather, keeping each other warm as night falls. Under the blanket Saemus finds his courage, then takes Ashaad’s hand and squeezes it tight. It is returned as Ashaad moves closer, putting one arm around his shoulder.

They are a physical people. It could mean nothing. Is that not right?

"You sleep out here in the open?"

"Sometimes." Ashaad coughs. "If the patrol is long, or a target is expected."

"It must be cold."

"Yes."

"How do you do it?"

"I think of…home." His eyes flutter shut for a moment. Saemus notices he has short, thick eyelashes. "I think of warm Par Vollen and the cicadas screeching. Then it is not so bad. Ah, see—the snow has stopped falling. Come."

They venture away from the fire, an odd, lumpy four-legged beast lurching over the cold sand. And there it is: undimmed by the city lights, a sky filled with starlight and the constellations close enough to touch.

“Maker," Saemus breathes, still gripping Ashaad’s hand tightly.

"The stars are not the same here." His voice is soft, almost longing. "But they shine as brightly, just the same."

They watch the grand procession for who knows how long, talking of little things, of names and constellations, of places near and far, until Saemus’ head starts to droop. The fire still burns in Ashaad’s small shelter, and they huddle there together, finding comfort in each other’s embrace.

"Thank you for the company, kadan,” Ashaad says, ducking to touch his lips to the crown of his head.

“Kadan?” This is a word unfamiliar to Saemus. “What does that mean?”

"It means that you are here. And also—" He takes Saemus’ hand, places it on a patch of skin untouched by warpaint. Under his fingertips and beneath the tough skin, he can feel the jump of a heartbeat. "—that you are here."

This time Saemus smiles. “I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.”

Close to each other, warm and loved, the dawn is not far away for them.

—

six - an epilogue

When it is cold on the Wounded Coast, on the long nights when he is staking out the area, the ashaad closes his eyes and thinks of home.

The howling breeze is no stronger than a Par Vollen squall (though no squall would stink of refuse and blood like this). The sand is the sand of home, and the rocks are the rocks of home, and the rush of the waves is the same as anywhere else.

When this does not work he thinks a little harder of Saemus Dumar, increasingly kadan in his mind. Though his people are nominally the enemy, he is…he defies categorization. Ashaad sees his friend: curious, passionate, earnest and somehow weary, struggling to break free from the constraints his life puts upon him. These thoughts warm him inside and out like the midday sun.

But tonight he has no need to think. Saemus is there next to him, murmuring under his breath the Qunari names of constellations that he has just been taught: Valokas, Abaneth, Ataashi, Tamassran. His head is heavy upon his shoulder and he has Ashaad’s arm linked snugly through one of his.