#reassembleme

He remembers the creature knocking the wind out of him, before it knocked him off the cliff. It starts to dim after his stomach drops, when his feet find no footing. The last thing he remembers is a shout, and a flash of red. He comes to with a groan, a great pounding in his skull and broken weight on his chest. He struggles to move, but there’s a hand on his shoulder and, “whoa, slow down. Take it easy.” Sylvain’s voice is hoarse, low, almost overpowered by the crackling fire nearby. Felix squints as his vision struggles to clear, until finally, he can focus on Sylvain’s face. His hand is still trembling on his shoulder.

“Are you an idiot?” Felix demands instantly, “did you seriously jump after me? You could have died!”

“Oh so what was I supposed to do? Just let you fall?” Sylvain bites back.

“Yes!” Sylvain is sitting beside where Felix lays, and his gaze loses that angry focus, becomes softer. He pulls his knees to his chest, his hand back from Felix, plants his elbows on his knees and covers his face with his hands. Felix plants his palms against the cool stone of the cave floor, and with a grimace, pushes himself up to sit. He manages a pathetic lean against the wall before all of his strength is expended. Pathetic. A hand against his chest, and it’s only now that he notices it.

Their weapons are placed together, nearby. The heavy pieces of their armor as well. Sylvain’s constructed a make-shift wooden rack, and pieces of both Sylvain and Felix’s clothes are drying on it. Sylvain is in just his trousers and shirt – everything else is piled around Felix. It seems he’s been given everything that’s dry. His hand squeezes into a fist against his chest, and against the torn up pieces of cloth Sylvain has used from his own armor to wrap Felix’s wounds. He rolls up the hem of his shirt, and peels back the turquoise wrappings to look at the scratch marks underneath.

“You know how hard healing is,” Sylvain says. His voice tugs Felix’s attention upwards, to where he sits. The flickering fire casts shadows on his face, can’t hide the dark circles under his eyes. “But you wouldn’t wake up.” Felix frowns, looks away. “So just – be more careful next time. I don’t want to spend days in a cave, basically by myself, waiting for rescue to find us or a bear to finally put me out of my misery.” He looks back in time to see Sylvain give him a weary smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Felix pulls his shirt back down, remains there for a moment, fists clenched so hard around the hem that his knuckles are ghostly white.  

Then, his grip eases. He reaches out, fingertips hesitant at Sylvain’s wrist, growing more confident as he laces their hands together. Felix gives his hand a small squeeze, and then, soft and low, “thank you.” Sylvain smiles, truly this time, then shuffles closer. He makes a show of the sight, dramatically going to put his head on Felix’s shoulder.

Keith is drowning. He’s drowning and he’s helpless to stop it. The panic crashes through his body in violent waves, cascading down the walls of his ribs, swallowing the breath he tries so desperately to drag through his overworked lungs. They fill with murky liquid, and he knows he’s crying, tears lost in the mass around him. His head pounds, and still he whips it around to take stock of his surroundings with bleary eyes. He searches for the team, but something in him knows they’re not there. He looks up and the dread takes hold in his stomach. The sky is all wrong, an inky sea of blacks and purples and blues that swell above him, pressing down as he barely keeps himself above water. Help. Somebody help me, please. He screams. He screams and screams and screams until his throat feels raw, until his shouts reverberate in his aching head, but no sound escapes him. His efforts are useless, he’s alone here. Alone, untethered, forgotten. He thrashes his limbs about him, fighting to stay afloat. Distantly, he registers the massive wave forming at his right, and he closes his eyes, brows furrowed. Heart in his throat, he tries to brace himself.

Clammy hands on his face, and a warm voice calls to him. His eyes snap open, and he gasps as he shoots forward. Someone curses in front of him, and his forehead hurts but it’s nothing compared to the wrenching ache in his chest. Where am I?

He blinks, tries to slow his breathing as he looks around the dim room. He grabs at the bedding beneath him, a sigh of relief leaving him. He reaches up, feels the wetness on his face and swipes it away. Not drowning, then. Safe at the Garrison. He searches the room, and his chest tightens at the sight of Lance before him, rubbing his nose.

“Lance,” he tries, voice hoarse and small. Keith frowns, clears his throat. Embarrassment courses through him, realizing Lance heard his screams. He knows about them, Keith’s told him, but he’s yet to see one unfold. “Lance, I’m- I’m sorry.”

Lance snaps his head up at him, his sore nose forgotten. Worry swims in the depth of his eyes, and guilt joins the mess of emotions that have jammed themselves into Keith’s chest.

“Idiot, apologizing after a nightmare. Come here,” he says quietly, reaching for Keith’s hand. He’s too tired to resist, and falls willingly into Lance’s open arms. Lance leans back, and Keith follows, his head on Lance’s chest. He closes his eyes and listens to the beating of Lance’s heart. He tries to match his breathing to its rhythm as the last tendrils of the nightmare slip away. Lance presses a kiss to Keith’s hairline, and the urge to quip at him gets stamped down by his exhaustion. Instead, he wraps his arms around Lance’s torso, drinks in his steadying warmth. He won’t admit it, but he’s grateful for his presence; this is leagues better than waking up from the terrors alone. The tension leaves his shoulders as he sinks into Lance, a content sigh on his lips.

“Are you all right?” He asks, a whisper. Keith swallows, pausing before he answers.

“I will be. Thank you, Lance,” he says. And he will be, he always is when Lance is here.

I haven’t been called the Queen of FenHawke for nothing, strap the hell in for this small essay. 

Hawke’s hero journey is one of loss. It begins with their father already gone, and their home burning soon after. Lothering and Ferelden out of reach, and they also have to bury one of their siblings along the way. They arrive at Kirkwall and instead of having an estate, a home ready for them - they have an uncle distinctly unhappy to see them, and they have to scrape together coin from nothing. They buy their way into the expedition hoping to turn things around, but instead they lose another sibling either to the Wardens, Circle/Templars or via the Taint. Their mother follows soon after. They fight the Arishok, can be grievously wounded, and their reward is to have more responsibility put on them. They can do nothing to ease tensions between the Mages and Templars, and one of their friends uses them to his own end - and that end is the destruction of the Chantry, a good chunk of Kirkwall, and the beginning of the Mage/Templar war. 

If Hawke is not around, then there’s still going to be another investor into the expedition. If Hawke earns the Arishok’s respect, it could be said that their presence even delays the Invasion - Isabela had already stolen the Tome of Koslun before meeting Hawke and it’s unlikely she’d have given it back. Meredith already had a stranglehold grip on the Mages and Templars alike, and Orsino had been working with Quentin and researching blood magic. How helpless Hawke must feel to realize this. That despite all their actions, all their efforts, effectively nothing touched the overall outcome. They had placed themselves in a position of responsibility, had that responsibility validated, and despite anything they do, they can’t stop the final act from happening and Kirkwall burning not once, but twice in a few short years. 

Fenris’s journey, on the other hand, is one of gain. He begins having spent years on the run, without a moment of peace and safety. All he has is his time spent as a slave, and everything that comes with it. He’s pushed past the mentality of such a thing to escape, and has spent his time alone ever since. The only time he stops running is when he hires Hawke in Kirkwall. He tells Hawke he will give them everything he has in reward for helping him, but the only reward from the quest is what you find in the mansion itself. He has nothing. He stays in the mansion because he has nowhere else to go. 

Over the years spent in Kirkwall, he establishes himself with a respect no slave was allowed. Both Sebastian and Aveline mention how others look up to him, in what he’s accomplished and his skill in battle. He gains friends, people he trusts enough to let into his home for Diamondback games, and for the first time in a very long time, he’s no longer alone. Fenris is a person who longs for love, and for acceptance. In almost every dialogue with other companions, you can tell how hard he’s trying. He craves family, and all that comes with it. By the third act, he has people he can rely on. When Varania is at the Hanged Man, he very politely and quietly asks Hawke to come with him because “it would mean a lot” to him. He’s learned to let people in, and not hide behind the persona of one rushing into a mansion yelling at the top of his lungs to prove that he’s not afraid.

Together, both Hawke and Fenris pull each other up and support each other. From the first moment of Hawke agreeing to go with him to the mansion, and Fenris putting aside all other things to very gratefully thank them. Even though he offered his aid to Hawke, I doubt he expected Hawke to actually take it - let alone Hawke to continually show up, talk to him, listen to him. After the scene in Act Two, when he leaves, Hawke waits for three years without asking for anything in return. We know from the discussion in Act Three that he feels incredibly guilty and ashamed of leaving but when Hawke’s mother is killed, he still shows up to be by Hawke’s side. No matter how hard it might have been to face Hawke in a place where he had walked away before. He also walked away because he knew he wasn’t ready and he knew that it wouldn’t be fair to Hawke to have them deal with that. He doesn’t spend those three years apart idle. He spends those three years growing, trying to be better - for himself, and for Hawke.

“I am yours.” It has so much meaning, coming from Fenris. He’s telling Hawke that he loves them, but also that he trusts them. He’s telling them that he’ll be at their side, no matter what, because he is theirs but also because he knows that Hawke will not abuse what Fenris is giving them - a willing length of chain. He’s given himself permission to love, to stop running, to find a home in another person. At the end of the game, when Hawke has truly lost almost everything, Fenris is at their side and will not leave it. Fenris and Hawke both gain not just friends, but a found family, and a lover who will support and care for them until the end. 

Modern AU.

It isn’t much. It isn’t much, but it’s theirs. There’s a mattress on the floor. Most of the furniture will arrive tomorrow. They’ve been painting most of today. Emptied boxes of take-out, and they ate it with their hands. Their phones are charging in the corner. All that’s left is that old radio the previous tenants left behind. Static, and music that fades in and out. He’s pulled him to his feet when the music was bright, loud and happy. Slower now, and Mahanon wraps an arm around Dorian’s waist.

Pulling him in close, taking his free hand in his. Dorian has his arm around him as well, their faces close together. “I never knew I was a dancer,” Mahanon says, “but it turns out I’m excellent at it.”

“Are you now?” Dorian asks, chuckling under his breath as he’s given a dazzling smile.

“Well I haven’t stepped on your feet yet, have I?” They move in a slow circle, shuffle closely together. The music seems so far away. Slow jazz, and the slow press of Mahanon’s lips against his. The patio door open, and a breeze slips inside, bringing with it cool night air. A shiver, and Mahanon is kissing him again. And again. And again. “We live together,” he murmurs, as if he himself can’t believe it.

“Does it count if there’s no furniture yet?”

“Of course it still counts.” Such indignation in his voice and Dorian laughs. The voice on the radio is crooning in a language they both don’t know. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” Mahanon practically groans, “long distance was awful and we’re never doing that again.”

“On that, we can agree,” he says. “Although, now that we’re living together, you’ll get sick of me faster.”

“Don’t say that.” His hands move to cup his face. “I could never be sick of you. I love you.” He proclaims it so boldly here, and everywhere else. He had shouted it across the campus common area months before, laughed in delight at the way Dorian had stiffened up. He was getting used to it, still. Showing it. Now, he thinks he could shout it back. Mahanon’s thumbs brush against his cheekbones, hold his face steady, and this kiss is far more forceful. Dorian reaches up, wraps a hand around his wrist.

She sits on the rock, one boot against it, the other planted against the ground. Sinking into soft dirt, and her brows are furrowed as she concentrates on pulling the needle through. Looping it soundly, piercing back into the fabric, back up again. Tugging on the thread, keeping the stitches tight and neat. She startles slightly, at sudden arms that wrap around her, a weight that drapes itself upon her back. Alistair rests his chin on the crown of her head.

“Hello,” she says with a slight smile, “what are you doing?”

“You looked like you could use a hug,” he says. Needle in her hand, shirt in the other, an arm resting against her knee. She puts her chin on his arm, goes back to her work. “Wynne could do that for you.” He says it so softly, means it kindly. The slightest shake of her head.

“I need to do it. I want them to see it.” It’s her nicest shirt. The one they’ve selected for her to wear. “With justice,” she says, “and temperance.” She had heard her father say those words so many times. She stitches the heraldy of house Cousland into the chest of the shirt, where it will sit, just over her heart.

“Howe is dead. That’s justice.”

“Part of it,” she says, “but I don’t know if I have the temperance for the rest.” Alistair stands up straight. He tucks errant strands of hair behind her ear, rests his hand at the nape of her neck. Standing beside her, kneeling down slightly to look at her.