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[battlemaged]

© TESSISAMESS

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[buttonedup]

The dust had settled from Cassandra's confrontation with Varric. She was no longer so focused on her own failures, on the betrayal by a dwarf she had been starting to consider a friend. With that clarity came the realisation that Hawke was actually here, the Champion of Kirkwall, an enigma Cassandra had come to accept she would never meet...

While she had read Varric's book cover-to-cover, more times than she'd care to count, even after having driven a knife through her well-loved copy of the tome, there was something promising, even intoxicating, about the prospect of being able to hear the stories of that time straight from the man himself. Surely Hawke did not possess Varric's tendency towards embellishment, towards untruthfulness. Hawke could simply tell her what had actually happened.

It wasn't as though she doubted the stories of Hawke's great deeds at the very foundation, it was simply that as a touted Hero herself, the Hero of Orlais, she knew how tall tales could grow in the retelling, and to be honest with herself, it wasn't that she wanted to be proven right, it was that a part of her, deep-down, wanted to believe the stories.

Truth be told, Cassandra was feeling more than a bit star-struck, and on one fine chilly day at Skyhold, when she notices the man standing on the battlements, she decides this is the day that she will make her approach. Even though she feels she will never be ready for this conversation, when has Cassandra Pentaghast ever shied away from doing something she felt necessary?

She clears her throat as she nears the mage, not wanting to be accused of sneaking up on him, even though her footsteps are heavy as she walks with intent. After a moment of uncertainty in which she realises she knows not how to address him, she instead dives straight into conversation.

"I'm sure Varric has told you much about me," she starts, a small smile playing at her lips. "The stories are only mostly true."

[battlemaged]

He'd grown used to being alone. Away from the hustle and bustle of cities, out in the wilderness where he led the templars and other bounty hunters out for his head on a merry chase, because it was the only way he could be sure to keep those he loved safe. But after Maker knew how many months of endless traveling, the sky had split open, and the world had gone up in flames. Chaos abounded, the Divine assassinated on the eve of a conclave of peace.

And Maker, to learn that it was Corypheus, a monster he himself had defeated and left as naught else but ashes in the Deep Roads, responsible for this entire mess, well. That burden had been weighing heavy on his shoulders ever since Varric told him.

That burden had brought him here, to Skyhold, "guest" of a novice Inquisitor at the head of a young but growing institution. He'd taken a huge chance, coming here; there were still many seeking to claim the bounty on his head, but this young Trevelyan seemed to have her head on straight, at least. She'd opted to hear him out, weigh her options, and come to the same conclusion Hawke had: Stroud needed to be found, and they all needed to work together to solve the mystery of the missing Wardens (Hawke's brother among them) and heal the Maker-damned sky.

But the noise of a keep was still...unnerving, after so many months of solitude, and Hawke had taken to frequenting Skyhold's high battlements just to gain a bit of peace and quiet. And perspective, lest that be forgotten. He still spent evenings with Varric in the tavern, and the two old friends spent most of the nights talking and drinking, soaking up each other's company to tide them both over during the months - years - they'd have to be inevitably separated.

Most of Skyhold's residents gave him a healthy berth; Hawke had made a point of stating that he was no longer the "Champion of Kirkwall", or the "Champion" of anything, really, and he suspected Varric's hand in making sure that stuck. Nevertheless, he'd heard of the altercation between his beloved dwarf and the Chantry Seeker right after his arrival, and had just kept his distance. Varric was still smarting from it - Hawke didn't blame him one bit - but it did surprise the mage when, one bright but cold afternoon, he heard measured steps approaching and lifted a sharp eyebrow in complete surprise to see the Seeker herself joining him on the parapet.

"Lady Seeker," he replied, inclining his head politely. But warily. Even though he couldn't help his crooked smile at her opening salvo. "Only mostly? That's a shame. Here I'd come to believe you were ten feet tall, breathed fire hotter than a dragon, and ate small children for breakfast." Then he winked at her. "Glad to see Varric was exaggerating."

[buttonedup]

If anything, Cassandra prefers the ridiculous exaggerations, the ones that could not be true even if she tried, because it is obvious that they are not meant to be believed. She makes a noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a scoff, at Hawke's descriptions, only to be completely blindsided by that wink.

Was he...? No, surely not. She was overthinking things, as was her custom in these situations. She clears her throat as though in attempt to regain her footing in the conversation: so many hours, days, months she'd spent trying to find Hawke, how foolish it would be to now grow weak at the knees simply at the mere fact of being in his presence!

"A true pity I am not taller," she says, with an exaggerated sigh, "although anyone would appear to be such a height from a dwarf's perspective."

Speaking of height, Cassandra must admit that the Champion of Kirkwall is even taller than she had anticipated; more solid as well. She has known many mages throughout her life, and none had been quite so muscular. Not that this observation was of any relevance to their conversation, of course.

As usual when it came to more social pursuits, Cassandra had made her approach without much thought about where the conversation would go next. She stumbles over her own thoughts for a moment before finally settling on asking, "How are you finding Skyhold?"

Here Lies the Abyss, the Night Between;

[riftblade]

The thing that bothered here about these nights was that there was nothing for her to do. Skyhold was alive with motion, ever since Stroud and Hawke had returned, confirming the location of the Wardens and the demon army-to-be. But no one needed an Inquisitor just yet.

Cullen was going over maps of the fortress that Stroud had drawn up, going over the choke points they were hoping to use to put pressure on the Warden forces despite their defensive advantage. Everyone had something to do it seemed, but she'd already checked her gear and that of her friends. It didn't make her any less antsy, however.

She wandered between her companions and advisors, as if they might discover a last-minute shortage of Elfroot that would somehow require her personal attention. Eventually Varric suggested she go play cards and have a drink- or sleep, if she could. Maille clinked and swords rattled and provisions were packed for travel to the Western Approach, so the later wasn't particularly likely. She did make a vague attempt. But even had Skyhold not been alive with the sound of a battle to come, she could feel it on her skin. The adrenaline like a tangible thing, the energy of it, and it put her far too on edge.

She'd initially considered the inn, but it was even more packed than usual. The clink of mugs, and the rattle of helmets, boasts and murmurs. Anticipation edged in fear as soldiers stopped running drills and took what time they could before the march was called. But it was a bit too much for El, so she stayed just long enough to grab a bottle to go along with the deck of cards.

Normally it was Iron Bull she'd have asked, but he was in the back of the Inn with his Chargers, and she didn't want to pull him away. But maybe that was just an excuse.

Instead she was knocking on the door of the room that Josie had managed to come up with after moving another guest or two- chambers befitting the Champion of Kirkwall. It was almost as nice as her own, albeit without the view. She had passed him not too long before, and figured he was probably still awake. And she had wanted to get to know him better.

[battlemaged]

The irony of his quarters wasn't lost on Hawke. Yes, he'd lived for nearly a decade in one of the finest mansions in Kirkwall's High Town, but empires always fell even easier as they rose, and for the last several years, he'd laid his head wherever he could. And bless the Inquisitor, she'd insisted that he be given 'top tier' quarters here at Skyhold, although he'd assured the Inquisition's ambassador that wasn't necessary; he'd be just as well off in some quiet place on the battlements, or even the stables, if it came to that. Nevertheless, all of them had insisted, and Varric had quietly advised him to just agree, so he had.

It had proven a welcome godsend, surprisingly; while decidedly more opulent that he'd grown accustomed to, his fortress quarters were comfortable, warm, and above all else, private. He really didn't want to have to make a scene here at Skyhold by burning the daylights out of some coin-grubbing idiot determined to collect the bounty still decorating the Champion of Kirkwall's head.

Hawke and Stroud had only just returned from their reconnaissance of Adamant, and after reporting their findings to the Inquisitor's war council, Hawke, at least, had disappeared into his quarters, pouring over each and every correspondence he'd received from the Wardens over the past years. Particularly those from his brother, Carver. He'd begun this insane quest in attempt to find his sibling, having had no word from Carver since the fall of Kirkwall. And now, Corypheus, mage-templar war, and a Maker-damned hole in the sky.

He was afraid to even breathe the words, "What next?"

Tomorrow, the Inquisition marched. Hawke had met with Cullen earlier, pointing out structural weaknesses in the fortress's defenses, and had also spent a good portion of the afternoon with the Lady Seeker, the young Inquisitor, and the Spymaster, he and Stroud assisting with tactical intelligence and outlining battle scenarios. It was going to be a brutal endeavor, of that he was certain.

But sunset saw him back in his quarters, once more reading over Carver's letters, wondering in the back of his mind if he ever would see his brother again. The only family he had left, now. Then a soft knock on his door brought him out of his broody reverie, and the mage straightened, shoved the parchments back in his satchel, and went to open the door, more than a little surprised to see the Inquisitor standing there, seemingly looking...a little lost.

He could relate, truly.

"Lady Trevelyan." He opened the door further, and gestured her inside. "Please, come in." Although he had no idea what she was doing here, at this time of night. "Um...what can I do for you?"

[riftblade]

She steps inside, holding up the cards with a sort of sheepish smile that definitely didn't suit the image of the Herald they tell in the stories. Either some golden-ringed saint or bloody-fingered demon, depending on their view of the Inquisition. "You mind humoring me with a hand or two of Wicked Grace?" She says it with a bit of good humor, but the shadows in her eyes are heavier, darker than that. But she still looks a little bit hopeful as she peers up at Hawke. Estella is petite, a slender woman with curves usually hidden under the cloth and leather layers of her gear.

"I can't sleep on nights like these, but there's nothing I can do until we get to Adamant." Yes, she knows that being here so late is a little bit presumptuous. But it had been nice -- talking to him on the battlements, having someone that understood what it was to carry so much weight on her shoulders. The way that the name Herald of Andraste tasted like ashes on the air, like the words might strangle her with so much expectation.

"Well, and I think Cassandra was starting to consider having me restrained again if I didn't get out of her hair." There's a wry curl to her lips, a touch of humor to temper the way that she feels a little lost sometimes. Especially tonight. These nights before the big battle when the world holds its breath and all eyes- and hopes- are pinned on her. But for the moment, she doesn't talk about that part of it.

It feels a little bit indulgent, honestly. The prospect of taking time for herself for a few hours this close to the battle, doing something that isn't about the coming fight, or the fight against Corypheus at all, really. Just- there's something about Hawke that she likes. Something to that presence that he has, and it feels like cool air. Maybe she's a little bit charmed, but she's always been a flirt, so that's maybe less surprising. Maybe the more surprising part is that she had always been more interested in Anders, back in the days before the Conclave.

But she'd been young and angry, then. She's still passionate, but her temper has cooled, buried a little bit deeper. Not the same young woman that had snapped at Cullen about wanting her to be a good little mage in those first days at Haven.

"Varric says you're not bad, which is high praise from what I can tell."

a road between worlds

[knucklesdirty]

The Fade was a strange thing, a strange place. And Francis, well.. this wasn't his first experience with forces that make space and time strange.

When he'd ended up stuck in this strange place, he'd just sort of accepted that he was going to die here. But he made it through the first cluster of demons, and after that he was careful, quiet. Still wasn't sure there was a way out or through, but the blonde wasn't the sort of person that gave in just because the odds were bad.

Francis had smothered his abilities since he'd first realized he had them. That way that his father had insisted that using his powers would lead to the death of them all. But he can't really do that here; light sparks in his fingers, shifts to fire and cinders. It helps him survive almost as much as his arrows.

He could have been there days or minutes or maybe both at the same time, but he's suddenly not alone anymore. The air seems to pull apart and then suddenly there are others and a plan, and the power to get them all out, turning Francis into something of an unexpected tag-along. However, the fact that he doesn't belong here doesn't prevent Nightmare from from catching the echoes of his fears.

<< You can't save them all. You can't save any of them. >>

Words breathed by that voice on the air, as it tries to tug at each of them, pulls their fears to the surface, puts them into words. But the blonde just shrugs it off, lips pulled into a tight line and his next arrow glows as he puts it through the cluster of eyes on one of the lesser fears they've been fighting. "That the best you can do?" It's an easy quip, but his deep blue eyes darken. It says more than he'd like about who he is, who he's been.

He tries to volunteer to stay at the end, says that he doesn't belong here, but Stroud says he's too young to throw his life away, and there's little room for protests before the Inquisitor drags them all back through. They step off the path into a castle of stone, into a world nearly as strange to Francis as the one before it.

He goes with them as they return to Skyhold, has to ride with someone because the young man has never seen a horse, let alone ridden one before. (Most of the soldiers present get a good laugh when he falls trying to get into the saddle the first time.)

He lays low for the most part while the Inquisitor speaks to the war council. There wasn't exactly time for anyone to ask about his background in the Fade, though his clothes were notably strange but he manages to avoid having that conversation with anyone. But Hawke likely notices the way that Francis handles him differently than most people. Like there are no words like Champion of Kirkwall; even if there were, Francis probably doesn't know what it means.

He's in the gardens early, because they're quiet; no one around except Mother Gisele who is wise enough to keep to herself and pretend not to notice. It gives Francis a space to try and practice where he's not too worried about setting everything on fire, or blinding someone. It starts with light in his palm, and then it's fire, snaking tendrils that reach, and then-- and then he loses control, cursing sharply as the power slides back toward the source, and he doesn't have the experience to be able to insulate his body.

When he straightens, he catches sight of a familiar face- Rowen- and he winces. And it's not just because of burning his hand. There's a disquiet to it, a flash of panic, before he pushes it down. Despite having seen Hawke use magic in the Fade, there's this knee-jerk moment like he's been caught, but the blonde turns it into a sheepish smile. Softly running his good hand through his hair even as he bites his lip.

"It's not as bad as it looks," he insists softly. Although it looks like the man could use a bit of healing magic from the look of those burns.

[taleofthe]

Gamlen’s house is practically full to bursting, with Líadan, her mother, both her brothers, her sister and Gamlen himself within its walls. They’re in each other’s pockets and stepping on each other’s toes. There’s a lot of tension. Maybe that’s why Líadan endeavours to spend as little time there as possible. There’s a lot that needs to be done, if they’re to put together the gold for the expedition. And to return the Amell estate to Leandra.

And being stuck in the house with Carter is… a lot. Don’t get her wrong, she’s deeply glad that he survived the encounter with the ogre; losing him would have been devastating. But Maker’s BREATH is he trying at times. Worse than before, she thinks.

Which is why she meets her twin’s gaze and tilts her head towards the door, an unspoken ’want to get out of here?’ in the gesture. They can hit up The Hanged Man, maybe. Or ANYwhere else at this point. There’s bound to be trouble they can get into something they can find to fill their time that doesn’t involve staying in their cramped abode.

Scarcely even waiting for his response she starts towards the door.

for endof_theline

[battlemaged]

[ ⬅ for previous ]

"But of course. I'm not half the storyteller that Varric is, but hopefully you'll find the tales entertaining."

Hawke frowned somewhat thoughtfully at Bucky's description of the Great Depression, however. He could definitely relate, given what had befallen his home village back in Ferelden.

"'tis a hard thing," he agreed with a sigh, shaking his head sadly. "My family too went through many hardships of a similar sort - one such circumstance was what actually forced us to flee to Kirkwall." And then history had been forever made.

"It seems you're quite right; different worlds but very much the same." He had to grin, slanting it over in Bucky's direction. "Ironic, isn't it?"

[endof_theline]

"Lucky for you I don't know Varric's tales, so I'll never compare."

He figures most worlds can relate to something like the Great Depression, "Most can be traced back to wars, and lead to wars. It's never ending." And Bucky can't stand it. He never wanted to go to war in the first place.

"It's funny- everyone thinks they're the superior country, superior planet, all that crap. We're all the same." He doesn't really smile about it, though.

[battlemaged]

"One day, perhaps." Maker knew, the penchant for the dwarf getting tired of his best friend being a literal world away and taking it upon himself to find his own way here was...fairly high, Hawke figured. Though he sighed and nodded sad agreement with his companion's comments. "Indeed. Utterly senseless. And you're right, never-ending."

He was about to say something else, but suddenly stopped right in the middle of the sidewalk, head up, gaze arrested, and frowning like a thundercloud in the direction of a pitch-dark alley across the relatively empty street. Without even realizing it, Hawke placed a hand on Bucky's sleeve, saying tightly, "--a moment."

The air around them suddenly grew...tight, as if it had been abruptly sucked out of a vacuum, and the mage made a peculiar gesture with his free hand, and without any other warning a bright light suddenly flared in the alley, and the screech of several surprised felines echoed across the street, along with the crash of several overturned metal garbage cans. A bit of muffled swearing followed, then faded in the opposite direction.

The light then winked out, once more swathing the corridor in darkness. Hawke snorted, dropped his hands, and started off again, rolling his eyes.

"Apologies," he offered by way of explanation. "Thought I heard...something over there."

for endof_theline

[battlemaged]

[ previous ]

True to his word, Hawke didn't dally but neither did he hurry. He did, however, show up at the specified address right about an hour after Bucky's last message, bag with food and beer in hand. Bucky lived in a nice little place, not too big, not too small, perfect for blending right in with the rest of everything.

At the door, Hawke squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and cleared his throat before knocking politely. And wondered if Bucky would even answer. If not, there was no harm; Hawke understood. He'd simply leave the bag near the door and return to his own abode. One couldn't hurry these things, as he'd reminded himself several times an hour.

[endof_theline]

Bucky can already hear Hawke coming down the hall. Not because he's loud, but because he's trained. He doesn't even think about pretending he's not here- or having fallen asleep. Hawke is doing him a favor, and offering kindness, and Bucky isn't the kind of man who would leave someone hanging like that.

But it's still hard, standing up, heading to the door, then finally opening it up. "Hi. Come on in." he says quietly, then steps aside to let Hawke in. Alpine hops from the couch with a meow, coming over to greet her old friend.

The place is as bare as he said it would be. There's a couch in the middle of a room, a TV in front of it, a lamp, and a single chair. There are some newer additions- a scratching post, a cat bed, and cat toys, all neatly put aside until Alpine decides she wants to play. If it wasn't for Alpine, it wouldn't really look like anyone lived here at all.

[battlemaged]

The door opened, Bucky on the other side of it, and Hawke nodded in turn. "Hullo." Gestured inside, the mage stepped in, gave the place a brief glance, then placed his parcels on the bare counter. Only to turn to his host and offer a much better greeting: one warm hand on Bucky's cheek and a softly firm press of lips, a sweet, welcoming kiss.

"Thank you for answering," Hawke breathed against Bucky's mouth, grin slanted just so. Then a newcomer bounced over to demand attention, waaoing against Hawke's ankle in a loud voice.

"Ah, there you are, little love." The mage chuckled as he bent to scoop up the kitten in both hands, cuddling her close so she could rub her head against his scruffy cheek. "And how do you like your new roommate, darling, hm? I daresay very well, from the looks of you."

This is so long lmao

[unshod]

It started with information on slaver movements and then a request for aid. Hawke entrusted Fenris with it, alone, saying he wanted to look into something else at the same time. While he was loathe to leave Hawke's side, he didn't suspect any ulterior motives. He... He trusted that they would meet up at the cabin they set up and move forward together again thereafter.

Yet, when he returned, Hawke was not there. Days passed, almost a week before he gave up waiting and started his search, trying to recall anything... anything that might hint to where that fool of a man went without him. He knew word of the war and inquisition were concerning to Hawke, that he received letters from Varric on the matter. The rumors of Corypheus once again appearing set them both on edge...

Kaffas, why hadn't Fenris noticed it sooner? Realized sooner? Hawke was involving himself in that mess and left Fenris behind. Damn him to the void for such foolishness, how was he to protect and fight at his lover's side if the man left him behind like this? Maybe it was Fenris that was the fool to let his thirst for killing slavers blind him from what was really in front of him.

Was he unwanted? Or...

By the time he learned of Skyhold and was ready to storm it - to drag Hawke out of that mess or at least stand at his side - he received a letter penned in a hand he recognized. He didn't want to read it - the appearance of the letter already casting an ache on his heart - yet his fingers betrayed him by opening and unfolding the parchment.

Agony followed the words on the page.

--lost to the Fade.

Hawke died saving so many lives--

I'm sorry, Fenris.

His grief was overwhelming, clouding all sense of reality as the world blurred with tears. Minutes felt like hours, days like years, if it weren't for Tobias staying loyally at his side, he might have let himself get lost to his grief completely. But as the mabari's wet nose touched his hand, Fenris knows that he cannot give up.

Because he was going to find Hawke in that Maker-forsaken Fade and drag him out.

Then kill the man himself.

The trip to Skyhold is long and cold, but Fenris pushes himself to his limit, moving forward nearly nonstop, spite and anger fueled grief pushing him. Again, if he did not have Tobias with him, he might not have stopped at all. Varric isn't surprised to see him when he finally arrives.

They bicker about it, both wanting to save Hawke but one believing it possible and the other not.

"You weren't there, you didn't see the monster he was up against..."

"It matters not, I will find him and bring him home." It's only the absolute stubbornness of hope born of love that makes Varric eventually relent. The Inquisitor helps, not so heartless to leave behind again a man they left behind before.

That's when they figure it out: combining Fenris' abilities with what they know of the time they went into the fade, with what the Inquisitor and her mages could do...Fenris could accesses the Fade are weakest where the veil is weak... he can crossover. But the veil between worlds is ever changing and moving, so he too could become lost to the Fade.

Fenris merely scoffs before turning on his heel to gather his things, determined to see Hawke once more.

"Be a good boy, Tobias," he gives the Mabari firm skritches behind the ear. "I'll return with him soon." It was a promise he had every intention of keeping.

LOVE IT

[battlemaged]

"This is such fucking bullshit..."

It was creepy how his voice carried in this vast expanse of...well, nothing. Hawke glowered from his perch, yet again gazing over a huge empty valley, lava falls on one side and thundering waterfalls on the other. In the middle were mingling tide pools, wandering shades, sobbing ghosts, and little demon spiders that chittered as they clambered over each other. Watching them made his skin crawl.

The Fade just sucked.

The battle with the Nightmare had been epic, at least. After he'd made sure his companions - Varric, let us at least be honest - made it out of this hellhole and were, relatively, safe, Hawke had turned his attention, strength, and all of his magic towards that loathesome demon, and after a titanic struggle between the human mage and the thing spawned from an eternity of bad dreams, horrors, and fears, Hawke had at long last struck the final blow, obliterating the creature along with any demonic entities within a fifty mile radius.

That had been...forever ago.

After regaining his stamina and his wits, he'd determinedly set off to find the exit and get back to where he was needed, but that particular mission had been truncated by one simple fact: there was no exit. Which had, of course, put a massive kink in operations and forced the former Champion to do what he always did: analyze the problem, hunt around for a solution, and execute.

Stage Two was beginning to stretch mighty thin.

He'd lost count of how many days had passed - Time apparently had little meaning in the Fade. And it seemed news had traveled of the Nightmare's eradication; not even the Pride Demons had made an appearance. Hawke decided to be flattered instead of worried on that score. But the scenery was getting old, and he'd passed the same wretched pillar about twelve times already, and despite the fact that he wasn't at all hungry, thirsty, or even aging probably, he was more than ready to blow this shithole and get back to Skyhold.

There was only so much sheer boredom a man could take.

[unshod]

The Fade was unsettling to say the least. He did not find comfort in the odd geography or the denizens. While he was willing to ignore the spirits, he found himself often at odds with the demons here. At least until he seems to cross some.... unseen and unfelt barrier where there were no more demons in sight. It was... strange.

It reminded him of Hawke, so it felt as if he was going in the right direction.

A nagging fear in his mind was certain they might get trapped here, but he much rather be trapped with the man than without. He cannot imagine his life if he is not at his lover's side. So he pushes forward, climbing rocky outcrops and dodging lava spills. Climbing floating mounds of dirt to get to higher perches so he can survey the area. He knows that there is something playing tricks on him, or it was just his hope getting the better of him, but he feels certain he sees Hawke a number of times, but when he gets to where he saw the man, no one is there.

Even when he thinks he found where the Nightmare once resided. It was empty and blown apart, but he could not find a body. The stubborn hope in his heart persists as he continues his search.

Time has no meaning here, he feels like he wanders for days without need for sleep or food, without any rest. He pushes forward, forward, forward. He will find him.

And eventually he catches sight of something - no someone, they're far from him, but the closer he gets they don't vanish as they have before, seeming still solid and turned away from him...

"Rowen?"

for lyrium_fused

[battlemaged]

[ cont from here ]

They stood together, close, foreheads touching despite the differences in height. Hawke never had a problem lowering his head to reach Fenris. He very gently cupped the elf's face in both large hands, warm thumbs smoothing over sharp cheekbones.

"You don't owe me anything," he promised, gently nuzzling at Fenris' nose with the tip of his own. "Just having you here, like this, is more than enough, Fen." The softest, lightest kiss followed. Then, "...I won't lie and say I haven't thought about you, though. In here...with me."

Hawke tilted his head, lips ghosting along the ridge of Fenris' jaw as instinctively he shifted closer, pressing gently, so gently. "...I've missed you." He'd said it before, but was no less true now than it had been then. "And you're the only one I've wanted, amatus." Maker, for so long...

I went and got some actual icons in the interim~

[lyrium_fused]

"If we are confessing how frequently we have longed to be together in this room...in your bed...since. Then you have been every good dream I have woken aching from for three years. You were before the first night you had me, even."

Fenris lets his eyes slip shut at the confession. Content to be just here where he is with Rowen pressed so close to him. Soothing the aches in his skin with every flicker of his markings. Fenris cannot always control them, especially not when his blood is up. And he is very much aroused right now. Those kisses at his jawline each a caress that jolts deliciously down his spine.

Rowen speaks words no man of Kirkwall would ever and Fenris cannot help the way his fingers dig into the mage's clothes tighter. His breath turns rough on his next exhale. Shakier. "And I...you. It has always been you."

He has to--needs to be closer. Fenris lifts himself up onto the balls of his feet to press a hungry kiss against Hawke's lips. Threads his arms around the human's broad shoulders like he has wanted to for so very long now.

for endof_theline

[battlemaged]

[ cont from here ]

The sorcerer, Doctor Strange as he'd introduced himself, had first been skeptical, then curious, and finally intrigued with the proposition Hawke had laid before him, and was currently muttering to himself and flitting here and there in his large library, checking book after book. Hawke wasn't sure what the other mage was looking for, but he let him be, obligingly taking a seat out of the way on the stairway, staff leaning between his knees and hands dangling between them.

He hadn't heard from Bucky since he'd left his lover's abode a few hours earlier, and that honestly didn't surprise him. It was a huge decision, this. And as he'd said, he'd not think less or be disappointed in any way if James decided to remain in his own world; no doubt he was also needed here, too. Hawke stared at the floor, mind's eye turning back to the look on Varric's face when he'd told the dwarf of his "brilliant plan" to vanish through an Eluvian and remove himself entirely from Thedas.

It hadn't been impressed, that look.

Now it was time to pay for his idiocy, again, and Hawke had no problem steeling his nerves for that debt, but he damned sure hadn't planned, or even foreseen, having to pay with his heart. A bruised and battered thing, no question, but still willing to reach out, tentative and shy, wanting again to belong to someone who would be kind, sincere. Loving.

He sighed, rubbing his forehead and temple wearily. Pray Maker it wouldn't take much longer and he could just...get it over with.

[endof_theline]

Bucky hasn't ever been one to reach out, so when Doctor Strange hears from him, he knows it's serious. He also warns Bucky to think hard on this. Leaving one's universe and possibly not being able to come back is no small thing. He knows.

Sam is also very concerned, when Bucky tells him the plan. He doesn't think Bucky should go... but he also knows that Bucky's heart can't take another loss and that if his heart is with Rowen, he'll be too stubborn to stay behind. He says his goodbyes to Sam and his family- and that's pretty much the only attachment he has to this place in terms of people. Everyone else is gone. He's a man out of time, and he figured he'd always stay alone with that- until Rowen came along.

He gets the rest of his affairs in order, then packs a bag. He doesn't have much, but a couple notebooks, photographs. He packs a few of Steve's records as well, though he's not sure he'll have anything to play them on once he's in this whole new world. The rest is all Alpine's things, though she doesn't really need much either. Mostly, he'll just wait and see what'll happen when he gets there.

And then he's off, headed to Bleecker street, Alpine tucked away in his jacket, hoping he's still wanted on this journey. When he gets there, the doors magically open for him, and he heads inside, seeing Rowen there on the steps. "Hey."

for lyrium_fused: reading lesson

[battlemaged]

Hawke pulled yet another book from the bookcase, flipping through the pages without really looking at them. This was the fourteenth, no, the fifteenth he'd chosen in the past hour. The others currently lay haphazardly across his large desk, as if ashamed in their abrupt rejection. He'd reshelve them later. Once he found the perfect tome for the upcoming reading lesson. Because it had to be perfect. Nothing less would do.

Not for Fenris.

The Champion of Kirkwall had been subliminally thrilled from crown to heel when yesterday he'd received the reply to the tentatively-worded message he'd sent to a certain Tevinter elf residing in an empty mansion all the way across town. Hawke hadn't seen Fenris in a few weeks, not since their last job together. And even that had been short - just a caravan escort through the Marches to Kirkwall's furtherest border, then the elf had disappeared into his abode, leaving Hawke to silently wonder if maybe he'd done something wrong, said something wrong, or hadn't done or said anything right.

It'd been...forever. Forever and probably a few days since that heated, blissful, agonizing night he and Fenris had shared. Desire, passion, and need overtaking them both, only for it to end with Fenris disappearing well before dawn and leaving Hawke terrified that he'd overstepped, over-assumed, and overdone, well...everything. But whatever it was that still hung unsaid between the human and the elf hadn't disrupted the work, at least; they'd been perfectly cordial to each other while on the job, just...cooler. Noticeably so.

Varric had told Hawke he was being an idiot, to just give Fenris time (and hadn't the elf said the same thing that very night?), and so Hawke had. And it was agony. But he'd steeled his heart and himself, despite the yearning of the former and the aching of the latter. Time. Time. Time. It was, truly, all he could give. Fenris already had his heart.

Yet two days ago, seized by a random flash of inspiration, Hawke had, drowning in anxious sweat and chewing his lip in sheer nervousness, issued an invitation to visit, no expectations, no hidden agenda, no job or mission; just a pleasant visit, maybe a new reading lesson or two. Something. Anything. He'd sent it off and began pacing the hallways, only to collapse a few hours later out of sheer exhaustion, halfway to driving himself crazy waiting for a response. And it had come, though several hours later. Well and good; he'd take it.

The knock at the front door nearly had the mage toppling off the stepladder; he scrambled back down as he heard Orana humming on her way to answer. The discarded books were quickly hustled back to the shelves, some of them backwards and not a few just crammed on top of the others. Hawke quickly tried to finger-comb his disheveled hair, only half-succeeding, and breathed a curse when he realized that his tunic was hanging all lopsided. He frantically tried to straighten the blasted shirt, but the voices approaching the library door only made his fingers even more useless, and his mutterings became more volatile the closer they came. Finally, he gave up altogether and whirled around just in time to greet Orana and his guest, eager blue gaze riveting right to the white-haired elf behind her.

Oh, Fen...

After a polite cough and a clearing of the throat, Hawke finally smiled in greeting, covertly easing his grip on the book in his hands, lest he leave indentations in the soft leather.

"Hullo, Fenris." Maker, was that his voice? Sounding like water poured over gravel? Get it together, Rowen. "--ahem. I'm--I'm glad you came."

Ah, the maximum UST era of the disaster bis....

[lyrium_fused]

Well, Hawke, perhaps the reply would have come sooner had it been written in a steadier hand. Fenris had to sound out each of the words to read it aloud to himself and then he went to go confirm with Varric he'd gotten it correct. That all took Time. His Trade was getting better enough that he'd been able to borrow Varric's quill to scratch out a simple agreement and time in hesitant but legible handwriting smudged just a little along the page to indicate Fenris was writing left handed.

"Good afternoon Messere," Orana greeted. "I had heard you'd be coming by today so please do stay for supper. I'm making a shepherd's pie and baked apples."

All foods Fenris liked. Sheer coincidence, no doubt. The prospect of promising to stay for that long might feel claustrophobic were he not well aware of his own empty pantry back at the mansion. He nods to the request and hopes the rest of the afternoon will go as painlessly as this.

Being around Rowan was difficult, to say the least. When Fenris was so unworthy of the man, and yet longed for him so badly he ached. But reading was a skill he was trying to teach himself. And Hawke knew his limitations better than anyone aside from maybe Varric. His brows rose hidden behind his platinum locks to see Rowan looking so out of sorts.

"...Hawke." The same deep timbre as always. "I'm grateful for the chance to take instruction from a teacher in this. Many of my attempts by myself lead to frustration and a lack of progress."

for endof_theline: once more into the...city?

[battlemaged]

It was a decidedly mismatched pair who lounged in the atrium of a certain apartment building in Brooklyn. One was tall, solid, with dark hair, a scruffy jaw, and bright blue eyes that had definitely seen far too much. He was dressed oddly, sporting a mismatched outfit of metal plate, chainmail, and grey and red fabric, and carried a staff comfortably on his back. His companion was short, barely reaching the other man's waist, but just as solid and powerful, with short blond hair pulled into a queue behind his head, and sparkling hazel eyes that gleamed above a sardonic smirk and a smooth, sharp jaw. On his short back rested what appeared to be, at first glance, a movie prop crossbow, thick limbs folded against the gleaming wooden stock. The dwarf's raiment was just as odd as his friend's; a tan knee-length leather jacket over a red tunic that was only laced halfway up his powerful chest, revealing a beautifully groomed pelt of golden hair.

"This place is amazing," the dwarf told the human, still astounded by their initial trek through the city. "At first I thought you were just pulling my leg - no jokes, please," he added as his tall friend grinned and opened his mouth. "But by Andraste's flaming tits, Hawke, you weren't kidding." Varric Tethras laughed, shifting his lean against a column from one shoulder to the other.

Rowen Hawke smirked. "Told you so." For the umpteenth time since they'd snuck into the building, he swiveled his head around, checking the corridor and intersection that led to their ultimate destination. It was still mid-morning, Hawke had surmised; Bucky was probably out shopping, or perhaps getting breakfast. Maker help them if he was out on a job; it might be days before he returned. And Hawke didn't really fancy squatting here in the hallway for too long. Granted, he remembered enough for him and Varric to have options in case of the latter, but he'd been burning like a phoenix to get back here and gather his beloved in his arms again.

And this time, Varric hadn't been willing to be left behind. Which honestly suited Hawke just fine; being without his best friend in all the worlds before had been...strange.

Before either of them could say anything further, the elevator at the end of the hallway chimed, sending both of the newcomers to their feet, automatically on alert. They were careful to keep out of sight as much as possible, a lifetime of adventuring experience dictating their hugging opposite corners of the intersection, a cross-vantage point should one be needed. Hawke, taking a glance to his rear, jerked back around when he heard Varric drawl, "Say, isn't that your boy there?"

[endof_theline]

Luckily Bucky isn't on a mission. He just got back from one, feeling heavy and tired, but that seems to be the norm lately. There's a lot on his mind between these missions, therapy, trying to move on... thinking of Rowen.

Most days it's just one foot in front of the other, though.

He's been trying to reach out more too. Trying to find things to do that aren't wrapped up in fighting and being used as a weapon. Helping the community he's in, rather than being a part of war. Maybe that's a part of the reason he couldn't stay with Rowen. The fight is no longer his.

But god, does he miss the man he loves.

This morning he's out grocery shopping- trying to get out there before the crowds. He has a bag of groceries for himself, and some for Alpine, a light load for him by any means. It's just a regular day like any other, until he steps into his building and he spots the two shadowy figures. One of them, he's sure he could recognize from anywhere. Still, he freezes on the spot, wondering if his eyes are playing tricks on him.

"....Rowen?"