So, sometimes I get distracted from my main fic WIWUYS, by writing fills over on the kinkmeme. This one grabbed me and I had to write. Had to. Sorry, it happens. Here is the original request:

Long specific request is long and specific.

The set up:

So! Fenris runs out on Hawk after their first night together, Hawk is left feeling broken hearted and rejected. This leads her to eventually getting close to Anders. They end up in a relationship where he moves in. Queue wonderful angsty Fenris and Anders party banter. .com/watch?v=yy5cZ_-byBk

Now I don't know about you guys, but if the guy I loved used me to help him blow up a spiritual building and start a war I'd be pretty broken hearted.

Hawk tells Anders to leave with the intent that she never wants to sees him again whilst she and the others clean up his mess. He flees. Kirkwall's Champion and her motley crew save the day, They all go their separate ways.

The Request:

Fenris taking his promise to heart hunts down Anders to confront and kill him, epic Broody Vs Sparkle fingers battle ensues. Totally up to anon if Fenris kills Anders or not.

After said battle, Fenris wanders Thadus and eventually bumps into Hawk, they reconcile similarly to how they do in Fenris's Act 3 romance path.

I've had this idea bubbling round my head for weeks now, and would loooooove if someone could make it a reality for me.

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"Broken"

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"Don't go," she'd said.

He'd felt her cool touch on his wrist and then, in an instant, she'd ceased to be. Without thought, he'd raged, releasing the fire within and driving his enemy back. He saw nothing but flame. Felt nothing but hate. Kill...

But she was no enemy. The part of him that was not an animal knew this.

The lyrium haze had faded, and they'd been left staring into each other's eyes. So close, he'd felt a lock of his hair move as she exhaled. So close.

This.

I want... this.

Hawke moved a fraction of a second before he did, bringing them together in a crash of breath and flesh and need.

In an imperfect world, riddled with avarice, anger, pain and despair, where the only true certainty was death, she had given him a wondrous gift, something that he'd felt in the very core of his being... one perfect hour. An entire shining hour of transcendent freedom from the constant reminders of everything that had been taken from him, and from the feelings of anger and fear and shame that still remained.

One perfect hour.

Afterward, as she lay sleeping beside him, her head on his shoulder and her breathing soft, he saw the ghosts of his past appear. Expressions, colors, buildings, fabrics, the slant of sunlight on his mother's red hair. Everything. The memories crystallized before him and he could see. Eyes wide and staring into the darkness, he could see them all, as if by her gift, she had made him whole again. He watched, lost in the play of shapes on his mind's eye.

He smiled. Ear to ear. It was...

A shadow fell. The images became darker, less distinct. He blinked. He held his breath, as if by doing so, he could stop the fading. But he was too broken to hold on to the perfection of that hour and the memories slipped through the cracks of his shattered soul one by one as easily as sand through a child's fingers.

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It was all gone. What remained was not a man but a hate-filled elven weapon and in his scarred arms lay a woman too beautiful, too good for one such as he. The elf was ashamed to touch her. He didn't belong here, with her. How long would it be before she realized this? A day? A week? And then it would all be gone. Like the ghosts of his past.

No.

He'd dressed quietly and made a new fire to keep her warm, all the while trying to make the memories return. If they would only come back, there was hope. As he stood, staring into the flames, concentrating on one last attempt, she had woken. He'd tried to explain. Clumsily. But it was too much and he didn't have the words.

She'd practically begged him to stay but he couldn't. Couldn't make it right in his head. Couldn't think of any reason to stay that wasn't beneath someone like her.

So he did the only thing he could think of that felt honorable. He left.

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Back in his dilapidated mansion, Fenris paced, thinking about that night until long past the sunrise. It disgusted him. He didn't just have baggage, he was baggage, nothing more than a mirror of the cruelties of this world. She deserved better. She deserved someone who could touch her and be touched without wanted to jump out of his skin. She deserved someone who could be tender with her. She deserved someone who could tell her what a rare and invaluable person she was. But no matter how much he'd wanted it to be him, he didn't know how. Not then. And it was not fair to her to ask her to wait while he figured it out.
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Eventually, she'd moved on.

It fractured him a little, every time he saw her with that cursed abomination. Of all the people in Thedas, why him? Had it been anyone but Anders, that smug, selfish ass of a mage, it would have been easier. Fenris did want her to be happy... but this felt so wrong!

For a time, his nightmares increased. He would dream of Anders harming her, sometimes intentionally, sometimes not. But always Fenris would wake, the image of Hawke's beautiful, sad eyes burned into his mind.

"Don't go," she'd said.

But he had.

And she'd made her choice. There was nothing Fenris could do. He was furious with himself but he would not be the one to put her through any more pain. Ever.

Sometimes, she looked happy with Anders. Maybe there was hope. Fenris wanted to be wrong. So he let himself fracture a little more each day as Hawke and Anders grew closer, as they stood side by side touching, as the magekissed her hand, as he moved into her estate...

"Break her heart and I will kill you," the elf had told the mage. He'd meant it.
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Of course Anders had betrayed her. Lost to his own demons of rage and vengeance, he'd committed murder and forever lost Hawke's trust. Fenris watched her eyes turn from horror to rage to sadness, those same sad eyes from his dreams. He'd heard her voice telling the abomination to flee, heard her voice crack as she told Anders that she never wanted to see him again.

Fenris had wanted to kill the mage right there and then, guilt and hate surging through him, feeling like all of this was his fault and, therefore, his duty to avenge.

But they had a city to save... and the mage slipped away.
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They'd won the battle. Barely. Jagged husks of stone and choking, black smoke were the only spoils of victory left to share. No one smiled. No one even spoke for days. It had cost too much.

Sooner rather than later, they'd all gone their separate ways. When the last of them left Kirkwall, Fenris went hunting.
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It was odd to be the hunter for once. Powerful. Good. Like a cleansing fire.

Five months it took.

He found Anders living on the outskirts of Denerim in a one-room house, alone. Fenris saw the mage's face illuminated by lamplight in a window. He was writing. A roll of vellum curled up towards his chin as his plumed quill bobbed almost happily in it's task. But Anders didn't look happy. He was gaunt. Grey.

One corner of Fenris' mouth twitched up. Soon it would be over, one way or the other.
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A cold rain fell out of the night. The sky was a thick whirl of billowing charcoal clouds, hung low and menacing. The thunderheads drifted and swirled, light dancing off their dank underbellies as they pulled white surges of light from the earth.

It was a fitting stage for the end of a life.
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Fenris kicked the door open. It swung hard and wide, smacking loudly against the plastered, interior wall.

Anders jumped and turned around to see a wet, angry, armored elf glaring at him, intentions clear. The elf's promise leaped to the forefront of his mind from a not too distant past.

"Break her heart and I will kill you."

The mage nodded once, pursing his lips. Any further words were needless, pointless, at a time like this. Anders stood, grabbed his staff and walked silently past the intruder into the storm.

Fenris followed.
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They face each other in the clearing in front of the little house. The rain is relentless. It soaks down into the cracks of Fenris' armor as he shifts his grip on the long pommel of his greatsword and tosses the hair from his eyes. Anders waits on the other side of the clearing, not ten yards away, a solid shape amid slanting silver lines of water. His saturated robes cling heavily to his limbs.

A flash of light turns the world white and then fades as both men are plunged back into the darkness and driving rain. Chasing that vivid pulse, a clap of thunder strikes so hard and close it shakes the earth beneath their feet.

Enough. It ends now.

The elf charges. A raw, guttural shout claws up from his belly as he barrels forward with inhuman speed, sword raising upwards.

The mage doesn't move.

Just for a moment, Fenris thinks Anders has accepted his fate, that he wants to die. This may be the case, but Vengeance has other plans. The surface of the statue that was Anders splits apart, skin separating like flat stones cooling over a bed of rolling blue lava. Breaking through his human facade, the fade spirit shines brightly, reaching out at the oncoming elf in his hunger for blood.

A round sigil appears on the ground just as Fenris comes within range. He slams into an invisible force and staggers back. Recovering quickly, the elf swings his greatsword around, not allowing the momentum of his blade to slow. Even at this lengthened distance the edge will connect with his opponent if he extends his reach.

Vengeance roars as a ball of flame explodes from his body and scatters in all directions, scorching the air. The row of trees and underbrush behind him bursts into flame from the heat.

Fenris, shielding his eyes, phases just in time as a white-blue fire erupts from his own markings to bathe him in a protective aura of pure lyrium. He still feels the calidity of the mage's spell against his armor, against his skin, and smells the singe in his hair. The pain is quite unpleasant but not deadly. Not this time.

A ribbon of mage fire falls upon his greatsword, traveling the length of the blade as Fenris falters back again, missing his target. The elf whips his Tevinter steel in a circle, dousing the fire. The hard rain turns to steam as it hits the metal. A lesser weapon would not have survived such heat.

Hawke's gift. Fitting.

As the sky flashes again, Fenris takes advantage of the speed in which the long blade is traveling, slamming it into the ground.

A lyrium-driven tremor shakes the earth, echoing the crash of the storm, and sends Vengeance reeling backwards toward the fire in the trees. The spirit stops just short of them.

Very well. Let's see how you like this, elven dog.

The face of Vengeance cracks into a jagged grin of anticipation as he raises his arms and opens the sky. Magical bolts of lightning stab downwards throughout the clearing, burning the earth in spite of the rain, leaving spires of steam and scorched black circles in the muddy grass.

There is nowhere that Fenris can go so he braces himself against the pain, levels his sword at the mage and charges forward. He meets no resistance, slicing deeply into his enemy's thick human torso. The warrior alternates between elven ghost and elven man, arcing his blade up, through, and then down as he passes through the mage and withdraws his sword. It is over. When he turns, he will see that his enemy has been cut in half, one side separated from the other from navel to neck.

But Vengeance has grown in power since they last fought together and Fenris hears a thick chortle where there should only be sounds of wet chunks of meat dropping into the mud.

Fenris feels the last bolts of electricity strike his body, driving into his thigh and the side of his face. He can smell the sickly sweet char of his own sizzling skin. Each hit has taken a bit of his life away. He cannot keep this up.

Vengeance laughs more loudly, feeling no pain at all. No earthly blade can harm him for he is not of mortal men.

The elf turns and gapes in surprise as his eyes confirm what his ears have already told him, that the mage still stands, whole and grinning, eyes bright with blue fire. Fenris gazes at his greatsword, then back to the mage. He sees the ragged tear in the mage's robes, watches as the drenched fabric falls off Anders' shoulder exposing a bloodless, woundless chest and arm.

Fenris is stunned. Did he phase too late? He has never made such an error before but the rain does make it hard to see. The steel clouds flash bright silver as another deafening clap of thunder sounds through the clearing. He sidles away from the burning trees, circling the abomination that leers at him, taunting him.

No matter. He will not fear and run simply because he does not understand. All things must die, even powerful mages, even spirits. He will kill Anders as he has sworn to do, even if it means his own death. If he cannot fulfill this vow, he does not deserve her and it matters not what becomes of him.

The elf sinks into a defensive pose and readies for another attack, taking a deep breath.

But the mage points and Fenris feels his body being overtaken by spellpower, stiffening, growing cold, turning to... stone? No. He cannot let this happen. He will not be left defenseless at the mercy of this human mage, this traitor!

The abomination lowers his head, classically demonic before the burning backdrop of blackening evergreens. The blue lights of his eyes narrow into two thin lines, slanting in a mask of feline satisfaction. He has almost won. This elf will pay the price for his misplaced devotion. Anders wants this old rivalry to end, once and for all. He wants to be left alone, wants to kill this elf.

Anders hurls a boulder of earthen magic straight for Fenris' chest. In one second, when the massive stone projectile strikes the spell bound warrior, the elf will die, shattered into a thousand pieces. And Vengeance will laugh at the irony of a heart-stealing elf killed by a mage's fist.

But Fenris remembers. Remembers driving his arms painfully into that stone wall, deeper and deeper as his master shouted at him, pushing him to thrust harder. That day the elf learned that not even granite was a barrier to one with markings such as these. He had phased through stone before, just never when he was the stone. If ever there was a time to learn...

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Vengeance stares into the wide, green eyes of his enemy. His enemy, who holds a dark pulsing thing in his hand. The spirit looks at this curious thing. On some level, he is aware that his host's chest hurts and that it should concern him but he is still surprised when the ground rises up to meet him, splashing his body with dirt and blood and rain.

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Fenris drops his prize, mage blood dripping from his downturned fingers. His shoulders sag, breathing ragged, body burned bloody in so many places. This armor will have to be replaced as it is useless now. He is still having trouble making his fingers work through the spell of petrification that lingers in them as he fumbles at the belt pouch just above his left hip. It crumbles open and he barely catches the little bottle of red liquid which falls out, raising it to his lips.

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He spends his last six silver on a new back strap to carry his sword, a shirt and breeches that don't have burn holes in them, two loaves of bread and a block of cheese. Then it's all gone. He'd spent the rest of his coin on informants to discover the whereabouts of the abomination. No matter. He has two good legs still, thanks to that health potion. He will walk all over Thedas if he has to. He will do whatever he has to do. He will find her.

His first thought is to look for Hawke in Lothering. Losing her father, sister, brother and mother in a span of ten years devastated her. Her healer lover had been no help. In fact, Anders' betrayal had been the final breaking straw.

Return to the beginning.

Fenris had listened many times to Hawke's stories of growing up in Lothering. They were happy stories despite the fact that her family had to remain vigilant, watching constantly for templars or anyone else who might threaten their way of life. At least they'd been all together. Back then, life had been more innocent.

Since the end of the Blight, the little town had been rebuilt. If there is a place she might go for comfort, this will be it.

He straps the sword to his back, puts the food into a carrying sack and starts his march.

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Though she's been laying low for some time, she hasn't lost her edge, hasn't become complacent. There is too much unresolved, too much acid still curdling in her stomach. All the battles she has fought, all the sacrifices made, the deaths, these things still pain her in the chambers of her broken heart. They haunt her dreams. At the end of a long day of running off bandits or helping a farmer work his field, whatever task needs to be done really since the thoughts that plague her are so much worse when her hands are still, even then there is no respite from the feelings of guilt. She should have done things differently, better. Though she did much good for the people of Kirkwall, after the destruction of the chantry there was no escaping their accusatory stares. After the rest of the city burned during the conflict between the templars and the mages, there was outright hostility. So what if she had friends on both sides? She was the Champion of Kirkwall. She should have done more.

Her companions had left one by one. First, Merrill traveled to Tevinter, hoping to find clues about the history of her people in the old libraries of Minrathous. Varric set sail on Isabela's new ship, bound for adventure and glory. Aveline and Donnic, having fallen in love with Orlais during their honeymoon, moved as soon as there was an opening for them both in the Queen's guard. Fenris still remained but, ever since that night, she'd kept him at a distance. Once the others left, Hawke was too despondent to enjoy his company anyway and never thought to visit him at his mansion.

She had no idea where Anders had gone, nor did she look for him. Those days were over, if they had ever really existed at all. She tried to remember him fondly but it wasn't always possible, hindsight giving her a wisdom she had previously lacked.

After four months, even Bodhan and Sandal had surprised her by moving on. When Hawke saw that there was no longer anything tying her to Kirkwall, she sold her mansion and left. The Amell line was ended anyway, what did it matter?

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She returned to Lothering, the last place she was happy.

The newly rebuilt town offers her a simpler life, with a small house and a garden. But, even here, in the first place she ever called home, she feels poised like an arrow ready to launch. She had hoped to find some measure of peace here, some shred of normalcy, but it eludes her still. The guilt is too fresh. The losses too many. They eat away at her sanity.

Maybe she was never meant for a normal life. Maybe she should just go volunteer for the Grey Wardens and do something useful with the rest of it - or maybe she should just skip the Grey Warden part and head straight for the Deep Roads.

Not yet. But... soon perhaps.

For the past three months, Hawke has been seeing people from her past in the oddest places. She sees Bethany's sweet face peeking out from chantry robes but on second look, it's just a girl with Beth's complexion and smile. She sees Carver sitting with his back to her in the tavern but when she calls his name and heads turn, the eyes, the nose, the face is all wrong. She apologizes, buys him a drink and then disappears before he can think she wants anything more than this stranger's forgiveness. And there is her mother, bending to wipe the dirt from a child's cheek. No, not her mother, just someone's mother. Hawke's eyes fill with tears, still angry with herself, still blaming.

After a while, she stops believing the illusions are real. She chooses to accept them as gifts from the Maker, reminders of a gentler time. And she cannot leave quite yet because this is where the visions live. They give her fleeting moments of comfort which are too few and far between.

She is even having visions of her old friends from Kirkwall. The apple-seller has eyes like Isabela's and she likes to wink at her customers in a flirty way that makes Hawke smile. One of the village militia is tall woman who moves like Aveline. When the woman passes by, the sound of her footsteps carries fond memories to Hawke's ears. The new windmill being is being built by a pair of men who could be related to Varric, they're so stocky and blond and always smiling. Unfortunately, they lack both the wit and the chest hair of the original.

It's happening again.

Right now, standing in between the stalls on market day, she catches the eye of a man who reminds her of Fenris. But, of course, though elves are not so common here in Lothering and this man is definitely an elf, she knows it can't be Fenris. This man is dressed like a farmer, in an undyed shirt and breeches. His hair is too short, he's much too happy, and there is a scar marring his otherwise handsome face. It crosses from his left cheekbone down to his jaw, just above the lyrium markings at his throat.

She blinks, staring at those lines. Her imagination is especially good today. Or she's crossed over that fine border into insanity. Maybe it is time to head for the Deep Roads before she finds herself slack-jawed in a chantry cell dribbling porridge on herself.

The scraggly elf grins crookedly at her, meeting her eyes without shame or reservation, as if he does know her. For someone who looks like he's had a hard life, he has beautiful teeth. She tries to think if she ever saw Fenris' teeth back in Kirkwall but, as she considers this, he threads through the merchants and the shoppers browsing their wares, moving closer. And closer, until she smells the scent of him. Of him. It is him.

She flushes scarlet, taken by surprise. His scent, the markings and the sword on his back, the one she gave him, are the only things familiar about this man standing before her. Everything else seems different.

She stammers. "F-Fenris? You... what happened to you? Why are you here?"

He looks down at her, green eyes shining like a man who has just unearthed a treasure of immeasurable value, and answers her questions in order, pausing between each one.

"Yes."

"I was... in a fight."

"To find you."

As the last spoken phrase hangs in the air between them, his expression falters for a moment as if he finds these words clumsy and inadequate but Hawke is lost in an ascending whirl of emotion, too drawn out of her reality to focus.

He came to find her. And it looks like it was one hell of a trip.

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The weeks pass.

Every morning Fenris is outside her door, waiting. She lives at the edge of Lothering, on a small hill on the other side of the winding river. It used to belong to a woodcutter before the old man died and his sons moved to the city.

They share breakfast and talk.

Afterward, they tend Hawke's garden or go to town and work for coin. No job is beneath them. A rabid bear is slain, apples are picked, a dishonest merchant is run out of town. Hawke is no longer known as the ex-Champion of Kirkwall. Fenris is no longer known as That Strange Elf. They are known as a team. People wave and smile.

Sometimes, at the end of the day, they spar or play cards or just watch the sun set.

It is on one such evening, as they sit in the grass in front of Hawke's house watching the sky melt from gold-laced rose to a dusky violet, that Hawke leans her head on Fenris' shoulder for the first time in a very long time.

"That night," she says, and he instantly knows what night she means, "why did you leave?"

His eyes search the sky. This moment is the moment, the chance he has been waiting for and he knows it will not come again. He swallows.

"I was a coward. If I could go back and do it all again, I would stay."

The strength in his voice tells her everything she needs to know but still she asks, "Is that why you're here?"

Fenris nods as the only thing that he is truly afraid of looms before him, that she will exact her revenge and order him away, forever. Forest green eyes examine her face, both dreading what may come and hoping for a miracle.

But Hawke has no intention of sending him away.

"Don't ever do it again," she says as she looks up at him, meaning in her eyes. "I can't take any more loss. So, you're not allowed to change your mind or get recruited into the Grey Wardens or get mauled by a hurloc or run off to join a traveling circ—"

The elf moves so fast, it's surprising how gentle his lips feel on hers, how soft. She gasps and inhales the scent of him, now accented by green grass and fresh air rather than leather and wine. His chin is smooth, no scratchy, skin-scraping stubble here. Kissing Fenris feels so right.

He is breathing her in as well.

This.

It sends a weakness down the length of her spine all the way to her toes, which flex and press into the bottoms of her boots. She missed this very much. She smiles into the kiss as he slides one hand around her waist, the other into her hair, pulling her closer.

Feeling like there is suddenly not enough air in the air, her lips part to catch her breath. He seizes the opportunity to flick his tongue lightly over her upper lip and then the corner of her mouth as her heart beat flutters wildly like a drunken moth in a windstorm.

"I will not change my mind," he tells her in that sensuous timbre of his, causing her butterfly heart to reel. "I will not pledge myself to a cause unless it is your wish that we do so together. I will not die unless it is by your side. And I will not be joining a traveling circus... unless it is some secret dream of yours?"

Hawke chokes back a laugh and shakes her head as a tear slips down her cheek.

Then he places a calloused hand on either side of her face, and looks into her eyes. "The only future for me is with you, if you will have me."

She swallows, all her fears and guilts and scars vanishing into the past where they belong. A bit of the old Hawke humor rekindles.

"I'm sorry. I don't think I quite caught that last part. Could you say it again?"

"I will make myself more clear," growls the elf, and crushes her to him, kissing her mouth, drinking the taste of her like a man dying of thirst. She floats, surrendering, lost in his embrace. He explores her lips, her tongue, pausing to brush a thumb over her bottom lip and stare with wonder at the changes in her skin, before claiming her again.

The musk of him surrounding her, the emerging moon, the sounds of the bubbling river, rustling grasses and chirruping night creatures set a dreamlike stage. She shivers, though it is not from cold. In his kiss is everything she has ever wanted since she was ten years old, living in this very town. Funny how things have come full circle, in a bloody, drunken, painful way.

"Fenris, will you come inside?"

She can feel his smile. He nods and follows her up as she stands, refusing to give up all contact with her skin. Hawke weaves her fingers together with his and leads him to the little house.

Their home.

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Fin