Tales From Thedas: Dragon Age One Shots

Roguish Hawke

The elf was prickly, he was dangerous and lethal, unpredictable even. And yet, and yet. His voice did things to him, not just below the waist, which tightened and throbbed with unimaginable yearning and need, but in his heart where he imagined butterflies took wing. It made it hard to breath while he struggled to hide the effect of the elf's voice on his body.

Even in his mind, his thoughts were affected, where images of those emerald green eyes would look at him with matching desire, need and affection. No matter how much he tried to ignore it, there was no denying his reaction to the elven warrior. He was gorgeous, beautiful and altogether so unreachable as to be cast as little more than forbidden fruit, a temptation to savour and devour with the senses but never to touch, never to hold.

It wasn't the first time he was grateful for not being a mage like his sister and his father, but it was the first time he thanked the Maker for this small blessing. He couldn't imagine how devastated he would have been if he had been, especially after hearing how deeply ingrained the elf's hatred of mages was.

He had made a mistake in the Deep Roads when he'd brought both the elf and the spirit-mage. He hadn't yet known how deep the elf's animosity for magic was, he'd merely wanted the elf with him and had needed a healer, especially since he'd never planned to bring his sister. Though the elf made no comment during their time below the surface, he could tell it was because he feared rejection.

Back in Kirkwall, that sense hadn't left him. In fact, it had downright annoyed and irritated him that the elf clearly believed himself unworthy of friendship or loyalty. Someone had taught him that belief, the same someone who had used him, carved the lyrium tattoos into his living flesh, erased his memories and abused him in ways he didn't like imagining.

He brooded about the elf for months after that, Varric's nickname bringing a snort of derision and frustration from him. If only the dwarf knew how much he brooded when he was alone in his room at the newly purchased Amell estate. He sometimes thought he was worse than a woman for how often he caught himself thinking of the elf. How he hated the elf's former master, a hatred that grew with each passing week. At times it became difficult to hide, though his frequent encounters with bandits, slavers and  blood mages provided an outlet and a focus for the unwelcome emotions.

Four years later, that former master provided just the kind of outlet he'd been waiting for. Watching Fenris plunge his hand into Hadriana's chest had given him a proud satisfaction to see the elf claim his victory and his freedom without cowering or allowing the blood mage to get inside his head.

He knew as soon as the words left his mouth, he'd made a mistake. It hadn't been a conscious decision as he'd still been revelling in seeing Fenris take back his freedom.

"Do not comfort me!" Fenris snarled. "What has magic touched that it hasn't destroyed? I need to go. I'm...  sorry."

For a long moment he couldn't speak, all his words jumbling together in his mind until the moment was gone and so was Fenris. Morgan had known he was inadequate to the job but never had he felt such failure as he did on the walk back to Kirkwall.

He'd wanted to say that magic hadn't destroyed Fenris for he lived, but it felt wrong to say, for in many ways it had. He'd wanted to correct him, tell him vehemently he had nothing to apologize for as it was he who had spoken wrong. He returned to Hightown alone having bid goodbye to Merrill and Varric in Lowtown. The dwarf had looked at him with concern, but he'd merely given him a rueful shrug and promised to see him tomorrow.

Back at the estate he'd shared dinner with his mother, giving vague and non-committal answers to her questions regarding the day's adventures. After a while, she'd given up, filling the silence with talk of simple things and he'd smiled at her in gratitude. Later she'd kissed his forehead and gone to bed, gently reminding him to stop being so hard on himself. Once she'd gone, he'd begun drinking, hoping it might drown out his desire for Fenris, his self-recrimination for speaking wrongly and shake off his desperate need to hear the elf's voice.