We Should Move On

The Frustration (in progress)

AN: Hey! I'm Shellby. This is something that I had been thinking about for a while. Hawke is a Mage in this, as I'm sure you could tell. :)

Tell me if you want an Anders story.

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The more Fenris thought about it, the more it pissed him off. He would sit in the mansion he took from Danarius and seethe, smashing what was left of his slaver's precious objects. Objects he treated better than Fenris himself...

In normal circumstances, or so he liked to think, Fenris would be suave and in control. Courting the girl wouldn't be a problem in any aspect. But the girl was a Mage, the one trait he hated more than anything in this world. He blamed mages for every wrong thing that had happened in his life.

The issue was this, this bitch... His knuckles tensed and whitened.

This kind-hearted Champion of Kirkwall, who dared to ask his help protecting her kind. Danarius' kind. But he helped her. Fenris helped her for reasons he was still trying to deny.

She fought slavers, she asked for his opinions, his assistance. She sympathized but didn't coddle.

Hawke, she...

Fenris tried not to even think it. It would be like betraying a part of himself if he did. Mages are bad. Hawke was a Mage. Hawke was bad.

"Hawke." He could hear himself saying, knowing that keeping his words short and simple would stop him from saying /too much/.

"We should move on." He'd say again, the catch in his throat almost getting him.

Fenris' weapons always had wear on the handles from where his grip would seize at the sight of her. When an opponent would move too close to her, he'd act like strategies had changed to strike them down. Isabela would get a little /too/ friendly and he'd mention the task at hand like he had something urgent to attend to. Anything to stop what would rise behind his eyes when someone complimented Hawke.

The jealousy and anger was becoming unhealthy. He thrashed at night, striking out at imaginary assailants. He would wake in the morning, if any sleep was had, increasingly irritated.

Hawke started to notice after a while that something was wrong, but never pressured Fenris for an answer. This only made his grip tighten more. He would rip seams in leather gloves now, the hide to its limit.

Back at his mansion, priceless Tevinter items would find themselves destroyed at Fenris' hand.

The frustration grew as the dreams began. In them, always the same, Fenris would get fed up after something diplomatic Hawke had said and slam her hard against a wall. His fist would be clutching at the shoulder of her clothes, his mouth in a vicious snarl.

"Stop!" He would finally shout, the concern in Hawke's eyes becoming nauseating.

She would softly ask a question of him, always to the point and understanding. So Andraste-damned understanding.

Instead of answering Fenris found himself pres-

"No." He winced in anger, remembering the dream from the previous night. Another vase found its way to the tiled mansion floor, Fenris threw himself in to Danarius' favorite armchair, his hands clutching at his hair.

A knock came to his door and he barked a "What?!" in response.