#stitching poem | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shivunin · 2 years ago

Text

Pour Forth

F!Hawke/Fenris | 3830 Words | M | Cross-posted here on AO3

CW: Injury (broken bones, torn stitches, scarring), pregnancy/childbirth mention

(Expanded from the original prompt here c:)

“Let me pour forth

My tears before thy face, whilst I stay here,

For thy face coins them, and thy stamp they bear,

And by this mintage they are something worth,

For thus they be

Pregnant of thee;

Fruits of much grief they are, emblems of more,

When a tear falls, that thou falls which it bore,

So thou and I are nothing then, when on a diverse shore.”

— “A Valediction: Of Weeping” by John Donne

The first time she said it, Fenris had just taken a crushing blow to his leg on the Wounded Coast. He supposed the joke was intended to take his mind off the pain while she healed him—though as far as he could tell, Hawke had never met a bad joke she didn’t love. She was always making them at the most inopportune times, for reasons that remained entirely beyond him.

So, while she watched the bones of his leg knit themselves back together, Hawke had looked sidelong at him and said it:

“It’s alright to cry, you know.”

“What?” Fenris asked through clenched teeth. He could feel sweat beading on his face and arms with the effort of not reacting to the pain just above his ankle. There was little space in his mind left to understand whatever nonsense she was trying to say.

“It’s alright,” she said, “I wouldn’t judge you. This must be painful. Goodness knows I cry over the silliest things all the time. I won’t tell the others, either. Healer’s word.”

“Right,” Fenris replied doubtfully, and she winked at him.

“Your bone density is top notch, you know. I’m sure it all fit together quite nicely before the incident with the warhammer.”

There was a horrible crack from the vicinity of his leg and Fenris gritted his teeth for the wave of pain that was sure to follow—only nothing did. Instead Hawke raised a hand and motes of pale blue spun forth, enveloping the break.

“You��ll be right as rain soon enough,” she said, which might have been reassuring, except she kept talking, “I used to do this for the horses in town, you know. Creatures’ll panic themselves into a heart attack if you aren’t careful.”

“Am I to believe,” Fenris said, wiping away the sweat on his forehead before it could drip into his eyes, “That your primary means of practice was on farm animals?”

“Hmm? Oh, no,” Hawke said, and squinted at something on his leg.

When Fenris moved to sit up, she set her hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him back. He didn’t have the strength to argue with the touch; he let her handle him instead, since there was little force behind it and she plainly meant no harm.

“Nothing you’ll want to see,” she said cheerfully, “You know I was a smuggler for a year, yes? Far more broken bones there than back home. I only meant that horse bones are much more delicate than yours and I still got them up and walking again. I’ve healed other bones, too, of course, and all manner of hurts.”

“Of course,” he muttered, and rubbed the shoulder she’d touched to dispel the sensation of her hand.

“Thank you,” he’d added reluctantly as the pain in his leg dulled to a throb.

“Always,” Hawke replied absently, squinting down at his leg again.

As promised, he’d been on his feet moments later and more than capable of trailing along behind the rest of their group. Unlike her magic, the ghost of her touch lingered—though Fenris would not have admitted it for the world.

Of course, that wasn’t the only time; if there was something Hawke loved, it was repeating a foolish joke. So several years later, during an ill-advised visit to some lowbrow theater in Lowtown, she leaned over the armrest between them and repeated it.

“It’s okay to cry, you know,” she whispered directly into his ear.

Fenris resisted the urge to lean into the words and shook his head, as if unaffected by it all.

In truth, the actress wailing over her dead lover’s body onstage was little more than background noise. If asked, Fenris likely couldn’t have explained what the play was even about. He’d been distracted for the duration, because for some reason Hawke had chosen to come to this event in a dress Isabela had chosen for her—which meant it draped low in the front and exposed both of her shoulders to the smoky air of the theater.

Hawke’s arms, Fenris had realized when he’d arrived late to their group’s seats, were covered in freckles.

He couldn’t explain why the sight of them, strewn across her collarbones like a half-finished star map, had struck him most of all.

“I saved you the aisle seat,” she’d whispered as the lights went down, and Fenris hadn’t even thanked her. He’d just sat there, stiff as a statue, and bent every ounce of his focus to not actually turning his head to stare at her.

Fenris’s self control was iron under most circumstances. It ought to be good enough not to gawk at his friend’s decolletage, at least.

But not when she leaned over like that to whisper in his ear and the scent of her wrapped around him like—like it had a mind of its own. So:

“It’s okay to cry, you know,” she whispered as the play reached its climax, “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Hawke,” he managed, his voice thankfully chiding instead of—of—anything else.

She laughed slightly and angled herself closer so he could hear her over the screech of violins. Against his will, his eyes dropped to her bodice.

Fenedhis, he could see all the way past her cleavage to the swell of her stomach beneath.

Fenris squeezed his eyes shut.

“I know,” she said into his ear, “It’s all very touching. I’m genuinely shocked I haven’t heard you laughing at the thing since that awful bit where they drank out of the boot. Shameless.”

“Shameless,” Fenris repeated, his voice rough even to his own ears, “I couldn’t agree more.”

But—time passed, and things between them changed. He grew closer to her, then too close, botched things horribly, and for a long time kept a very, very careful distance between them.

A distance he could not hold when she’d been near-gutted at the Arishok’s hands.

Fenris had seen her, briefly, dead in her bed at the manor; he had seen her brought back by Anders’ hands and luck alone. He wondered often now if he would ever forget watching her face go lax and bloodless, the way her chest had refused to rise with breath, in the very bed where they’d lain together. There was nothing he could do—he was not a healer—but he could be there when she finally sat up under her own power, when she could at last be helped from the bed to take a turn about the room.

When, not two weeks later, she’d insisted on strapping herself into this ridiculous dress and dragging herself to some absurd gala at the Viscount’s Keep.

“Stop being so grumpy,” Hawke panted now, one arm slung over his shoulder, “It could have happened to anyone.”

Fenris clenched his jaw until he felt the muscle jump, shooting her a scathing look. Her dress was too red to see how bad the bleeding was. Still, he knew it must be bad; he’d felt the tacky blood seeping through the structured bodice when he’d picked her up. He was certain the wound had not improved while he hurried back across Hightown to the manor.

“Oh,” Maria—no, Hawke, he would call her Hawke—said, chagrin coloring her tone, “I understand.”

“Do you?” Fenris said through his teeth. She hadn’t understood when they’d taken turns convincing her not to go to this party in the first place. He’d be surprised if she understood now, even after she’d ripped her stitches open dancing; she was stubborn like that.

They rounded the corner at a jog, the lantern beside her door coming into view at long last. The walk was not long, but he felt as if he’d been walking for hours. It bothered him beyond words to know that his speed might determine how well she came out of this absurd situation.

“Yes,” she said, and Fenris kicked the door twice instead of knocking.

“It’s alright,” she said, hissing between her teeth when he kicked the door again and jostled her, “I can have the dress cleaned. It’ll be good as new.”

Fenris, who’d been listening for footsteps on the other side of the door, stared down at her incredulously. Hawke blinked up at him, her eyes guileless.

“But,” she said, “It’s okay to cry, really. I won’t tell anyone. It is a really, really good dress.”

He would gladly throw it in the fire if it would keep her from doing something this foolish again. Fenris wisely chose to ignore her and kicked the door again just as it opened, connecting with Anders’ shin instead of wood.

“Ow! Watch it,” the mage said, scowling, but immediately refocused his attention on Hawke.

“What is it?” he said, “Bring her in, quickly.”

“Anders!” Hawke said, but there was an awful thickness to her voice that belied the cheer in it, “You know, I was thinking this thing wasn’t quite red enough, so I thought I ought to add a bit more dye. You know—ah!—for…aesthetic’s sake.”

Fenris carried her up the stairs, abruptly grateful for the amount of time that he spent hauling a greatsword around and wielding it in combat. Such things had given him arms strong enough to carry her home, had allowed him to ensure she was not stranded amongst strangers in her moment of weakness. She had not even asked him to do this; she’d only told him to go fetch Anders for her. What might have become of her if he’d left her behind, wounded or incapacitated in that den of wolves?

He lay her down on her bed now, careful not to drop her too suddenly. Hawke grimaced anyway, then propped herself on one elbow.

“Take it off, please; cut the strings if you must, but leave the thing intact. It did cost a fortune, it’d be a waste to ruin it now.”

Fenris reached for her, then drew back, casting an agonized look at the mage. Anders rolled his eyes and pulled a small knife from his pocket.

“I’ve got it,” he said, “You and your vanity, Hawke.”

“Yes,” she said, her face tightening sharply when Anders tugged on the ties at her back, “V-vanity.”

There was little Fenris could do here but get in the way; it would go faster if he left them to it. He took a step back, abruptly aware of her blood on his hands, but he paused when Maria reached for him.

“Wait,” she said, panting, “Wait. Stay.”

Anders made an indeterminate noise at her back, not quite an objection, and Fenris narrowed his eyes. Her hand still hung in the air between them, beseeching.

It was a lost cause; they both knew that. Even so, he could not leave her, for it felt worse to leave than it did to linger. Fenris inclined his head to her, then settled against the wall with his arms folded over his chest. Hawke glanced at him periodically, as if unsure he was still there, and he met her eyes steadily every time.

A lost cause; but he stayed with her that day, and the days that followed, until years had gone by and a peace settled into the hole they’d left between them.

Hawke, as he knew all too well, could never abandon a lost cause. Fenris should have known that this applied to the two of them, as well.

So: here she was now, years later, drifting in and out of sleep in his bed, with not a stitch of clothing to cover her. Fenris traced the scar over her abdomen, faded to silvery-brown, raised from the surface of her skin. The mark was nearly straight, though jagged along the edges where the Arishok’s weapon had ripped back out of her.

“Hmm,” she said, snuggling more firmly against his side, “See something you like?”

“No,” Fenris said without thinking, then grimaced, “I mean—”

She dragged one eye open and glanced down, taking in his hand against the swell of her belly.

“Ah,” she said, adopting the theatrical tone she took sometimes when she was about to make one of her dramatic speeches, “Fair. It is impossible to ignore, isn’t it? Alas, it was once flawless, but its beauty is marred forever by circumstances beyond its control.”

“Hawke—” Fenris began, frowning, but she was still talking.

“It’s alright to cry about it, you know,” she said, and he groaned, letting his head fall back against the pillow, “I won’t tell anyone. I am certain you must grieve the memory of how it used to—”

Fenris took the fastest road to ending this conversation and darted forward, catching her lips mid-word and cutting off the end of the sentence. He’d already heard enough, anyway; sometimes her joking danced far too close to her true thoughts for his comfort, and this was certainly one of those times. If he didn’t stop her now, she could go on for half an hour, and he’d far better ideas about how he’d like to spend that time.

“Nothing is marred,” he said firmly when their lips parted at last, “I thought only of how I might have made myself more useful to you, then. I do not doubt that keeping my distance made things more difficult for you.”

“Oh,” Hawke said more quietly, searching his eyes, “It’s alright. Really. And—thank you.”

“Do not speak of it,” Fenris told her, leaning his forehead against hers and adjusting himself until they were pressed too closely together to see either of their scars at all, “And—for my sake, please—find another joke to make.”

“Oh,” she said earnestly, “I’ll try my best, but no promises. I only know three jokes, you see, and it’s ever so hard to think of others.”

Fenris sighed and might have said more, but she kissed him again, half laughing against his lips. Suddenly, there were far better things to do than try to pry her from her mischief.

And—here they were at last, the many years tucked neatly in their wake, fighting side by side on the Wounded Coast again. Time had altered both of them almost beyond recognition; he could not have known in those early days that six years later they may yet return to this place as lovers rather than the reluctant allies they’d once been.

He could not have predicted that watching her fall in battle would hurt him far more than the broken leg once had.

“I will not allow it,” Fenris growled, and raised the blade she’d given him for a blow that would have felled a dragon. The battle had been fairly routine for them until that moment, but now he threw himself into it with renewed ferocity. These bandits had been an obstacle before, a task they’d needed to complete, but now they had hurt his Hawke. More, they were keeping him from her side when she needed him; that, too, was something Fenris would not allow.

When at last their foes had fallen and the others began to pick through their pockets, Fenris strode back to Maria and tucked his hand beneath her neck.

“Hawke,” he said roughly, smoothing her black curls away from her forehead.

Blood had stuck them to her skin; it would be a task to get it all out later. He knew now exactly how onerous that could be; though he would never have told anyone else, he took great pleasure in the quiet intimacy of bathing together. There was a simplicity and serenity to going to her home together, making sure both of them were well and whole, and cleaning the day off before they read or ate or lay together.

These days, Fenris was often the one who would rinse her curls, comb out anything tangled there, and ensure that she went to bed clean and safe and well. Maria could do these things for herself; he knew that well. But it was a pleasure and a privilege to do them for her instead, after so many years of denying both of them even the smallest of touches.

Not that any of that mattered when she was lying so still in his arms.

Maria was not even unconscious; just dazed, blinking up at the dull sky. He didn’t like the way her eyes looked, the unfocused way they wandered past his face to the clouds. After a moment, she took a sharp breath and parted her lips.

“Fenris?” she said.

He frowned and leaned closer. Was she injured more gravely than he’d thought? Did she need—

“It’s okay to cry, you know,” she said, her voice piteous, her eyes round and entreating, “I won’t tell anyone if you do.”

“Hawke,” he said roughly, and dipped his head to kiss her forehead over and over, speaking in between each touch, “You utter fool.”

“No,” she said.

Fenris didn’t much care that he was getting her blood on his mouth—only that she was well enough to make her awful jokes again. His heart, which had been hammering uselessly against his ribs, began to settle down at last.

“I’m your fool,” Maria finished triumphantly. Fenris huffed.

“As you say,” he murmured, and sat back to offer her a potion from his belt, “Drink this and stop your joking.”

“Never,” she said with a smile, and drank it down.

Fenris held her until she could rise on her own. Even then, the touch lingered, their fingers brushing but not quite tangled together.

“You are certain you’re well?” he said, frowning when she shifted and winced.

“Oh, of course,” she said, “You worry too much. I’m not all that delicate, you know.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes at her, eyeing the healing wound on her shoulder.

“Let’s go,” Hawke laughed, “I’ll let you check me over when we get home. We should move on.”

She was right; they would be easy prey from some other group of bandits if they lingered too long. Even so, he kept pace with her until they reached the other two, their fingers linked as long as possible.

Neither of them really wanted to let go.

Slaves learned early to keep their emotions contained.

That was what Fenris had told her, if not in so many words. Maria had grown to be good at listening to what he didn’t say as much as what he told her. Fenris never lied to her, but he often chose to omit particulars. What he left out, she guessed for herself, and it painted a bleak picture—not that she’d ever supposed otherwise. The brutality of his early life was beyond her understanding. The gentleness he showed her despite it all was not.

A slave did not weep where others could see; a slave did not have a family—not one they would be allowed to keep, at least.

But Fenris was not a slave.

The past few days had been long and she was still exhausted, but Maria had enough presence of mind to watch him at the bedside now. This was—this was something she would engrave in stone if she could, something she wished she could save forever.

Her love sat in the wooden rocking chair to her right, his bare feet braced on the matching foot rest. Their son was cradled in his lap, and the hand he’d tucked behind the infant’s head for support looked huge in comparison. His lovely green eyes were fixed on the babe now, a quiet smile curling the corner of his mouth, and his left forefinger was clasped firmly by much smaller hand.

Impossible as she may have once thought it, tears streaked down Fenris’s cheeks. They fell in unchecked droplets to darken his soft linen shirt, as if he didn’t notice that he was crying at all.

Hawke had seen infants before—she’d been old enough when the twins were born to recall what it was like—but she’d forgotten the indeterminate vagueness babies had, as if they could be anything at all, as if nothing was decided for them yet. What a thing to think about—that they had made the little fellow together, woven of love and time, and now he could be just about anything. The whole world lay before him still, and the two of them would guard this little corner of it for him until he was ready to set out for himself.

There would be no child safer or more loved in all of Thedas than their son. Watching Fenris with him now, she’d never been more certain of anything in her life.

It’s alright to cry, she thought, watching them, but she held the words on her tongue instead of speaking them aloud. Fenris did not need her to lighten this moment for him, for whatever pain he might feel at the newness of this was surely outweighed by the joy she saw in his eyes.

“Fenris?” she said instead, and he slowly dragged his eyes from their child to look at her.

“Yes? Do you need something?”

His voice was uncharacteristically thick with emotion, but he watched her with that same focus he’d always had. It would be silly to tell him all of it in a rush now: that she was endlessly grateful he’d found her, that he was free and here, still at her side, that he already loved their child with all of his heart, or that she thought he was even more handsome with a babe in his arms. It would be too much right now—and didn’t get the heart of things at all, did it? No. She would keep it simple instead.

“Thank you,” Hawke said, smiling at him and shifting more comfortably into her pile of pillows.

His forehead creased in confusion, but his eyes held hers. His hair was mussed, and there were deep circles under his eyes. The birth had been long, and he’d been by her side for all of it. He must be exhausted. Even so, Maria thought he’d never looked more lovely to her than he did just then, cradling their son with the utmost delicacy and care, tears streaking down his cheeks and catching the sunlight through the open window.

It’s alright to cry. I won’t tell anyone.

She didn’t need to tell him; he already knew his secrets were safe with her.

Fenris didn’t ask her what her thanks was for, nor what thoughts had led her to speak. Instead, he said simply:

“Always.”

Always—yes, she thought as she began to drift off to sleep, still smiling, I like the sound of always.