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Savage Impulses	By : TropicalFool Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 5161 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Dragon Age & all characters are owned by BioWare & EA, not me. I make no money from this story.

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That night haunted me. I couldn't sleep, I lost weight, I became more savage in battle and stopped being concerned with the morality of the jobs I accepted. No one objected except Varric and Anders, and Varric's objections were of a business nature—he was afraid that I would hurt our reputation and that the more ethical and better paying clients would shy away. It didn't matter to me, killing was now the only release I got and I needed more, whatever form it took.
Many of the motley group I had assembled over the years did question why Fenris was still with us if he caused me such distress. I had given up on the ruse that I was as sexually active as ever—I simply no longer had the energy. They could think what they would. I was obsessed and I knew it, but there seemed no cure.
He wore tokens of mine, had asked for them, but that was our only connection other than the work, the killing. There were times when I wanted to tear them from him, that simple scarlet band and the small copy of the Amell escutcheon he wore on his belt. There were times when I wanted to assemble my largest friends to hold him down while I took him. Yes, I was that driven that I considered even rape, knowing that it was despicable and that there would be no satisfaction there.
The frustration was tearing at me. My weekly visits to Sven had become double sessions. I think he preferred his normal more physical activities to my whining, but he was patient and I tipped heavily. I had developed another unexpected confident in Anders. He and I had been lovers briefly when we first met, but my brutality disturbed him and his tenderness left me cold. Despite, or possibly because of, our differences we had become fast friends. Now he was another ear to hear my laments, another shoulder to lean on.
We talked, Fenris and I. He had not refused me access to his home, although he flatly refused to come to my estate, even for formal dinners with many attendees. He talked. I yelled, screamed, begged, threw things, threatened violence, as he watched calmly and when I was worn out, I talked too. I would like to tell you that those talks were intimate and satisfying at least, but that was not the case. Although they were often personal, there was a coldly clinical quality to our discussions. He told me what little he could remember and, wanting more an excuse to be there, to see him even if forbidden touch, I told him everything of my past, in greater detail than I thought I remembered.
He was a good listener in that he paid attention always and would ask probing questions, but nothing I said appeared to move him. I spoke of the death of my father, who was, of course, a mage. In this I could understand his coldness. That he hated all mages, albeit with reason, was something I had long needed to accept if I were to be around him at all. The death of my sister, also a mage, well in that too I could accept his mildly sympathetic indifference, but when my mother was killed, when he was there with me and saw what she had become, I could no longer forgive him him apathy.
That night I followed him home, quite literally, stalking behind him, refusing to walk with him, but also refusing to let him out of my sight. When we had been there, in that warehouse, and I had laid my mother down for the last time, closing her eyes with my finger tips, it was Fenris I had gone to. I only wanted to lean on his shoulder for a moment, to feel some warmth, some touch, but he had brushed me aside, stepping back out of reach. I might have struck him then, possibly getting myself killed, except for the intervention of Anders. He could have stopped me in time with magic, but instead he simply stepped in front of Fenris and held up his hand. If it had been anyone else I would have knocked them aside, but I couldn't bring myself to hit the gentle Anders, and it brought me at least partially to my senses.
Anders then tried to speak softly to me, placed his hand on my shoulder, but I shrugged him off much as Fenris had done to me and answered only in inarticulate growls. The anger, at least, has assuaged some of the grief.
The rest of the party had the good sense to stay silent and out of my way. There was nothing to be said, nothing to be done. I would see that they got paid and I pulled Varric aside to give him the funds for the round I usually bought at the end of a job. I had no plans except to keep Fenris in sight. I would follow him that night, all night if necessary. I didn't know what I wanted of him now, or I knew all too well, but had little hope of it. All I could think of was to watch him, to see what he did, to know where he was. If he barred his door to me, I would break it down, if he hid, I would find him. It was not rational and some small part of my mind realized this, but I was under a compulsion as strong as that of any demon.
When we reached his manor, Fenris coolly worked the key and entered, leaving the door open behind him. Not once during our trek through the dark streets had he turned, but he knew I was there. I carefully closed the door, using the key he had left in the lock to assure privacy, and then, with a dark thought, I pocketed it.
He already had the wine open and poured when I entered his study, the room where he spent almost all his free time. It was one of the dark Antivan reds he favored these days and it shown like a blood ruby in the firelight. He was sitting with his back to the door, which was brave, foolish or indifferent. I couldn't be sure which, but I would have bet on the later. If I wanted to kill him, it was as good an opportunity as I was ever likely to see, but that would have been too easy for him and unsatisfying for me.
I stood behind him for many minutes, hoping to unnerve him, which was idiotic. Of all the warriors I had known, Fenris was the least likely to lose his nerve and certainly no threat from me would frighten him.
Sighing, I walked to a chair and the waiting glass of wine. Throwing my body down and throwing the alcohol down my throat I asked, "Why?"
The corners of his mouth raised. It could not properly be called a smile, but it was a very typical expression for him. He said in his sardonic voice, "You will need to be more specific, Hawke, if you want an answer."
I tightened my grip on the crystal goblet and it bent, then shattered. I continued to tense my hand around the shards until the blood flowed. The pain and the waste helped. Without a word, Fenris rose and retrieved another glass along with two more bottles. So, he was expecting a long night and he was probably right. Keeping me well oiled, dead drunk if possible, was also no doubt a good idea. He offered me nothing for my hand. I held it in front of my face, picking splinters of glass from the palm and fingers and dripping blood on his table. When I had gotten most of them, I wrapped it in my own handkerchief and clutched tightly to stem the flow.
He had poured another glass and set it in front of me. I still gulped, but a bit more slowly, and when the glass was empty he promptly refilled it. I suspected that he would continue to do so until I passed out or he ran out of wine, so this time I took a modest sip and sat the goblet down, pushing it a little ways away to remove the temptation.
The single word question had been hard enough to ask, but I closed my eyes, consciously controlling my breathing, and said, "Why of all times, why then, couldn't you have held me, touched me, let me touch you, for just a moment? It would have meant everything to me."
He stared at me with those large eyes, so wrong for his face, and said, "You know." I considered breaking another wine glass, but tightened my wounded fist until I groaned instead. Apparently this time my look was enough, because he continued. "I couldn't because I care too much, not because I care to little." He rose and started pacing, slapping furniture has he passed and occasionally pausing to pound the wall softly.
"If I were to give in that small bit, especially on a day like today, I would be lost." He walked back to the table and slammed both fists down, leaning on his arms and glaring at me. "You think this is easy for me, all of this? You think you are the only one who suffers? Bah! Self centered childish human!" He turned and began pacing again. It was the first time since our evening together (oh that it had been a whole night!) that he had shown emotion and I felt a great weight lift. It was irrational, he certainly wasn't offering me anything, but at least I knew that he cared and after such a drought it was enough, almost.
I stood now too, walking to him and placing a hand on his shoulder to stop him, to turn him towards me. He took that hand and easily threw me into the wall. A red veil came down before my eyes, composed equally of lust and anger. I felt that if I couldn't have him now I would simply tear myself apart, acquire his trick through sheer will and rip out my own heart there before him. Dying had great appeal in that moment, living much less so.
As I was gathering myself for a lunge, he said, "Hawke, stop!" I will never know what it was in his voice, but I did stop and crumpled to the floor, spent and hopeless. He walked around me and sat back down, taking up his half full wine glass and holding it to the light.
"This is foolishness," he said quietly. "Why do you persist? Why do you plague me? Why not just go on with you life? I see them every day looking at you, men who would have you gladly. Large men, handsome men, intelligent men. Why pursue me?"
I crawled to my feet so that I could bang my head against the wall. Why indeed? There was no logic to it, nothing that my mind could justify. I was miserable and apparently I was making him miserable as well. I walked to where he could see me and held my palms out, the one still seeping blood. "Love?" I asked. It was a question, I meant it as such. If this was love, then I knew why poets were so depressed.
He laughed, saying, "You don't know what the word means, and neither do I. Perhaps. Perhaps that explains this madness; nothing else seems to certainly. Go Hawke. Go home, mourn your mother and try to forget. If you want me to leave, I will. Isabella has been nagging me for months about why I stay and Anders gives me dark looks when he thinks I'm not watching. Even Varric has become twitchy around me."
I felt as if that heart that I been eager to excise a few minutes before would drop out on its own and my breath caught, choking me. When I could speak, I begged, "No. Don't go, no, never… I can't… I won't… oh please, no, not that."
He waved a hand casually, "Very well. I stay with the group. But you, now, you go. Go home, sleep. Nothing has changed."
That was my greatest fear and my greatest consolation. Nothing had changed. He would be there in the morning, untouchable, almost unmovable. It was not enough, but it was all that I had.
[I apologize for the lack of sex in this chapter. I like to write it more than you like to read it, but such are the ways of our broody elf. The tales will continue, and continue to heat up, please be assured.]
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Savage Impulses