I wrote this for @3jarsofbees during a Valentines-day exchange where the IDEA was to write or draw something disgustingly romantic. But of course, anything involving this particular Hawke and his elven paramour can never go exactly right, and 3jarsofbees fortunately agreed with me 100 percent. I’m still particularly fond of the final image I conveyed.
The warmth of the sun tickled against Hawke’s nose as he looked over the expanse of ocean and sand of the Wounded Coast. The ocean breeze tussled his hair and wafted the sounds and smells of ocean life toward him in a pleasant assault. The salt in the air mixed with the pungent aromas of sea foam and fish as he took in a long breath. Gulls cawed in the distance as gentle waves crashed on the sandy beach and into jagged rocks.
As a farm boy raised as far inland as one could live in Ferelden, Hawke had a deep (get it?) fascination with the sea, even after so many years living in Kirkwall with its famous port. If the boat ride from Gwarden to Kirkwall hadn’t been so overstuffed with tragedy and people, he might have enjoyed himself. He even had to hide a smile every time he took a ferry to the Gallows, although that hidden grin always died on its own by the time he reached the island. Hell, Hawke sometimes swore that the clouds looked lighter and fluffier on the ocean than they ever did over land. There was just something so magical about this place, and the boundaries between land and water.
Speaking of magical…
Was there any question that he’d find an excuse to bring Fenris here? He had no real occasion, other than the fact that neither of them had any pressing quests, concerns, or business ventures to deal with in the foreseeable future. The trail of Fenris’s master had gone cold yet again, and Hawke’s newfound wealth and fame kept him from having to seek work with the petty lowlifes he used to know. The Qunari were long gone from the city, and the Templars seemed content with staying out of everyone’s business for once.
All in all, for Hawke and his friends, life was good. And he thought he could celebrate such a rare change in fortunes.
Hethoughthe and Fenris would be alone on this secluded area of beach.
HeTHOUGHT that, after what happened with mother, he had seen the last of crazy blood mages and their horrible misuse of magic.
Was the universe cursed, or did it just have a vendetta for people with the last name Hawke?
“Templar spies! They’ve found us, brothers and sisters!” A woman wearing tattered robes and sporting a heavily scarred face screamed as she jumped up from behind the shattered remains of a rowboat and plunged a knife into her open palm.
“Aw, come on, are you serious? No, wait, you don’t…” Anything Hawke would have said in retort was cut off as the shrill woman’s cry mixed with the familiar rumble of magic gone awry. He let his words fall into a frustrated hiss.
To his side, Fenris grumbled and reached for his impressive sword. “Two hours ago, you told me: ’Let’s go visit the coast, Fenris. I swear we’ll be totally alone all afternoon. I found this spot just off the trail that would be perfect.’ Two hours, Hawke. And look what you made us step in.” His impression needed work, but the sour clipped tones dripped with enough sarcasm to fill the ocean at their side.
“Come on, don’t be like that. This is plenty romantic.” The human responded as he reached over his shoulders, where his trusty daggers were sheathed. Even though he had planned for this to be a relaxing, private, and probably very intimate encounter between the two of them, neither men had left Kirkwall unarmed. There had just been too many instances of these things happening for them to assume they wouldn’t need their weapons.
Not long after the first crazy lady began summoning her own blood in some kind of magical ritual, other ragged and desperate mages crawled out from behind rocks, popped up from a sandy trapdoor, and he swore one of them appeared out of nowhere and did a neat three-point landing on the beach. The lot of them all had weapons, mostly clubs and short knives, but a few had full staves and dangerously long daggers.
“Hey, remember that time I took you to the Dwarven market at sundown?” Hawke said as he took a leaping step forward and used the flat of his blade to deflect a poorly-thrown rock.
Fenris rushed forward past Hawke, the elf’s muscles rippling as he heaved his greatsword over his head and into the body of a woefully unprepared mage. Blood flew everywhere as he finished his attack. “The Dwarf part of hightown is not ‘romantic’, either.”
“No, but hear me out. Remember that dwarven band that I tried to hire when we were there?”
“The one with the large horns, or the one with the drums?” Fenris whirled his body around in a graceful arc, letting much of his first victim’s blood slide off the blade, before he used its momentum to drag him around and into the face of another target.
Not to be outdone, Hawke bounced off the spiked shoulders of Fenris’ armor, and brought his weapons down into the collarbones of a mage. The problem with blood mages was that you had to work quickly, before all their gross fluids got loose and shit got crazy. The effort of sliding his daggers into the mage’s body made Hawke’s arms hurt, and he dismayed at the plethora of targets still around the pair.
“Drums.”
“What about them?”
“What would you have said if I managed to finally get their services, and they were waiting for us up the road?” That part was also a sad truth. Yesterday, he had indeed hired a dwarven band to relocate to his spot on the beach, where they would briefly serenade the lovers before heading back to town, well paid for their efforts.
Fenris jabbed forward with his weapon, and barely deflected a desperate stab from a mage and his rusted, nasty knife. His leg muscles rippled as he followed through with a great cleave, ending the threat before the mage got to use any magic. Hawke watched each movement with rapt fascination, even though the battle around them had been thoroughly joined.
“I’d say you were a fool and an idiot. Why would they drag all those drums out here?”
“Money does a lot of things.” Hawke grinned as he broke into another jog, took four long steps, then flattened his body into the soft wet sand below him. The wet sand allowed him to slide several paces-worth of distance, right between the legs of a mage who thankfully wore trousers instead of a robe. His daggers did quick work of the apostate.
“I’d rather you spend that fortune of yours on more sensible things.”
“And I’d rather spend it on you.”
In response, Fenris grumbled something in Tevene, rather than dignify Hawke’s words with a phrase in the common tongue. The human returned to his feet and winked at the elf, his lips curling into a grin.
Unfortunately for the two experienced fighters, their surprising aggression wore off at that moment, and Hawke felt Fenris’s spiked gauntlet dig into his shoulder then shove him to the left as a bolt of lightning arced between them. Hawke hit the sand yet again as his vision darkened, stunned by the magical power directed his way.
“Okay.” Hawke groaned as he regained his composure. He knew he didn’t have very long before one of the surviving mages took advantage of his downed position and smote him down with yet more magic. He had to get on his feet NOW. “You’ve convinced me. No more beach trips.”
When his head stopped spinning, Hawke forced his eyes open and saw Fenris rising to his feet as well, using the sword, driven point-first into the ground, as a means to brace himself. “I don’t know. This is rather bracing.”
“Oh stop being such a contrarian! I hate when you do that!” Hawke teased as he mirrored his lover’s movements. In a heartbeat, the two of them were back in fighting form, back to back with each other, ready to start the next round.
“You’d hate it more if I stopped.”
“You know what…” Hawke turned his head, but his retort died on his lips. “You’re right. In fact, I demand you be more contrarian from now on.”
“If that’s the case, I’ll stop right now.”
“Oh for the love of…”
Fenris smirked a beautiful little grin. “I believe that I just, in your words, gotcha.”
“Maker above, would the two of you SHUT UP!?” Scarface the mage shouted as she approached the pair at a walking pace, all around her, the survivors of her group converged as well, their weapons held at the ready, but their faces showing grim concern. A crimson sphere hovered above her open palm, drawing liquid out of the self-inflicted wound with each passing second, growing larger and larger. Hawke swore he also saw it starting to glow. “Here we are, trying to hide from Templar bastards like you just to stay alive, and you’re treating this like some kind of joke!”
“Well, if you had just listened to us in the first place, you would have realized that we’re not Templars.” Hawke said with as much of a diplomatic tone as he could muster, but he could not hide the frustrated disbelief that peppered every word. A bad habit that he didn’t feel like correcting.
“Swords, armor, no magic? You may not be part of ‘em, but you definitely report to them. Everybody in this town does.”
“First off, these are not swords, you festering flabby meat flap!” Hawke shouted. “These are handcrafted daggers. Can you say that word? DAG-GERS!? Made just for me in gratitude for my services to Kirkwall. Or let me guess, you have no idea what those words mean, either.” He held his weapons forward for emphasis, letting some of the blood that had coated the blades drip onto the sand below.
“Hawke.” Fenris whispered. “Is it wise to antagonize a mage with an orb of blood in her hands?”
“Shut up. This is my date they’ve ruined, and I have every right to voice my displeasure!”
Just to show that my height headcanon for Denmark is 192 cm, and that next to Prussia and America (both 1u7 canonically) he’s… Toll.. (Also for reference for myself when I inevitably draw them all in the same pictuee at some point, it’s nice to have a height chart)
