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He slowly laces his fingers with hers, relishing the way her skin feels against his. Her hand is not smooth or soft the way a woman's hand ought to be - or at least according to Tevinter custom. Instead, he feels the roughness of her skin, the calloused fingers and knuckles, and the hard grooves that etch across her palm.
Her hand squeezes his in reply. Fenris can't quite believe it; not that she is holding his hand - though admittedly the first time they did, he was - but how…gentle she is. He's seen her in battle - he's fairly certain that she's the only mage to ever prefer brawling to magic - and the very hands that hold his, only can confirm the opposite what he has known his whole life.
Love is a weakness, he remembers Danarius telling him one summer's day as he holds the wife of one of his dissenters by the throat, savouring the way her life drains out of her, Do well to remember that, won't you?
Live or die, Fenris remembers bitterly. Love has no place in survival, that much Danarius has taught him. Power and will can take you the whole mile and beyond. After all, Tevinter is evidence enough.
And yet…
He turns to face Hawke, a smile graces her lips, and she tugs him along the crowded streets. These hands that are so tainted by magic…are not. Because he knows that her touch is not like the Magisters. Because Fenris knows that despite how battle-hardened and how much blood her hands have spilled, she is Hawke. His Hawke.
The same woman that he knows will risk her life to save the world from burning, no matter how many deaths will wear on her soul. The same woman that he knows is as fragile as she is indomitable - the scars that litter her are proof of this. The same woman that he will fight for, until the end of days because…
Because he loves her.
Even with all the uncertainty and turmoil, Hawke is the only constant, as if all directions would point to her: the harbor in this storm. He had always wanted a home, somewhere to call his, but never in his life would he imagine that home is not a where but a who.
Her hand fidgets slightly in his, calling him out of his thoughts. "Fenris," she says, and her brows furrow slightly, "Is something the matter? You look broodier than the usual."
"Just thinking Hawke."
"About?"
He pauses for a moment, unsure of how to respond. But he squeezes her hand back, and that is answer enough for the both of them.