"What's on your mind?"
Hawke was looking at Fenris intently from where she sat with their son, Marcus, a few seats down on the other side of the long dining table. Her question was almost drowned out by the conversation that filled the Great Hall and echoed off its vaulted ceiling.
He knew what he wanted to say, but this was not the right time or place for it.
Fenris shook his head and gave his mutton stew an aimless stir. "I will tell you later."
"Sure, love." Hawke smiled, a slight curve of her lips, then turned to wipe a trail of stew and breadcrumbs from Marcus' face and rejoin a debate with the pair of scouts seated to her right.
The night air was brisk and carried the scent of arbor blessing. Fenris and Hawke walked back to their room with Marcus skipping along ahead of them, singing a tuneless song to himself. As they rounded a corner in the arcade facing the garden, he stopped, as if transfixed by a sudden idea, and ran back.
"Do ravens eat cake?"
"Oh?" replied Hawke, as they kept walking. "Well, they eat meat, mostly, and fruits, and nuts."
"Do they eat spice cake?" Marcus had eaten half a slice at dinner. It had clearly made an impression on him.
"I don't know. Why don't we ask Leliana tomorrow?"
Marcus looked up at Fenris. "Daddy, you said ravens eat lots of things."
So he remembered what he'd taught him last week in the rookery. Good. "Yes, they do, but we have to ask their keepers first before feeding them. They might not agree."
"But cake is nice! I want to give them a present."
"That's very generous of you, sweetheart," said Hawke. "It's just that not everyone wants and needs the same things as you do. The ravens need to have enough energy to fly a very long way. Can you imagine how far it is to Nevarra? Could you fly there on cake crumbs?"
Marcus shook his head.
"You have to think very carefully about other people when you give them things, not just about what you think would be nice for yourself."
He considered this for a moment.
"Baron Plucky wants to bite people. But he likes playing with string. He won't bite people if he's got a string."
He seemed to be saying this to himself more than to his parents, since he ran up to the stairs without waiting for a reply, while making cawing noises.
"Strange child," said Hawke, fondly. Then she noticed Fenris' deadpan expression. "Oh, don't give me that. He's yours, too."
Once they returned to their room, Hawke and Fenris helped Marcus clean his teeth and change into the oversized nightshirt he was meant to grow into. Behind the divider, beyond Fenris' view, Hawke sat by his bedside and narrated another adventure of the Black Fox as he giggled and exclaimed in disbelief. Fenris listened as he sorted through the scattered writing supplies that had been neglected these past few days. A salt-stained packet from Isabela that had contained letters for both himself and Hawke and for Marcus, with much tamer drawings on one than on the other. Unfinished correspondence from him to Aveline and Hawke to Merrill - those would have to wait. He folded and slid the letters upright between two of the books that lined the back of the desk.
He heard Marcus say good night, Hawke's reply and kiss, and the rustle of legs kicking beneath a heavy quilt. It looked to be one of those nights when no bedtime would be too late for Marcus. Fenris had already lit a candle, squat and melted into a caldera around the wick, and left it in a dish on the floor next to Marcus' bed. Both to allay his fear of the dark and to provide him with enough light to make shadow puppets on the ceiling.
"So, where to, love?"
"Hmm?" Fenris glanced up and made eye contact.
Hawke was now idly tapping one of the short posts at the end of their bed. Her other hand rested on the curve of her belly, which was covered by a loose dress and a long jacket. She had said she'd chosen the jacket for its ability to flap dramatically in the breeze, which occurred often when they climbed the battlements to watch the clouds at sunset and the constellations in the night sky.
"Thought you wanted to tell me something."
Ah. Yes. That.
"We could go for a walk," she went on, "or what about the Herald's Rest? I'm still a bit hungry, to be honest. Could go for another bite."
"I have no preference. As long as we're somewhere quiet."
"That can be arranged." She squeezed his shoulder and crossed to the door.
Fenris continued adjusting the box of quills and ink until it was parallel to the books. He waited until his mind was clear, then went to join Hawke outside.
The Herald's Rest was full most nights since the Inquisition had returned from Halamshiral. Fenris had to excuse himself through the crowd waiting for their drinks in order to get to the bar, where he ordered two cold barley teas and a plate of whatever was available. After finding an unoccupied stretch of wall and bracing one foot against it, not in the mood to strike up a conversation with anyone, he listened to Maryden warming up with Hawke, who had retrieved her lute from a trunk and was sitting next to her. They burst into laughter over a joke Fenris couldn't make out. He turned his head and saw Maryden reach across to tune a few of Hawke's strings.
Eventually, Cabot called out Fenris' name and slid a plate and two mugs down the length of the bar. He gathered them up and made his way over to Hawke. He caught her eye; she nodded and excused herself. The first few notes of "Rise" floated upward as they climbed the stairs to the second floor of the tavern.
There was a game of diamondback underway at one of the tables near Sera's room. She was joined by Krem, Varric, and Cole. Judging by the piles of loose change, Krem was ahead, with Varric close behind him.
Hawke waved hello and sidled over to them, still carrying her lute. "Got them again, Krem?"
"Fourth night this week," he said, chuckling. "I have some real luck going here. Either that, or-"
"Yeah, all right, Whomp Mallet. Not losing my touch. Watch me," said Sera. She kept her narrowed eyes trained on the pairs of cards and bets laid out on the table.
"Evening, everyone." Fenris greeted the group as he passed by. There was an empty table near the far corner that he wanted to claim before anyone else could.
"Hey, Fenris. Joining us for the next round?" asked Varric, an arm slung over the back of his chair. Hawke was leaning an elbow on the backrest, as well, as if she were prepared to hear him answer with a "yes" and was already starting to settle in. Perhaps she thought he would only be ready to speak his mind after a round of cards and easy laughter had relaxed the tension strung through him.
He felt a prickle of irritation at Hawke; he had never felt pitied by her, but there were times when he wished she would think less about what he might need. When he wished she would leave him be - he told her as much - and face her own inner gloom rather than plaster it over. She had been taking better care of herself since her return from Weisshaupt, though, and had let him help her more often. Fenris told himself that he should focus on that.
"Thank you," he said, "but no. Not tonight." He cleared his throat. "I... must be going."
Varric shifted back to his cards with a shrug. "We've got space here if you change your mind."
Fenris departed to the sound of banter between Sera, Varric, and Krem, and Cole saying something to Hawke in an anxious tone. Or perhaps he was addressing Krem. By then, Fenris was too far away to tell.
The empty table was in front of a window, with benches rather than chairs on either side of it. Fenris crumbled a piece of bread between his fingers and sank into his thoughts, staring at the waxing moon and stars that shone bright between the clouds.
Hawke joined him a short while later. She eased herself onto the seat across from him, setting her lute down beside her. Her face and her dark waves and curls, tied back by a strip of patterned cloth, were warmed by the golden glow of candlelight.
"Thanks, Fen. Looks delicious." She cut a thick wedge of pear and topped it with smoked cheese, then bit in with a satisfied moan. Fenris had never known her to eat with anything but gusto, unless she was ill. Her current state had only intensified that.
"So, I don't imagine you heard what Cole just said." Hawke was now hovering over the bread that had been casually tossed onto the platter. She selected a seed-crusted roll and broke it apart so she could fill it with more slices of pear and cheese.
"No, I did not." Fenris took an apple for himself. Crisp, and very sweet.
"Something about a bird," said Hawke, slowly. "All reds and blues against a deep green. Nobody else knew what he meant by it."
"Seheron." Fenris glanced at Hawke, then looked away.
He hated it when Cole stepped into his mind like that.
Sometimes he found memories - feelings - that Fenris had not even realized were there. They had not yet surfaced. Cole plucked them from where they drifted, just below the waterline, and handed them to him like gasping, slapping fish, begging to be thrown back.
Hawke had stopped eating. "I thought so."
"I was no older than Marcus is now. Varania and I ran into the jungle after a parrot we had been keeping until its wing healed. I fell and scraped my knees on a tree root, and as I picked myself up, I saw the parrot gliding above us in the highest reaches of the canopy, before it disappeared." Fenris rolled his tea mug back and forth as he spoke.
"It must have been beautiful."
"Yes. It was. I cried. I don't know whether it was because of the injury or the bird."
He took a bite of the apple and chewed and swallowed before he spoke again. It bought him time to think.
"It's already fading from my mind. They all are. The memories return with such intensity, and then they begin to change shape when I think of them, and when I don't. Just the same as all the others."
Hawke watched his expression and waited before speaking. "We could ask Cole to find another way. He cares about you, Fen. He thinks he's helping."
"I suppose…" Fenris trailed off, staring out through the window again. "He might be. I can't say. I'll speak with him about it myself."
Fenris bit his lip. He drank a long gulp of tea and stared down at a dark, smoothed knot in the wood of the table.
"All right, make room." Hawke began to push herself into a standing position, unable to hide the amount of effort it took. She had suffered from back pain for the past month despite her and the other medics' use of healing magic and herbs. The relief was temporary at best, like the hot compresses Fenris applied for her several times a day.
"Wait. Let me." He got up and rounded the table to sit beside her. A string twanged against his fingers as he placed her lute on the table, where it sat like an aged tortoise with a shell scarred by claws and rough surf.
Hawke took his hand in hers and stroked the outer edge of it with her thumb. Neither of them said anything for some time.
"It's tomorrow, isn't it?" said Hawke, finally. "That's what you wanted to talk about."
Fenris answered with a low hum.
They had received a letter four days ago about his mother, Lusia. Similar letters had arrived over the past few months, ever since they had sent the one asking her to come live with them, each word painstakingly chosen. A short message from her, in the handwriting of one of Leliana's agents, saying that her affairs were in order and she would be leaving the next day with what was by all appearances a diplomatic convoy to Nevarra. A note from a second Inquisition agent reporting that she had disembarked at Jader and refused to follow the plan and stay there until the war ended. She was demanding to see her son. She would be at the army camp near Skyhold within a week.
There was much he had meant to say at dinner, but as Fenris opened his mouth now, the words evaporated on his tongue. He realized he and Hawke had already resolved half of it when they'd discussed the matter in these past weeks, and the other half was the same pointless worries, diminished but still present, that neither Hawke nor anyone else would be able to assuage.
His reply, when it came, was simple. "I have tried not to think too much on it, and failed. There's little we can do to prepare that we haven't already done."
They had been allocated another empty guest room down the veranda. A bed with fresh sheets and blankets, a clothes chest, a desk and chair. Fenris had swept the floor and cleaned the cobwebs out of the corners earlier in the day. Almost to an obsessive degree. An old habit. The few rooms he had used in the Hightown mansion had been cleanest whenever his mind was ill at ease.
Hawke nodded. "Best welcome we can give. I'm coming with you, by the way."
Fenris' brow furrowed. "Hawke. You're in-"
"Pardon me, serah," she said, letting go of his hand and retrieving her food from the plate. "But I'm pretty sure I'm the best judge of that. It's an hour there and back. I can manage it." She took a bite of the stuffed bread.
"I..." He was at a loss.
Hawke covered her mouth as she spoke, to avoid a spray of crumbs. "Don't worry about me, love. I want to be there. I'll do what it takes."
"...all right."
She smiled at him through closed lips. Then a shadow of concern crossed her face. She swallowed.
"That is, unless you don't-"
"I do," said Fenris. "I want you there. And Marcus."
Fenris tended not to show affection toward Hawke in public spaces. Although Hawke was far less private than him by nature, she had told him she understood why he felt the way he did. What was between them, how he felt toward her and how he wished to express it, was not meant for others' eyes, regardless of the nature of their gaze.
They were unlikely to have an audience now, at least. Here, on the second floor of the Herald's Rest, the other patrons' eyes were trained on each other, on mugs of bad ale, on the words and images they were carving into wooden surfaces with daggers, on what might be winning pairs of cards.
Before he could change his mind, Fenris leaned over and kissed Hawke on the cheek. She breathed in with a small, sharp noise of surprise.
A whisper beside her ear. Her lips pressing gently against his before he sat back.
"Whatever comes of this," he said, "I know that it was the right choice. I have found happiness now, with who I am and what we have together. My mother will see this."
Fenris slept poorly that night. He woke in the deepest hour and sat on the edge of the bed, chin in hand.
In a small room off the arcade that faced the garden, he entered the shrine to Andraste and lit a candle by the light of the moon. The stone floor was cool against the bare soles of his feet. He knelt and emptied his mind of all but a few chosen words and the feelings for which there were none.
When he returned, taking off his shirt and climbing back into bed, Hawke stirred beside him. She murmured his name and traced a warm, callused hand down his lower back until it came to rest on his hip. Her magic left a pleasant sensation in the wake of her touch, along the glowing lines of his lyrium markings; a gesture and response that held years of trust and intimacy. He lay down, with the swell of her stomach between them, and they spoke with the strange mixture of vagueness and clarity that comes late at night.
Fenris tried to recall what he could of that exchange when they rose with the sun to wake Marcus and prepare for the day ahead of them. He was unsure whether Hawke remembered any of it. Somehow he felt that the answer was irrelevant. He knew they had meant what they said.
A big thank you to kadaransmuggler and CelticGrace for beta reading!
This is going to be a three-chapter story. See you next week!