There's music, drifting through the still and silent air of the mansion. Music that shouldn't be there.
It's a year to the day since Garrett held his...since Garrett lost his mother. The date is unremarkable to anyone else in Kirkwall, likely to any in the entirety of Thedas, but to Garrett it's as unmistakable and inescapable as birthdays and festivals and solstice celebrations. It's like there's an internal clock that's been ticking down the seconds, and the closer it came to that day, the louder and more infernal the ticking's become, until it's all he can do to keep his eyes open and his head on his shoulders against the noise of it.
He feels so tense, so wound up and tight and completely off balance that if he so much as opens his mouth, he fears he might explode from the inside out, shake apart into a million tiny pieces. So he's given Orana the day off, for which she was grateful, and Sandal and Bodahn as well. Sandal seemed nonplussed, as ever, but Bodahn hadn't argued, and Garrett would have found that odd for the subservient dwarf if it wasn't for the sadness so obviously present in his eyes. He missed Leandra, too.
So there should be no one in the mansion, no one to speak in a cry or in a whisper, no one to ask him questions like how he's feeling or how he's holding up or if he wants to talk about it which he bloody well does not, and yet someone, somewhere, is playing a lute. It's not a familiar melody; but it's soothing, nonetheless.
He makes very little noise as he sheds his armour in the front hall, taking his time with the buckles and clasps and setting each piece reverently on the stand. He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it back to volume after being clamped down under the hood he wore, and straightens the worn, sweat-stained tunic. The song's changed, something that begs for a singer, he thinks-a simple accompaniment, chords strummed in easy rhythm-but there is no voice, just the sound of the lute.
He doesn't often use a dagger, preferring to use the force of his magic and the sweep of his staff to deal with foes, but he does keep one ready for domestic disturbances, and he slides it out of the sheath as he pads quietly to the stairs. The carpet is soft under his feet, and muffles the sound of his footsteps. The music continues, soft, uninterrupted.
The door of his mother's room is locked, still, the way it's been since her death. Bodahn has the only other key, going in once a month to dust, to clean away the grime and mildew and ensure her room hasn't been invaded by rats. He touches very little. Garrett never goes in. He leaves that door, and it's obvious, now, that the music is coming from his own room.
Fingers splayed on the wood, he pushes it open slowly. The wrapped leather hilt of the dagger cuts into his tightly-clenched fist, in his mind, he prepares a force spell, something quick and easy to cast without being devastating. The spell dissipates, however, when he sees the shape folded into the armchair and limned by the red-gold glow of the fire in the grate. His grip on the dagger loosens.
"Fenris," he says, and is surprised at the growl in his voice, more due to disuse and emotional tension than actual anger. Still, the sound startles the elf, and he sees every line in Fenris' body tense into tightly coiled potential. The elf's eyes dart to the dagger in his hand, then back to Hawke, raising an eyebrow.
"Expecting someone else?" he asks quietly, still strumming, though the motion seems mechanical now more than musical. Garrett looks to the dagger in his hand, huffs something that only a fool would even try to call a laugh. He moves to the fireplace and sets the dagger on the mantel.
"Not expecting anyone, as a point of fact," he says.
Fenris relaxes somewhat, leaning his back once more against the high back of the plush chair. "I wondered. Your staff are conspicuous by their absence."
"I sent them home." He wants to be pleased that Fenris is there, pleased that for once the elf has come to the mansion on his own terms, instead of being asked, cajoled, persuaded. He wants to be curious about the lute in his lap, the one that is obviously Orana's and that, to his knowledge, Fenris has never touched. But over all of that is a burning, needing, pathetic desire to just be alone, and he has no idea how to voice it, even though out of anyone, Fenris is the most likely to understand.
"Do you want me to leave, as well?" Fenris asks quietly from the chair. There's a soft twang to the strings as he sets the lute aside, giving up the quiet strum. The only sound is the crackle of the fireplace, and suddenly, it's too quiet. Garrett laughs to himself.
"Yes," he answers honestly. Fenris never brooks lies, always preferring the truth be told straight and unflinching, no matter the consequence. He turns his head, looking away from the fire into the elf's eyes-he's stood, with characteristic, cat-like silence, and his luminous green eyes are closer than Garrett expected them to be.
"In my experience," Fenris says slowly, and his hands are soft and warm around Hawke's elbows, unable to reach the hands he has tucked under each armpit, "when people say they wish to be alone, it is...often the opposite of what they truly want. You may recall, Hawke, that no matter how many times I ran from you, to 'be alone'-I never turned you away when you arrived at my door."
Command me to go, and I shall.
Garrett is silent, and doesn't loosen his arms. He considers it; considers the idea of Fenris leaving, so that he can sit in silence and stare into the fire, brood, weep, cease for the next eighteen hours to be. He considers the idea of Fenris staying, the thought of comfort, closeness, even if from this brusque and standoffish creature. He feels the warmth of Fenris' hands, long fingers, and somewhat dumbly is surprised to notice that the elf's removed his gauntlets. The lute, he supposes; spiked knuckles would make it difficult to play.
He says none of this aloud, but does offer the elf a tiny half-smile he doesn't really feel, which Fenris returns with equal enthusiasm. It's a sad smile, one Garrett's seen before-too many times, by his own estimation; but this time is the first time he's seen it for anyone other than the elf himself. It's a comfort, a small one, where before it's always simply broken his heart.
"I didn't know you played."
Please stay.
Fenris nods, accepting the deflection and understanding the imploration. He releases Hawke's arms with a slight squeeze, and sits back in the armchair, taking up the lute. He bends over it, plucks at a string, twists the tuning bolt, plucks it again. "Some. It was a skill Danarius required of me. He liked to have me sit in the corner and...entertain guests."
There's very little bite to his tone, unlike every other time Hawke's heard him speak about his former master. "I don't know much about music, but...you seem good."
Fenris gives him a look and a smirk through the hair that's fallen over his face. "Very."
"And you...still play?"
He frowns, adjusts another of the strings; Garrett hears no difference but the tone makes the elf smile. "Yes. Unlike every other thing that I was made to do for the magisters, I actually enjoyed playing music. As...awkward as it is, I am at times thankful that I was forced to learn. I try to be thankful to my teacher, instead of my former master. I was taught by another slave; I suppose you could say I play in memory of her." He begins picking out a tune, something sad, Hawke thinks, punctuated by odd little phrases that trickle through the air and make his heart ache.
He settles onto the floor, crossing his legs in front of him and resting his arms and chin atop his knees. Fenris starts for a moment, and makes as though to get up, obviously feeling discomfort at Hawke sitting on the floor while he takes the plush chair-but Hawke reaches out a hand and puts it on his knee, his fingers gently massaging the cap, pressing down. Fenris settles back, looking discomfitted, and Hawke pulls his arm away.
They are silent for a long while, neither one speaking. Hawke stares into the middle distance, his gaze shifting from the carpet, to the fire, to Fenris' fingertips dancing over the strings, weaving intricate patterns among them with one hand and contorting the other in strange positions, depressing the strings in combinations to change the sound. The music, the warmth of the fire, Fenris' presence-it's comforting, strangely warm, wrapping around Hawke like a blanket that serves to muffle the noise from both outside the mansion and inside his grieving soul. Fenris plays completely unlike Orana, using notes that Garrett has never heard in combinations that sound exotic, sad, magical. The music of Tevinter, he supposes; likely the only music Fenris knew.
Some time later-he doesn't know how long, but the shadows on the ground have shifted with the passing of the sun, growing longer and deeper-Fenris clears his throat, and Hawke looks up at him. His eyes are bleary; he realizes, as he blinks them at the elf, that he has allowed himself to weep after all. The music stops, and it takes less time than he might have expected for the elf to lay the lute aside and slide from the chair, to his knees in front of Hawke's curled body. "Oh, Hawke," he murmurs, reaching out a hand to touch a thumb to the trail the tears had made down one cheek. He closes his eyes.
"I...had forgotten," he whispers. "Of course you wished to be alone. Forgive me. Anniversaries, remembrances...those are more Varric's area than mine...I'm not very good at it."
"Your past is unimportant to you," Hawke replies quietly, understanding. The hand at his cheek is comforting, much as the music, and Fenris, have been. "I could not expect you to understand...lingering on things that have happened, after I have been so adamant that you move on from your own-"
"No," Fenris replies, his voice sharper than Garrett thinks he quite intended; his tone softens as he continues. "My past is behind me, true-but you, Hawke, are more important to me than anything. I should have remembered."
The kiss is soft and gentle, still a little strange to Garrett after the passion and aggression of their first encounters, but welcome. Fenris pulls away, and reaches for the lute, folding himself next to Garrett comfortably. He turns his head, rests his forehead against the lyrium lined shoulder. "Thank you for staying."
Fenris hums his response, and begins to play. As unfamiliar as the other melodies have been, this one is achingly, painfully familiar, and Hawke blinks rapidly in recognition. It's one of Leandra's favourites, a lullaby from Ferelden that he can remember being sung over his boyhood cot, over the cribs of his baby siblings. "I used to hear her humming to herself, when I was here alone," Fenris tells him softly, concentrating on the music, on a piece that is obviously less familiar to him than the others had been. The song is halting as he tests out chords and notes, practicing, and Garrett thinks he might be trying to make it perfect. "It always...reminded me. Of you. And now it will remind me of her."
Hawke presses a kiss to his shoulder, and is silent.
Cast your eyes to the ocean,
Cast your soul to the sea
When the dark night seems endless
Please remember me
Please remember me
Title of the work, and the embedded lyrics of the "Fereldan lullaby", are taken from Loreena McKennitt's song Dante's Prayer.