The lyrium is his but Fenris is far from its master, and there are few reminders more constant of what he was, and how little control he still truly has than the agony the marks can cause him. He has long since learned to live with it in most of its familiar guises - a deep ache, scattered here and there with tiny pinpricks, like splinters of glass shifting in his muscles. Or the dull throb of a headache that drains all the way down his spine, seizing at his limbs and leaving his hands feeling thick and useless. He can still move just as quickly, it never is enough to alter his skill, but there is still the lingering dullness, that all his joints have swollen up and refuse to bend. It comes and goes like bad weather, whether he uses his power or no, whether he exerts himself or keeps calm, and so with the lack of other options Fenris has learned to grit his teeth and endure, and there has at least been ample chance to practice that skill.
Still, there are days that are worse than others, and it seems that today is proving to be one of those. All the more unfortunate that he is not alone, but trailing Isabela, Varric and Hawke through a street in Hightown after… what, exactly, he's not quite sure. Varric and the pirate seem to have some business with someone who - unsurprisingly - isn't home to take their call, though Isabela is quite happy to pick the locks and allow the dwarf a look at the man's bookkeeping, while she wanders off to loot the upstairs. Fenris had been brought along to be quietly threatening to whomever they might encounter - it is certainly a large part of his skill set - but an empty house means there is nothing for him to intimidate, and little else to do but lean against the wall and try to ignore the stabbing pains flaring up the back of his calves, through his thighs and biting deep into his lower back. He's tried many things, breathing exercises, meditation - praying to the Maker in a moment of desperation - but so far it has all been for nothing.
He'd thought Hawke would have joined Isabela upstairs in pillaging the rooms, though it seems she is content enough to browse through a collection of books on a nearby shelf, as idly as if she is a guest here instead of an intruder. It had been the first thing to confuse him, and concern him, how Hawke seemed to hold herself so far above her station, as if she did not even realize she had one. Whatever he had thought she was at that first moment, it was certainly not a Ferelden refugee just as poor as any other. The part of him that stood ever vigilant for danger, for betrayal had kept a close watch on her every move and gesture - and Fenris told himself it was that, and little more. If it has slowly proved to be otherwise, that was certainly easy enough to account for - Hawke is pretty, as simple as that, and he is thankfully still enough of a man to know it. For all he knew, she could very well be intended to cause just that sort of reaction, to lure him in to letting down his guard - though Danarius had never bothered to bait a trap in such a way before, had never had the patience for any kind of drawn-out, subtle game past the grinding, relentless pursuit of his churlish property.
Hawke looks up then, and smiles at him, so guileless that it simply cannot be true. The invitation in her eyes as open as always, as it ever had been with any of Danarius' party guests, when they'd reached for him with sweaty, clumsy hands, the stink of wine-soaked breath hot on his face and he'd always let his power flare then, and drunk as they were they'd still heeded the warning while his master had laughed at their fear. It might not have even mattered if he'd killed one or two of them - just another glory for Danarius, that he could keep a leash on such a dangerous pet. Fenris realizes Hawke's smile has faded to a confused frown, that some of what he is thinking must show on his face, and he drops his eyes and looks away. It is not fair, to bring that moment here, to taint her by association even if he is not sure how far to trust her.
"It will be nice to get out of the city," she says in the awkward silence, sliding the book back to join its fellows, "even if it is only to go to the Deep Roads."
"Indeed."
She raises an eyebrow. Again, that completely open expression, as if she has never had to lie, though with such a family and such a past he knows that is impossible.
"Kirkwall doesn't make you happy?"'
"Should it?"
"It was owned by Tevinter, once. Now they own nothing. You have something in common."
Varric snorts from the other room, still flipping through papers, and Fenris is grateful the dwarf will react, so he doesn't have to find a sensible reply. There is a sudden, small warmth in his chest, no match against the pain, but that doesn't mean it's not there.
"Kirkwall isn't much to look at, Hawke."
"It's a survivor." She's still looking at him, and the sun through the window is edging her in gold, and this isn't real. A trick of the light, nothing more. "Survival is always beautiful."
"You will not believe what I've found!"
Isabela appears at the top of the stairs, brandishing an object in one hand like Andraste's flaming sword, though it is pale and blunted and doesn't look at all valuable, and Fenris cannot imagine what else could impress or awe her so considerably about such an oddly shaped - and then, all at once, he can. And profoundly regrets it.
"Rivaini…" Varric groans.
Hawke's jaw has dropped a little, staring as Isabela continues to beam. "Is that supposed to be a… Qunari's…"
At times like this, Fenris wishes he could erase a few more memories. Preferably while they are happening.
"It's ceramic!" Isabela says brightly, rapping it with her knuckles. "Hollow, I guess that makes it easier to - I mean, look at the size of it. Varric, are you sure this friend of yours is capable of even leaving the house?"
Varric lets out a pained sigh, closing the last of the drawers he's been looking through. "That is more than I ever wanted to know, and yet, so much less." He steps back, a disappointed slump in his shoulders. "Sorry Hawke, looks like this was a waste of our time."
"No harm done." She says, with the slightest grimace as she looks up at Isabela descending the stair, horrific prize in hand. "Well, mostly."
Fenris isn't certain why the dwarf deigns to her leadership, but there is a lot about Hawke and her allies he does not quite understand. He'd been almost sure that she and the pirate were lovers, that perhaps they'd arrived in the city together, before learning that Isabela had met Hawke only a week or so before he'd come across them in the Alienage. The pirate flirts with him brazenly, and Hawke says nothing of it - or laughs, but there is nothing like jealousy in her gaze. Isabela flirts with Hawke as well, and she reciprocates willingly enough - they are surely close, yet the way Hawke looks at him… he'd mentioned it to Varric once, an random aside in the Hanged Man over a gifted pint, and though he'd meant it as a question, to know where things stood, the dwarf had only rolled his eyes.
"You live a hard life, elf."
It is a heady thrill, still after all this time, simply to do what he wants to do, to have choices. Battle holds the same rush of adrenaline as ever, the easy narrowing of the world into the simple destruction of his enemies, but when he is no longer fighting he is keenly aware of all the quiet spaces, the simple passing of time that makes up true freedom, his to use as he wishes. Fenris knows nothing of his time before the markings, but he cannot imagine much good could have come of those years. What value in the love of a slave, when anyone he cared for could be taken from him without warning? What possibility for a real life but a few stolen moments, and the promise that any future would see a family trapped and helpless, suffering forever in the same merciless bondage?
Now he is free, and if he wants - if he wants, he can want. Fenris has considered it, more than one brothel, more than one stranger in a bar who'd smiled and asked questions or hadn't asked questions, but he hadn't been able… couldn't cross that last divide that separated him, the distance between what he was and what he might be. So now there is this Hawke, by any measure a striking woman, and what had felt like the first worthwhile conversation he'd had in a very, very long time. It had been pleasant. It had almost been fun. It is not a real life, not yet, he is still just a fugitive lurking in the abandoned den of his enemy, waiting for what is to come, for the only conclusion he can allow - but the night he'd talked with her, he had felt like he might… like it could…
Possibilities. He'd lived without them so long, it was like water in the desert. Except that thirsty men were not afraid to drink.
"Do you suppose that's why they're all so proud of themselves?" Isabela says. "Maybe I ought to consider a Tal-Vashoth crew one of these days."
Fenris winces. "I will pay you to stop."
"Heard that before."
"Rivaini, you are not taking that thing with you."
"Aw, but I was going to give it the cutest name."
The pain has not eased off as they make their way back onto the street, and Fenris winces against the sunlight working daggers into his eyes, his neck stiff, and now he's flickering hot and cold, all the way through his body, not quite enough to make him shiver. Incredibly irritating, and when he looks over to find Hawke watching him again Fenris uses the chance to try to distract himself from the worst of it.
"You are very trusting, to be constantly surrounded by mages and thieves."
Isabela snorts. "I am standing right here, you know."
Hawke lifts a shoulder in her usual lazy shrug. "Everyone's passed the test so far."
"You mean the mabari?"
Her usual companion, on errands out of town, or those without a particular demand for stealth. It is a formidable beast, and Fenris will admit he had been a little worried to see it approach, unsure how it would react to the lyrium, though it had only sniffed him a moment or two more before licking his hand once, and nudging him to be properly acknowledged with a scratch behind the ears. He has heard of the Fereldens, the dog lords - the term as much an insult as anything - though he has also seen the beast lunge out in front of Hawke and easily snap a dragonling's neck with one powerful twist of its jaws. A fearless presence in battle, a fierce protector - yet as meek as a lamb should a passing child come up to pat it while it dozes in the sun.
"If the dog likes you, I like you."
"That a Ferelden thing?" Varric says, though it seems likely he already knows the answer.
Hawke nods. "Close enough. I should have had him meet Loghain. It would have saved us all a lot of trouble."
Harsh bitterness in her voice - she has not yet forgiven the man who quit the field at Ostegar, likely cannot forgive him. The strongest trait of the mabari is loyalty, a stubborn, steadfast devotion past all reason or reward. If Hawke speaks true, she is much the same - and has gladly claimed it so, proud of her country and even prouder of its warhounds. Fenris cannot help but hate it a little, how much Hawke reminds him of those who had rescued him, how well he could imagine her fitting in among them. No hesitation in her, nothing held back, as free as anyone he has ever met, as the warriors were in that idyll, that time that had come to change everything.
Fenris has been betrayed before. Yet, has he not also been the betrayer? And so very easily. He cannot say he is innocent, or without fault, will not excuse himself of all that happened in Seheron. And she has done nothing so far, to suggest she has any ill intentions. The last group of mercenaries he'd hired to defend him had run away from the mages and their pet demons practically before the first blow had been struck. Whatever her future plans, he very much doubts that Hawke is fond of running.
He is distracted by thoughts of the past, by the tremors of agony that are slowly edging past his ability to control them, a line of cold, stinging insects crawling along his bones - yes, it appears this is going to be one of the truly bad days, but before he can think to excuse himself Hawke stops short and throws up her hands, turning on him sharply.
"All right, I can't do this anymore. We're going to the Blooming Rose. Right now."
"I… beg your pardon?"
"Finally." Isabela says, but Fenris is still looking to Hawke, who has apparently chosen this moment to go completely mad.
"I'll catch up with you crazy kids later." Varric says, with one backward glance that says he is finding a great deal of amusement in all of this, and before Fenris can say anything he is gone.
"I don't-"
Hawke cuts him off with a shake of her head.
"You have little lines around your eyes, here" she points to the outside corner of her own, then near the bridge of her nose, "and here. My father used to get them just the same, when he was hurting. It's your marks, isn't it? It's worse than usual."
Her eyes are bright green, like sunrise through bottle glass, and Fenris looks a moment longer than he knows he ought to.
"Your father the mage."
"My father the apostate, yes." Laughing at him, and a challenge, too, friendly but there. Fenris is aware it had not been one of his more tactically brilliant decisions, calling out the mage who had accompanied them on their raid on the mansion before he'd learned she was Hawke's sister. Not only that but her sole surviving sibling, one she has been protecting all of her life. Neither Bethany or Varric had warmed to him much after that, and he'd expected Hawke to react much the same. He still isn't sure why she hasn't, can't think of much he's done to make her think the better of him. "The Rose is as good a place as any. Come on. I'll explain once we're there."
It is not far at all to the brothel, and all the while Fenris is sure he ought to protest, that he must protest… whatever this is, but Isabela's taken up position behind him and he's being marched as much as following Hawke, and he could come up with a perfectly good reason to get away if he were at all sure this were actually happening. Fenris is fairly certain he could fight them both off if he aimed to kill but… no. It is one thing to reduce the numbers of Tevinter mages, or the slavers and sellswords they send after him. If he starts slaughtering everyone he meets, the moment he feels at all uncomfortable… he will lose himself, when there is so little of him to begin with.
"I only need a room. I brought my own." Hawke says to the woman at the counter, who is happy to take her coin with no further questions as Isabela laughs.
"I don't think-" He protests.
"You don't have to. That's the point." The pirate grins back, and Fenris decides then and there he's not going to go through with whatever their insane plan might be - certainly not if Isabela's involved - but if he can just sit down in a quiet place, he may be able to get a rein on the worst of it. Just a moment's peace in a quiet place.
Fenris wonders just how much coin she laid out, the room a little bit cleaner than he was expecting, and quiet at the furthest end of the hall, though there are marks on the four-poster bed that suggest more than one person's been tied up at an interesting angle, or quite possibly chained. He is surprised when Hawke strips the sheet off, deeming it mostly tolerable before folding it up, dragging a long table away from where it sits against the wall, and putting the sheet on top.
"I don't know if this will work, but it's worth a shot. Father said it's one of the only things Templars are good for. I used to do this for Bethany. Still do, from time to time."
"Kinky."
"Thank you, Isabela." Hawke says, tone wry and eyes skyward. "Can you get me some oil? Unscented, if they have it."
"This just gets better and better." The pirate flashes him a grin, and is out the door before Fenris can blink, leaving him alone in a brothel with a woman he does not understand, watching her crack her knuckles with no idea of what's going to happen next. Hawke looks at him.
"Well it's not perfect, but it's not bad, I suppose. Get your shirt off and we'll get started."
"Oh, please do." Fenris cannot imagine how Isabela has returned so fast, perhaps there truly is some greater law behind the rules of magic, teleportation limited only to those who could make a desire demon blush for shame. She tosses a flask to Hawke. "It was either lavender or… edible. Best they could do."
"The lavender will work, thanks."
He can smell it, as she opens the stopper, pouring a little on her hands and then rubbing them together briskly, and Hawke finally looks up and seems to realize he hasn't moved.
"I think I can help you, or at least try. When Bethany was learning magic, when she'd make a bad mistake or overextend herself or even just as a matter of course, it… it threw everything out of balance in her body. Father showed us - there are places on a person you can lean on, to try and nudge everything back where it's supposed to be. You've heard of it?"
"No."
"I suppose you didn't do a lot of talking to mages."
"No."
The last of the amusement fades from Hawke's eyes, and her voice is no longer so cool and confident. "I know you're hurting. If this doesn't work, you should at least be able to relax a little. At the very worst, it's a simple massage from someone who scales walls with their fingertips. So it can't be that bad, right?" A pause. She's waiting for him to fill it. "I just want to help you, Fenris. Please?"
Who just wants to help? No one just wants to help. Everyone's working an agenda, and he can't see it now but that hardly means…
The pain flares again, as if something has bit deep into his shoulder and is determined to rip his arm clean off, and Fenris can hear his breath shake in his lungs as he exhales. Whatever she might do to him, it can't possibly be worse than this.
"Since you've already paid for the room..."
Her bright smile again, as if he's done anything to deserve it. Fenris sighs, and goes about the business of stripping off his armor and the shirt beneath, ignoring the delighted coo Isabela makes no attempt to keep to herself. She has pulled up a chair, sprawled out across it with her legs up over the arm, and a bottle of wine has appeared in her hand from some unknown source, not that he's all that surprised.
"Oh, I'm happy to watch. For now."
"Right."
Fenris fights back the slight feeling of dread, tells himself it is because he must put his back to Hawke more than that she will have to touch him, though he can remember each time in the last three years he's bothered with so much as a handshake. Before he can lose his nerve, he sits on the table, rolls over onto his stomach with his head turned toward the the door. His sword is within reach, though it's not much comfort. He's seen how fast Hawke can pluck a dagger from some hidden sheath, her bare hands mean nothing - if Danarius could get to her, could offer her sister safe harbor in the Imperium - and he knows it is stupid, the unlikeliest of all possibilities. Far more certain is that this will take but moments before it all ends awkwardly, a situation he will have to untangle himself from - hopefully not literally.
"We can do your chest, later. If you're comfortable with it."
"I'm not comfortable now," he grumbles.
"I've got wine." Isabela offers cheerfully.
For all his trepidation, Hawke's touch, when it comes, is neither threat or seduction. Careful and sure, smoothing along his shoulders, slowly down the length of his spine, but it is steady and clinical and he can tell what she meant about the strength in her hands when she presses her fingers in a bit further, here and there. The ache has settled itself through him, refusing to bend to her ministrations, but Fenris finds it is surprisingly tolerable nonetheless, so the frustrated huff of breath that stirs the hair at the nape of his neck comes as a surprise.
"Maker's breath, I knew it. You're like an angry gravel road."
"It's all right, I didn't expect it to work." He realizes how that sounds once he's said it, but if Hawke notices she pays it little mind.
"I haven't actually tried anything yet. I wanted to see where I ought to start, but you're just… I'm going to have to…" another short exhalation, "this is going to hurt before it feels better, but I still think it's worth a go. Is that all right?"
Fenris can't help but chuckle at the worry in her voice, as if he hasn't dealt with so much worse, from those who didn't bother asking his opinion, who hadn't considered him worthy of having one.
"I'm not so-"
The word should have been 'fragile,' but Hawke takes that moment to dig her fingertips in hard, down into the muscle just below his shoulder, a pressure like white-hot daggers sliding in deep - this is what she meant - and Fenris gasps, choking, feels his body arch away from the searing point that has consumed all else, oh and he remembers this well, he remembers -
"-eto, it's dangerous! You could be killed!
"What does it matter? This is our only chance - your only chance. Imagine what this could do for us, for mother and for your future. Why are you acting this way?"
"I just… I don't know…"
"I do."
Fenris comes back to himself, curled on his side and panting softly, the fragment of memory fading, leaving nothing but the lingering feeling of regret, anger, determination. A task that had to be fulfilled - but what task, and had he succeeded? Could it possibly matter now? He frowns, bringing his breathing under control only to hear a strange echo from elsewhere in the room, breaking off into dry coughing - and then he knows what he's done. He lifts himself up and turns to see Hawke crumpled on the floor against the far wall, one hand against her chest, wheezing as she tries to draw a proper breath. He hit her, he must have hit her, a simple matter of luck that it only threw her across the room instead of impaling her on the spot. Fenris doesn't even know how he lashed out, can't remember - but what's new about that?
Isabela has a hand on Hawke's shoulder, helping her sit up, and the look she throws Fenris is none too friendly, nothing like her usual seductive charm and a part of him is spitefully glad to see it - good, that she finally realizes what he is. A look he is not afraid to see in her, but he realizes Hawke is still staring at the ground.
"I… apologize. I didn't mean to-"
Fenris stops short, doesn't speak or move from where he's slid off the table, as Hawke finally gets enough breath back to manage the chuckle she's been fighting for all this time.
"Well damn, I wondered what that felt like. You kick like a mule."
Smiling. Hawke is smiling up at him and there's no fear there, no hurt or betrayal even though he can see the color is just starting to come back into her pale face, and Fenris can only stare, utterly dumbstruck.
"You're a lunatic."
"It's been said."
Isabela has a hand around her proffered arm and in one smooth motion Hawke is up off the floor, dusting herself off as she takes a few more deep breaths, before looking at him in concern. "It wasn't too bad, was it? Are you all right?"
"Am I…" Fenris shakes his head, abandoning the protest before it can even be fully formed - he's not going to win against her, when by all logic she should have been fleeing the room, or at the very least demanding he get his things and walk away and never speak of this again. Instead, she is waiting for an answer, and he is surprised to feel that something has… changed. He cannot say for sure the pain has lessened, the spot she touched still exceptionally tender, protesting each movement he makes, but there is a bit of warmth there too, and a tingling numbness that does not vanish as the moments pass. Fenris is bracing himself for the onslaught, a fierce retaliation from the marks for even that slightest ease, but it doesn't come.
"It's… better. A little better."
"So let's see if we can't do more than 'a little better,'" Hawke says, and takes a step forward, and Fenris just as quickly takes a step back, bumping against the edge of the table.
"No. I don't want - I don't know if I can keep from…"
Hawke's gaze is steady. "You can't hurt me, Fenris."
He can kill her. He nearly did just kill her, and he knows that she knows it, but it's not the same thing. It should be - it damned well ought to be - but it's not, and Hawke doesn't look away. If he is still unsure of her, it does not keep her from trusting him.
Fenris finally sighs, and nods, and returns to the way he was before, though he is no longer so nervous over anything she might do and focused instead on keeping his own hands still and flat against the table no matter what she does. Hawke's hands are no less merciless on the second attempt, though Fenris manages to keep a hold of himself, and there's no flicker of memory, no sign of whatever she'd opened up in him for that briefest of instants. He shuts his eyes, and tries to concentrate on breathing, on not moving, her hands working with painstaking care across what feels like every inch of muscle he's got. Fenris realizes he's lost count of how many places Hawke has hit at the same time as he notices she's not having to use quite as much force, that it has not hurt so badly for quite some time, and the rest of the pain is shifting inside him, easing off like a banked fire.
Fenris wants to tell her not to bother with anything so ridiculous, as he feels her shift the wrappings off his feet, but the matter of turning his head, or trying to speak seems like an entirely unreasonable effort. His body is remarkably heavy and the feel of her thumbs sliding against the arch of his foot is so utterly, absurdly indulgent, not something many would ever know the benefit of, certainly not those who used to be slaves. He might as well be dreaming it.
As a rule, Fenris does not sleep well. As often as not, he would prefer not to sleep at all, certainly not in any way that could leave him open to attack. So it is more than a little surprising to wake up slowly, lingering in a moment of warm comfort before he bothers taking stock of his surroundings. The surface beneath him is hard, but there is a bit of cloth pillowed under his head, and Fenris yawns and frowns and lifts a hand, swiping clumsily at his eyes.
"If anybody asks, I'm saying I wore you both out."
He snaps to alertness in an instant, though Isabela doesn't move, still sprawled out in the chair, flipping pages idly on what he doubts is a book actually fit for anyone's consumption. Fenris blinks, waiting for the explanation to come to him, of why he'd fallen asleep in - yes, in a whorehouse, with no shirt on - and he turns his head to look for Hawke only to find her sitting with her back against the bed, knees tucked up, asleep with her head pillowed against her arms.
"How long was I…?"
"Little less than an hour. You looked like you needed it."
Fenris doesn't like how easily it happened, all that time to be completely vulnerable - but as he slides off the table, he has to admit that Hawke wasn't wrong. He feels… good. Surely better than he usually does, when things get so bad. The lyrium's bite is a dull, vague complaint and little more, disinterested in using him as its chew toy, at least for the moment. He wonders if Hawke might be able to teach him a bit more about where to press and how hard, always better to do what he can for himself. It is only when his feet hit the floor, still slightly slick and cool with oil, that Fenris remembers all that she had done for him, and what form his repayment had taken.
"You hit her pretty hard." Isabela says quietly. No doubt the reason Hawke is sleeping now. He could leave, perhaps he ought to leave, but Fenris finds himself looking forward to watching her wake up.
"I am aware of that, thank you."
Isabela looks at him for a moment longer, her gaze remarkably opaque for her usually irrepressible manner. Fenris waits for the pirate to stake her claim, and thinks that it would be stupid to challenge her, and that he... he may very well have to.
"I knew you'd look good when you glisten."
Between the sound of his grumbling, and Isabela's laughter, it is enough to wake Hawke up.