The clang of steel on steel resonates around him. Smoke and dust sting his eyes while the smells of scorched earth and sweat invade his nostrils. Melee in Lowtown: a way to earn some coin, work off his aggression and fight the good cause, whatever Aryana has decided that is this week. He can see her in the distance, a true live wire, discharging crackling arcs of energy into the fray.
He is always aware of her; fighting with one eye on his opponent, the other on hers. It is a distraction that holds onto his mind, a distraction that may prove fatal. The fear of losing her, really losing her, is wired into his consciousness.
She makes me weak. He scowls and brings his hand up to staunch the deep cut on his arm, a wound he should have easily avoided. He takes a deep breath as the pain washes over him. For a moment he feels light headed and unaccountably hot, his legs buckle and he slumps against a wall.
When the fighting is over, Aryana casts a glance around them. Triage first: she directs Anders to Isabela, while she attends to his arm. Then a few snaps of her fingers and they spread out, cover the area. Within minutes the place is picked clean of valuables. He marvels at her cold, driving efficiency.
The battles are one sort of agony, but the quiet times are much worse. He thought he would get used to it but the intimacy of working with them is starting to wear him down.
It is a warm and humid evening. For once, the windows of Fenris's mansion are open, allowing the sounds of the evening to filter in. The air is filled with the idle chatter of people walking around the town, punctuated by the occasional discordant noises of a guard patrol passing by.
His sword is laid out on the table before him. He tilts the blade slightly and with a practiced eye, draws a coarse stone along the length of it, sharpening the edge. After a few strokes, he takes a smoother stone, gently honing the blade. He finds the task relaxing; the tension in his body loosens a little as he works. Finally, he takes an oiled cloth and slides it along the flat sides of the blade before sheathing the weapon.
He considers the sword for a few moments before taking a piece of paper from his pack and unfolding it. An elaborate script runs across the page in silver ink. This magical rune is indecipherable to him; his reading skills are limited to the little Common that Aryana has taught him, but he knows that it will increase the damage caused by the blade. He has been saving this rune until he found a weapon worthy of enhancement. He lifts the sword and considers it again; this has proved to be a good weapon, well balanced and holding an edge far longer than most other blades.
It is still early and the Amell estate is nearby, he picks up the blade decisively and sets out across the courtyard.
Aryana is sorting through a storage chest when he arrives. She looks up at him with mild surprise. "Fenris, to what do we owe this pleasure?"
"Forgive the intrusion." He unsheathes the sword and holds it out in front of him. "If there is time, I'd like Sandal to enchant this blade."
She casts her gaze about the room. "Orana, would you fetch Sandal for us, tell him we need an enchantment."
Orana nods and heads toward one of the back rooms.
"Do you want any of this stuff?" Aryana gestures towards armor, potions and weapons that are sorted into piles he'd categorize as 'essential', 'useful' and 'junk'.
"I'll take some of those potions," he replies, "for those times when you mages forget to keep an eye on my well being."
"Hardly ever happens!" she says, feigning indignation. "Take what you want, Varric is going to sell off what we don't need."
It is only a few minutes before Sandal and Bodhan appear, beaming with enthusiasm.
Fenris hands over the weapon and rune. "How long will it take to enchant this blade? I can come back later to collect it."
"It won't take long, why don't you stay and watch," says Bodhan. "My boy loves to show off his technique."
Sandal's stubby fingers are remarkably nimble. He picks up a quill and copies the intricate rune onto the blade with a silver liquid that glows with an unnatural luminescence. He scatters fine sand onto the traced pattern and it sticks to the silver lines. Then he lays the blade upon the parchment holding the original rune and sets the edge of the paper alight.
Sandal's face glows as they watch a low blue flame consume the parchment, the edges curling up along the sides of the sword. "Enchantment," he says, in a subdued and serious tone.
Once the paper has burnt away the flame catches the silver line and dances along the length of the blade, burning softly. At first, Fenris is transfixed by the flames, but as he watches, a prickling sensation starts to creep from his stomach out along the lines of his tattoos. The lyrium in his veins hums in resonance with the enchantment. Sweating and queasy, he steps backwards and averts his gaze.
When the flame dies down, Sandal takes a fragrant oil and pours a few drops onto a cloth of fine-looking fabric. He runs the oil along the blade, cleaning off the sand and revealing an intricately etched pattern. Sandal hands the blade back for inspection.
Fenris holds it up to the light of a lamp. It is as though fine lines of silver and gold have been inlaid into the metal, delicately spiraling around each other, extending tendrils across the width of the blade.
"Remarkable," is all that he can say.
Sandal and Bodhan beam with satisfaction.
They are distracted by a thump from another corner of the house. Aryana pales, her head snaps up. Without a word to the others, she hurries across the foyer and into the study, closing the door behind her. Muffled angry voices filter through the closed door.
Fenris feels as though he is intruding, again. Before he has chance to gather his belongings and leave, Anders bursts out of the study, snarls at the sight of him and pushes past, heading out into the night. Aryana rushes out behind him, but instead of following, she simply watches Anders disappear into the darkness.
"Aryana…"
She looks at him, but a cold hard expression has settled onto her face. He takes her silence as his cue to leave.
He walks slowly back to his abode. It has been a hot day and the flagstones are still warm beneath his feet. A soft rain damps down the dust and dirt and turns to steam as it hits the warm pavement. The sharp edges of his normal life seem dulled by the muggy air. He wants to lie down on the ground and let the warm rain wash away reality.
The next day Aryana comes to his house looking tired and drawn. She pulls a purse from her robes.
"Varric sold the excess gear for us, so I've just come to drop off your share of the proceeds." She throws the purse over to him.
Fenris snatches it out of the air and puts it down on the table without even looking at it.
She makes no move to leave and he wonders if she wants to talk. He pauses in silence, considering whether to broach the subject of Anders unsettling behavior.
"Maker, Fenris, you really need a hair cut," she says suddenly with a laugh.
He smiles slightly, self consciously brushing a long strand back from his face.
"I know, I know, you don't like strangers touching you, but perhaps you would allow me to trim it," she says.
"No," he replies, rather too quickly. For a split second he sees a glimmer of disappointment cross her face and immediately regrets his reticence.
"On second thoughts you're right, if I don't cut it I'll have to start tying it back." He sighs. "With all the blades I have around here, there must be something suitable for the job."
As he rummages in one of his trunks, Aryana takes a folded cloth from her robe. She lays it on the table and unfolds it, revealing a set of small knives, each tied to the cloth with a green ribbon, lining them up in a row.
"Varric gave me these. I really don't know what they were designed for." She pulls out a small blade on a bone handle. "This should work. Do you have any water up here?"
He fills a shallow bowl from a large pitcher in the corner of the room, places it near to a low-backed chair and then he sits down.
She stands behind him, puts a hand on each of his temples and runs her fingers through his hair. A tingle of pleasure spreads downwards, across his back. He draws a deep breath, trying to relax into it. It is a soothing sensation but he feels self-conscious, and from that there is a tension he can't let go of. He imagines she can feel the pulsing of his blood in his veins that seems so horribly amplified in this still moment.
There is a pause, then he feels her hands run through his hair again, this time they are wet, the moisture flattening his hair down. Her left hands grasps a section and pulls it taut. There is a gentle tug as she pulls the blade across it a few times with her right hand.
She leans forward a little, dangling one snowy lock of hair in front of him so he can see how much she has cut off.
"More? Less?" she asks.
He is conscious of the warm pressure of her body against his shoulders. "That looks about right," he replies, without really looking.
She continues pulling and cutting handfuls of hair. He lets his eyes close and the sensation becomes hypnotic.
"Hold still, I'm almost done," she says, placing her hands firmly on either side of his head. Then she rakes the hair backwards again, checking the length of the two sides for evenness. He hears her dip her hands into the water and then run them one last time through his locks. A few drips of water start to run down the back of his neck; she wipes them away, the backs of her fingers making short soft strokes against his neck.
The tingling in his back has spread further south and he shifts self-consciously in the chair. He redirects his thoughts to an armor upgrade he has been considering, but somehow, seconds later, his tortured mind is rewriting her touch as a caress.
"All done," her voice brings him back to reality. She sweeps his shoulders gently with her hands, brushing the cuttings onto the floor. "See, it wasn't so bad was it?"
He turns to look at her, and holds her gaze a little longer than he had meant to.
She sighs and glances toward the doorway.
He covers the awkwardness by reaching up and running his own hands through his hair.
"Now I can see my opponents, all the better for my self-preservation." One side of his mouth curls up. "Thank you."
She smiles back at him as she casts a glance around the room. "I don't suppose you have a brush or broom or anything like that?"
"I'm not going to allow you to clean up as well. I'll take care of it," he says. Having inadvertently removed any reason for her to linger, he suffers an immediate pang of regret.
Aryana purses her lips. "I should get home."
"Anders will be wondering where you are."
She utters a dry, strained laugh. "I doubt he is even there. "
Fenris pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, and then looks at her directly.
"I overheard… the other night. "
"I know." Aryana, locks her gaze into the far distance. "Freedom for mages, I can't argue with his cause," she looks directly at him, "and neither should you."
Then he has to let her leave, as he doesn't know what else to say.
"So you don't want any?" Isabela asks, rewrapping the dried leaves in the square of fabric and tucking them into her pouch. "Your loss, it's Castellano's finest blend."
"I'll stick to alcohol, thanks."
"Thought you could do with a little something extra, what with being so serious all the time." She glances around. "Well, mine's a beer, or whatever you've got …"
"Oh… ," he shakes his head in amusement, " ...why not."
As he is attending to her request, Isabela casts her eye around the room. An ornate box catches her eye and she picks it up from the table, unable to resist her basic instinct she peeks inside. A thin red silk scarf catches her eye, the embroidery is distinctive and she remembers where she has seen it before, her eyes widen and she gasps.
"You.."
Fenris turns, bemused, and then when he sees what she has found his expression changes to apprehension.
"are… sentimental, or something."
"And you are prying into things that do not concern you."
"Is this like a trophy then? " her eyebrows rise, "Or a keepsake? Are you sorry you let that gorgeous, dangerous apostate sweep her off her feet?"
"Gorgeous?" He scrunches his mouth in disgust. "If you want this drink, you'll need to change the subject."
She is quiet for a moment, and then sits down and takes the drink. "So, you'll never guess what I saw in the city guards dorm last week… ."
Sometimes it happens; they are outnumbered. Fenris hasn't time to think, hasn't time to check on her as well as defend himself. He takes a hard blow to the head and his legs go weak. They are losing ground.
Varric fumbles in his pack, and the next minute a thick cloud of smoke rises up. Varric and Isabela slip out of sight in the confusion. Fenris breaks away from his opponent, steps back toward Aryana and clasping her hand, drags her through the haze and down a narrow alleyway. Aryana is limping and so he slows, turns, and pulls her into the relative shelter of a small alcoved doorway.
His arm goes around her waist, pulling them both back tightly into the small space. She gasps and his hand flies up to cover her mouth. They stay still and silent. There is a ruckus in the nearby square as the smoke clears and the bandits try to pick up the trail of their prey.
As they wait long minutes for the coast to clear, Fenris realizes that his grip on Aryana is unreasonably tight, pressing her hard against his lean frame. Now that the danger has passed, everything suddenly catches up with him. Frustration rises up inside him in agonizing waves.
She pulls away enough to turn and face him. Eyes wide, she is searching his face.
"Aryana," he says, "forgive me."
She looks confused and shakes her head slightly.
"Forgive me," he says again.
"For what?"
"Letting you go was a terrible mistake," he says slowly.
He feels relief. He looks at her. Now he has finally gotten the courage to speak, surely everything will be better between them.
Minutes go by, but she doesn't reply. He looks down at the ground to give her an extra second to respond, but there is only silence. Then he knows the admission has been too long coming and he wishes he had never spoken it. He feels numb. He can't bear to stay here with his declaration hanging in the air between them. He walks past her, down the long alleyway, across the bustling thoroughfare and up the many flights of slate steps, until finally, finally he is home.
An empty wine glass sits on the table beside him, and a full one resides in his hand. He is slumped in his chair, pleasantly numb. It is still light outside, and at this angle he can see dust in the air, illuminated by the rays of light streaming through the window. It is quite relaxing just to sit and watch.
He is almost asleep when he hears a noise,
"Did you forget something, " he says, turning.
But it is Aryana.
"I'm looking for Izzie," she says, raising a questioning eyebrow.
"You just missed her." He gestures towards the empty glass beside him.
He hears a mumbled expletive, under her breath.
"Anything I can help with?"
"Not unless you've developed lock picking skills I wasn't aware of."
"Is it urgent? "
"Not really," she sighs, "just trying to get a few things done."
"Stay and have a drink with me instead."
"You look like you've had enough."
"Some days, no amount is ever enough," he says softly.
She grimaces, but sits down anyway.
He pours her a drink and then they sit quietly, surveying the bustle on the street below the window.
He meets her gaze, silently inviting her to say something, anything, to acknowledge what he told her in the heat of the moment, five long days ago.
"Don't look at me like that," she says, and he looks away.
But he can't help it and before he knows it he is searching for her gaze again.
"Stop it," she says.
"I make you feel uncomfortable?"
She looks back at him and scowls.
"I'll take that as a yes," he says.
She stands up and moves to the window. He comes up behind her, so close he can almost feel her warmth, smell the soft leather of her attire.
"Aryana… ." His hand reaches out to her.
She turns then, steeping slightly aside, so that his touch falls from her shoulder.
"I waited a long time for you, Fenris." She speaks softly, eyes fixed on the ground, "…until I started to question my judgement, until I thought that there was no chance… . I had to move on." She reaches for his hand and her voice wavers. "I have another commitment now. It's too late."
He wants to speak, but there is a tight knot in his throat. He pulls her in, cradles her face against his own, breathing softly into the side of her neck. At first she is rigid against him, then, as his hands stroke her hair, he feels the tension in her body start to dissipate. He closes his eyes, afraid to move lest he break the spell.
Eventually she pulls away. "I have to do the right thing Fenris. " But her voice is flat.
She starts to move toward the door and a flash of panic grips him.
He moves after her and takes a hold of her arm. "Tell me that you don't still want me and I'll leave you alone, I'll leave the group, get away from here."
She looks surprised and shakes her head slightly.
"Tell me." His hand touches her chin, directing her gaze towards him. He can hardly breathe.
It seems like an eternity before she finally replies. "If I still wanted you, do you think that I would tell you? Do you think I would be able to tell you that when I've made a promise to another man? " She speaks slowly, as though the words drag reluctantly from her soul.
He steps back and lets his hand fall to his side. "Do you want me to leave?"
"I don't want you to leave, Fenris." And she looks at him in that way that she does, with glistening eyes, and mouth drawn into a tight line of self control.
A wave of hopelessness builds in his stomach, and this time, when she moves towards the door, he lets her go.