THIS IS A DA2 AU! Same characters. Different circumstances.
Characters: fem!Hawke/Fenris + companions in lesser roles (They all belong to Bioware - just don't tell Fenris. He's sensitive about those things.)
Setting: Tevinter Imperium

A/N: Giant sugar cookies to my betas for this chapter: lotusflwr, Lywinis and Tom

Chapter 3: Sleeping Arrangements

Bits of black, papery ash fluttered in the air. Thick smoke carried what was left of a powerful madman up into the heartless night. A guard had been assigned to tend the blaze, but Carver remained behind anyway, long after the others had gone.

The details of Bethany's murder were sketchy. Three days ago, she had simply disappeared. The companions had mounted a search as soon as they realized she was gone. A contact of Varric's had led them to a body found in an alleyway off of the market in Minrathous hightown. It was her body, burned almost beyond recognition except for a few remnants of jewelry, cloth and hair.

Varric didn't have to grease many palms before a name came up: Danarius. Apparently, Bethany had upset the senior magister somehow. He had driven her into that alley and she had never come back out.

No one was willing to say any more that this.

Carver sat staring into the flames, breathing in the sickly-sweet aroma of burning flesh and wood. He tried to imagine what his twin could have possibly done to anger Danarius. Everyone had loved Bethany. It was unthinkable that she had earned such a hateful fate.

As the long fingers of heat performed their light play before his eyes, he saw Beth. He saw her sweet oval face and innocent smile. He heard her chattering away. He saw her casting spells, her graceful arms weaving unseen energies into physical form. He remembered times when she had worried and laughed and argued and cried. Seeing her cry always made him so uncomfortable, but he would give anything for it now if it meant his twin sister were still alive. Tears ran down his own cheeks then. For a time he simply let them fall, oblivious to the presence of the other man, the guard.

Only when the moon began its descent to make way for the sun did he stand, rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes. He made a tiny gesture: one finger over another with a subtle double jab. It was the sign in their secret twin language they'd most often used. Its meaning was twofold. I'm watching you. I'm here for you.

"Be at peace, Beth," he whispered.

While Carver kept his vigil, Aran showed the rest of the companions to their rooms.

As they went, Sofira became more and more acquainted with the kind of man Danarius had been. His tastes had staggered between garish and gruesome. She noticed with displeasure that, while everything was of the finest craftsmanship and made from the most extravagant materials, his artistic themes ran more to intimidation than practicality. There was no harmony, no serenity. From the hideous Old God relics and long-toothed animal pelts to the formal furniture and oppressive dark colors, it was a hopeless prison for the soul. At least the beds looked comfortable, but the rest of the mansion would have to be redecorated as soon as possible.

There is no joy here. Everything is so large and costly, as if its all meant to make one feel insignificant. What a depressing place.

Once she saw that her companions were settled, Sofira allowed Aran to guide her to the chambers that had served as Danarius' master bedroom. Bellator, her faithful mabari hound, trotted along at her side, grinning ear to ear. The bodyguard, Fenris, followed behind them.

After viewing the stomach churning row of rare animal heads adorning the last room, Sofira dreaded to discover what kind of 'art' the Senior Magister might have chosen for his own quarters. If there had been another empty bed available, she would have taken it without a moment's hesitation.

Aran stopped and gestured at a massive door made of dark wood.

What is the point of a door this big? Two burly men could have walked through it side by side and it was taller than she by a half. Four large wooden panels had been carved into its face with painstaking detail. Sofira peered with trepidation at the upper right panel. It was difficult to discern the event portrayed. A myriad of contorted figures seemed to fight for dominance. A historical battle of some sort? The armor and weapons were somewhat familiar but the creatures were much too fantastic and vile. Perhaps a chantry allegory? Her attention was drawn to a small figure which writhed in... sweet Andraste, is that a baby?

She averted her eyes away from the repulsive scene as sour bile rose up in her throat. This too would be replaced. And destroyed.

"Are you certain there aren't any other rooms?" Sofira asked plaintively.

"Only slave quarters, Mistress."

I wouldn't mind, but that would mean kicking some poor slave out of his or her bed. Steeling herself, she released the latch and pushed on the heavy door.

Inside, the air smelled of mountains and fire. A small, backless antechamber opened into a larger room, both wide and deep, bereft of any windows or other doorways as far as she could tell. To the right of the door, fat, leather bound tomes sat on high shelves. An embroidered reclining chair covered in stiff, velvet cushions, an ornate lamp and a heavy-looking table all lounged weightily nearby. Along the wall hung more of those damned beast heads, bearing the tortured expressions of a boar, a bear and a creature she did not recognize. The teeth were barred in either anger or pain; it was difficult to tell. Beneath these was a long, thin table carved of grey and blue veined stone. On its surface rested a crystal bowl of clear liquid. To one side of the bowl, a stack of small white towels and a pair of earthen jars.

On the far wall was a large, magnificent wardrobe, made of dark knotted wood. Next to that, another ornate lamp and table matching the ones to the right of door. Dominating the center of the room was a huge canopy bed. Thorny vines were carved into the four thick, round posts, entwining up and disappearing into an abundance of fabric so dark, it reminded Sofira of the blood that could only come from the deepest parts of a body. It draped like a dome of mourning above the bed, hanging down to curtain off the back and sides.

On the left wall, a massive fireplace roared with life, casting its influence across the entire room. Sofira could feel its dry heat from where she stood. The exterior of the hearth was carved with more figures, but Sofira knew now not to learn their form or meaning. Above this hung several life-sized portraits of grim men and women, dressed in ancient finery. If the monstrous bed were not in the way, they would have been allowed to glare at the animal heads on the opposing wall. To the left of the door stood a pair of high-backed, gilded chairs, which could have passed for thrones in Ferelden, and more shelves packed with heavy books. Covering the entire floor of the bed chamber was a somber carpet of indistinct color, woven with a complex pattern of repeating Imperial symbols.

Sofira's head ached just looking at such pointless opulence. That pain only served to remind her that her burns still needed attention.

Bellator, sensing this was their destination, charged into the room and leaped upon the bed. He circled three times before flopping down onto his side.

"I'm glad you like it, boy." I hate everything! Thank the Maker I'm bone tired or sleeping here would be impossible.

"Thank you," she said flashing a weak smile at the housekeeper, "It will do."

Aran bowed and went to the impressive wardrobe at the back of the room. She opened the doors and selected an off-white dressing gown.

"Will you sleep in this tonight, Mistress? It is the finest we have. The fabric is as soft as a child's skin." She brought the gown to over for closer examination.

"It's ...not actually made from..." Sofira paused. One could never be too sure with Danarius. And judging from that panel on the door, it was not a distant possibility.

"Oh no, my Lady, no!" Aran shrunk back horrified.

Sofira thought she heard a chuckle from behind them, but it was so soft and gone so quickly she couldn't be certain.

Weariness threatened to take her where she stood. "Okay. Just lay it on the bed. Thank you, Aran."

The older woman held out her hands. "I will help you undress and wash before you retire, my Lady. You must be tired." Her eyes lingered on Sofira's ruined robes.

Hawke stepped back. "No need. I can do all that myself."

The last thing she needs is to help me clean this disgusting wound. Maker, I don't even want to do it.

Sofira walked over to the washing table at the right of the room and rolled up her sleeves, which had not been charred by Danarius' lightning blast. She called out, "You've been wonderful. Go get a good night's sleep and I will see you in the morning."

"As you wish, Mistress." Aran sounded unsure but Sofira heard her walk obediently to the bed and then out the door, closing the ponderous thing behind her with an echoing click of the latch.

She lowered her hands into the crystal basin. Despite the warmth of the room, the water was cool and refreshing. She bent forward, cupping her hands together, and lifted a pool of water to her face. What a simple and divine pleasure after such an emotionally demanding day.

Then it occurred to her that there was still someone in the room. Grabbing a towel, she patted her face dry and turned around to see Fenris standing as still as a statue just inside the main room. His eyes were cast to the floor.

Over the last three hours that it had taken to check the grounds and burn Danarius' body, she had become more comfortable with his presence. She didn't quite trust him but she hoped that would come with time. If anything, she pitied him. He hadn't had an easy life, she guessed, and this latest chapter must feel uncertain at best.

"Fenris, the day is over. What are you waiting for?" She turned her attention back to the water and dipped a cloth. There were several tugs at her skin where the crimson gown clung unnaturally. She alternated patting the damp cloth over these places and picking at them with her fingers, trying to dislodge bits of fabric where the robe had seared to her flesh.

This is going to take all night.

She felt a warm hand on her shoulder. Another hand brushed her long, dark hair to the side. Sofira stiffened and dropped her cloth. She felt both hands move to the lacings at the back of her neck. The tips of steel gauntlets tickled her skin above the collar as the top knot came undone.

Sofira gasped and turned to face the man behind her. Forest green eyes gazed into her own. Seeing her expression, Fenris' hands came up defensively between them.

"Have I done something wrong, Mistress?" he asked, his deep voice marked with concern.

"What are you doing?"

"I... thought you wished me to help you undress, Mistress." Embarrassment, fear and confusion warred on his handsome face.

Sofira recalled the clumsy wording she had used in her attempt to send him away. She started to laugh.

"Oh, Fenris, I'm sorry. That was my fault. I didn't mean..." The tension of the day's events and all the days leading up to this one spilled out of her in the rush of words. She pushed past the bodyguard and sat down on the edge of the bed, holding her sides despite the pain, laughing as she hadn't laughed in months.

Bellator rolled over and nuzzled her hip with his cold nose.

The elf lowered his hands, deciding that no punishment was forthcoming, at least while Mistress Hawke was in this state. Fear conceded to embarrassment and confusion.

Sofira wiped her eyes. Her stomach hurt in a good way. For the moment at least, it took away the ache in her heart and the nagging pain of her burnt skin.

"Thank you, Fenris. I needed that, you have no idea."

The elf inclined his head. Confusion, having won the battle, now settled on his face.

"What I meant to say is that it's been a long day and I'm sure you are tired. Get out of here. Go get some sleep, okay?" As she spoke, she saw him appraising the damage to the front of her body. She looked down at the rough, black patch and winced. "Yes, it's a mess, isn't it."

He nodded. "I have some experience dressing injuries of this nature, Mistress. If you wish, I can assist you."

Sofira heard sincerity and sympathy in his words. Or was it empathy? She hoped not.

Under normal circumstances, she would ask Bethany to help her with this, or Anders... but one of those options was no longer available, and she wouldn't wake Anders from his well-deserved rest. Even though he probably wouldn't mind.

The healer had tried to look at her wounds a second time after the body of Danarius was thrown onto the pyre, but she had put him off. It was that sad, adoring look he'd been giving her again. She hadn't seen it in two years, since before they left Kirkwall. It made her want to scream.

If he weren't always going off on his own and starting trouble, if he weren't harboring a wrathful spirit of justice within him, if he hadn't blown up the office of the Knight Commander of Kirkwall, killing her innocent tranquil assistant by mistake, well then maybe they could have been more than friends. She had come to Tevinter partly for him after all, to protect him from the repercussions of his actions. She did care for him, she just couldn't see a future with him.

Now, she needed to do something before an infection set in, but the only person who was available was a warrior slave she barely knew.

Well, if he's willing to help and he's had experience with this sort of thing, I can't ask for more than that. As a warrior, he's probably seen grosser things than this anyway. Maker, I hope this isn't a big mistake.

"All right," she agreed at last. "Thank you, Fenris."

He went to the wardrobe and selected an over-sized robe which he placed in front of the fire where the light was brightest. Then he retrieved the basin of water and clean towels from the washing table, placing them on the stones in front of the hearth. As Sofira walked over to place he had prepared, he removed his gauntlets and set them on the floor next to his greatsword.

She reached down, sucking in air as the pain flared. She retrieved a knife from her boot and started sawing at the fabric of her robes just above the blackened patch.

Fenris reached out to hold up the bulk of the fabric behind her back until it seemed the job was done.

"You should lie down, Mistress. If you let this fall, the weight of it will tear your skin."

She nodded, handing him the blade. Once she was comfortable on the floor, he took the little knife and set to work opening the side seam of her robe. Sofira watched his face. He was focused, impassive, as if cleaning a fish or mending a shirt, not bent to the task of removing a woman's clothing in front of a roaring fire. She couldn't help but grin and think of Isabela's stories. If she had been Isabela, or perhaps not covered in disgusting burns, or if this man hadn't been a slave simply doing his duty, this scene might have had a different flavor.

She covered her mouth at the thought, giggling despite the pain.

The elf stopped and peered at her through thick lashes.

Sofira calmed herself. "Sorry. It's okay. I'm just overtired. It's making my mind do strange things. Continue please."

He did, with a little more vigor this time. Almost immediately, she grunted as he cut too close to a spot where the fabric had melted to her body. He froze again. When her breathing returned to normal, he cut around to a safer area and continued until the seam was completely open.

"Are you ready, Mistress?" he asked. On her nod, the elf peeled back the front of her robe until all of the free cloth was removed. He set the tattered folds down on the other side of her, near the fire.

She lifted her head off the floor, looking down at his work. The collar, upper part of the bodice, and sleeves of her gown were intact, although the jagged new hem didn't quite cover the bottom of her breasts. She flushed pink and checked her small clothes. They were mostly undamaged. Singe marks stretched from the base of her sternum down over her abdomen and ended atop the bone of her left hip. It was nothing less than a stinking black eyesore of scorched cloth, skin and blood.

Thank the Maker my ward of protection lasted long enough to absorb most of the blast or I'd be a stain on the floor of that dining hall.

Fenris placed the white washing cloths into the crystal basin. Once they were soaked, he laid them one at a time over the burns. The coolness and moisture were instantly soothing.

"These dressings should sit. Is there anything else I can do for you, Mistress?" There was no hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"No, you've done enough. You should get some sleep." She favored him with a quick smile.

"I must still clean this wound, Mistress, or you will develop a fever. The skin must be freed of debris or it will not heal properly."

She cocked her head. "You seem to know a lot about these things. Are you a healer as well as a swordsman?"

"No, Mistress." He lowered his eyes once more and would not meet her gaze.

After a moment, she said, "I'll offer you a compromise. I won't pry into your secrets and you will stop calling me 'Mistress'."

There was no response.

Sofira awoke some time later to the light touch of fingers prodding at her belly. She couldn't remember falling asleep. That she hadn't been startled into setting the owner of those fingers on fire surprised her. It had been years since anyone had been this close to her as she slept. She opened her eyes and looked down at her body.

Her new elven bodyguard had somehow managed to clean the lower half of her wound without waking her. There were bits of fabric soaked in watery blood near his knee. What remained was a smooth surface of raw skin. It glistened angrily but it was clean.

"You're amazing," she whispered. "I'm not sure even Anders would do this good a job."

Fenris looked up, recognizing the name and the compliment it implied. The faintest angle appeared at the corner of his mouth but it was gone in an instant. "May I continue, Mistress?"

She nodded, laying her head back down on the floor with a soft thump.

She must have fallen asleep again.

Morning came and the great wooden door opened, letting in a bath of sunlight from the hallway beyond. Sofira's eyelids fluttered open.

Her whole body ached. The back of her head pounded from lying on the hard floor all night. A blanket had been thrown over her legs and hips, covering her body up to the lower edge of the burned area. She patted the cloths on her stomach. They were cool and wet. They've been recently changed.

Bellator was curled up on the rug, his head resting next to hers. She could smell his musky doggy breath.

Aran and an elven girl holding a stack of fresh linens entered the room.

"Mistress?" The housekeeper hurried to Sofira's side, alarmed. "Are you all right? Where is Fenris?"

"I am here, Aran." The elven warrior stood up from his chair. "The Mistress is fine."

There was a soft knock at the door. "Sofira? How are you this morning? May I come in?"

She recognized Anders' voice.

Bellator got up and shook himself, huffing at the familiar sound.

"You have impeccable timing, my friend. Please do come in," said Sofira, a grin spreading across her face. She was too groggy to remember the looks he'd given her the night before.

Anders strode into the room. When he saw her state, he rushed to her side and knelt. Aran stepped aside to make room for the excited mage.

"You foolish woman, you tried to take care of this yourself? You're not a healer! Why didn't you let me take care of it last night? Stop touching it. What are these? Washing cloths? I said stop touching it! Let me see!" The flurry of words and accusations continued as Anders lifted corners of the square wet cloths to check her wounds.

"Oh, this actually looks quite good!" he said in surprise, "I'll have this healed up for you in a moment." He removed the cloths, then closed his eyes and placed his hands over Sofira's stomach. A warm light bloomed as the red, angry flesh closed and then faded to pink. Within moments, her skin had smoothed over completely, leaving not even a scar.

"Well, that's much better," he said, pleased with the result. "How do you feel?"

"I feel great, thanks to you and Fenris," she answered. "No pain!"

"Fenris?" questioned the mage, puzzled.

The elf in question had moved closer. He looked as if he were ready to spring on the blond mage, his face intent.

Anders sat back. "What is it with you?"

"I would not have let you harm her, abomination," came the reply.

"Abom... I just healed her, you stupid git," laughed Anders nervously. "Are you still sore over the whole why-can't-I-move thing from last night? Because I think you were trying to kill me!"

"Leave him alone, Anders," Sofira frowned and whacked Anders on the arm. "Fenris did an amazing job of cleaning my wounds and I think he stayed with me all night making sure I was okay. He doesn't know any of us so he doesn't understand our little band of misfits. I don't mind if he's being overprotective."

"If you say so," said Anders, looking away from the elf and back to his friend. Smiling, he extended his hand. "Here, I'll help you up. We can... oh, good morning!"

As soon as she stood up, Sofira realized how little of the material from her crimson robes still remained. Her hands flew up to cover her breasts, wide sleeves of the shredded robe serving her well.

"Um... yes. I will see you at breakfast, Anders. Thank you for your assistance."

"On my way," replied the flustered mage. As he disappeared into the sunlit hall, he called over his shoulder, "Glad I could help!"

Maker, I hope this little incident isn't going to make it worse between us.

"Aran, would you be a dear and find a changing screen for me?" asked Sofira. "There seem to be a lot of people coming and going from my room this morning."

As the housekeeper scurried off on her mission, Sofira looked to the elf. He had turned his back to peruse a shelf of books, a collection of Mavelli Nicolo's works. Part of her had to admit some disappointment that he seemed more interested in the books.

She didn't notice the pink tinge on the tips of his long ears.