Chapter Three

When she arrives back at the estate, wearing a robe much too large, Fenris is the last person she expects to see sitting in her foyer. Fenris not only in her foyer, but also wearing clothes – civilian clothes!

He stands up when she enters.

"Hawke," he says, then doesn't seem to know what else to say.

"You're wearing clothes," she says stupidly. He looks down, as if he only just noticed.

"I decided to take Aveline's advice," he says when he looks back up.

"Well, you look very smart," she says, clutching the robe closed at her chest.

The truth is, he looks gorgeous. He's wearing a white linen shirt, collar open enough for her to see that the markings continue down his chest, and a long black coat with a high neck. Below his waist are black pants and... boots? He watches her gaze travel down his body.

She can feel her cheeks beginning to burn. "I've, umm, never seen you wear shoes before," she says.

"Marian? Is that you?" She heaves a sigh of relief when Mother sweeps through the door, interrupting a potentially awkward moment. "Marian, what on Thedas are you wearing? And who is this charming man?"

"Mother, this is Fenris, sans armour. And, it's a long story."

Mother looks up and down at Fenris. "It suits you," she says. "Marian, come inside and get changed. You have an appointment to keep."

"Appointment?"

"Don't tell me you've forgotten," she says, eyes flashing. "The Viscount's Ball! You have to go."

Hawke groans. "Mother..." she starts, but is cut off.

"You told me you would. You said you'd do it for me. Please tell me you will."

She looks at her mother. Thinks of all the sacrifices she's made. For her husband. For her children. For her. And sighs.

"I'll go," she says, then inspiration strikes. "But Fenris will come with me."

"What?" Fenris says, at the same time that Mother says, "I don't think that's-"

"- a good idea?" Hawke supplies. "Let them gossip, they already do." She turns to Fenris, "Assuming you're happy to come, of course."

"I-" Fenris starts.

"Then it's settled. I'll bathe and get changed, if you'll wait."

"Marian-" starts Mother.

"It will be fine, Mother, you'll see. And you always did want me to get noticed."

She gathers up the robe, and walks into the house.

Hawke says she won't be long, but it's more than an hour until he sees her sweeping down the stairs. She's exchanged the ugly mage robe for an exquisite dress, sapphire blue, with sparkling beads on the bodice. Her throat is bare, and her hair is washed and hangs loosely down her back. But Fenris catches his breath when he sees that the neck exposes her collarbone and the twisted scar that mars her left shoulder.

She smiles when she sees him and twirls, the skirt of her dress flaring out.

"What do you think?" she asks.

"Beautiful," he says without thinking. And her smile grows in response.

"Well, so are you," she says, and she slips an arm through his. "We'll make a fine pair, I can't wait to see everyone's expressions."

"It is not... customary for an elf to act as a lady's companion," he says, feeling that he must say something about the folly of her actions. "I fear it will not win you any friends."

"They hate me anyway," she says. "I don't see any harm in giving them another reason to despise me. Shall we go?"


It is like a dream come true when he enters the Viscount's ballroom side-by-side with Hawke. Every noble in the room turns to look at them, but Hawke does not falter, head held high. After a moment, the nobles turn away, and the buzz of conversation surrounds them.

"An ELF." "Those TATTOOS." "- explains why she wasn't interested."

"Well here we are," says Hawke, stepping into a window alcove where they are shielded from the crowds. "Mother likes me to mingle, but what she doesn't know can't hurt her."

"They see you as a threat," he says, keeping his eyes on the crowd.

Hawke shakes her head. "They just don't like newcomers. Or Fereldans. It doesn't matter that I'm half Amell, to them I will always be a 'stinking doglord'." She doesn't quite pull off the Marcher accent.

A drinks waiter walks past, and Hawke steps out to take a glass then downs it in one gulp. The band is playing, and Fenris cocks his head to catch the tune. It is familiar – similar to one that was played in Tevinter.

"Would you like to really give them a show?" he asks, a wicked grin forming on his face, and offers her his hand.

"I really have not drunk enough for this," she grumbles, but takes his hand anyway.


They are the only ones on the dancefloor.

"I hope you know what you're doing," Hawke says under her breath, "Because I don't have a clue."

"Just follow me," he replies, and takes her in his arms. She settles into the hold, and on the next beat, he steps. She follows, and almost stumbles into him, but he corrects her and they continue.

Heads are turning again, but he ignores them, focusing entirely on Hawke looking back at him, her eyes alive, her cheeks flushed.

"I didn't know you could dance," she says. "Did they teach you this in Tevinter?"

"Yes," he replies, and is about to leave it at that. But, he is here, this is Hawke, and he wants to say more. "Danarius liked me to dance with the women. I was something they could never have."

Hawke is silent, and Fenris instantly regrets saying anything about dancing with other women. He wants to say, but it was not like this – not by choice, and never, ever pleasurable, but his throat is working against him.

He is so aware of every place they are touching. Her hand in his, his arm around her waist, her fingertips resting lightly on his shoulder. He can smell the flowers she's washed her hair with, but no perfume. Instead, he can smell the scent of her. He likes that. Her lack of artifice. So different to the made-up ladies of Tevinter, or even the Marches.

"I'm glad you're here," she says at last. "You've actually made this whole experience somewhat enjoyable."

The next dance is slower. More couples join them on the dance floor, and Hawke steps in closer to him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He can feel a warm flush creeping up his neck, and tries to think of something – anything – other than her warm body pressed up against him.

"How is the shoulder?" he asks.

"Sore," she says, and he can see the renewed redness.

"I'm sorry," he says, the guilt stabbing at him again. "It's my fault, I-"

"Anders told me you think it's your fault. It's not, so forget about it."

"Marian-" he says, and it strikes him that this is the first time he's said her name aloud.

"Fenris," she answers, but her tone is impatient. "It's not. your. fault."

"Marian," he says, but this time it's just to say her name again. She looks at him quizzically, and he realises that he has come close – too close – to showing something far too fragile to be revealed.

"I-" whatever he is about to say is cut off by a red-faced Comte de Launcet tapping him on the shoulder. He turns to look at him, and the Comte laughs,

"You don't mind if I cut in, do you serah? You can't have the prettiest lady in the room all to yourself."

And then Hawke is dancing with him, and Fenris is standing by himself in the middle of a dancefloor filled with couples.


It is late at night when they leave the ball, and Hawke is drunk. She's laughing, and crashing into him as they walk, and he puts his arm around her to keep her upright.

"The looks on their faces," she's saying, "When we walked in together. That was worth having to dance with the Comte."

"I'm glad it pleased you," he says, his attention on the dark corners and shadowed alleyways that could conceal any number of thugs. Hightown, for all its grandness, was not a safe place to be at night.

"It pleased me very much," she says, and suddenly stops walking. He takes a step too far, then turns back to her. She flings her arms around his neck, and leans heavily on him. Her breath is sour with wine. "Being with you," she says, "Pleased me very much."

"Hawke..." he says in warning, "You're drunk."

"Drunk and happy," she agrees. "I never thought I'd be happy after one of those rotten balls. All pomp and hot air. I don't know how you could stand it in Tevinter."

"I didn't have much of a choice," he says lightly.

"I know," she says, and for a moment she sounds sad. But then she smiles, "But you have a choice now, and you chose to come with me. You know what that makes you?"

"No," he says.

"Free. And also of impeccable taste. Did you know you have impeccable taste?"

"Hawke, I really think we should take you home."

"Home..." she says, and her tone changes. "Where is home? Not Lothering. Not Fereldan. Not Kirkwall either. I'm not sure I have a home. Do you?"

"No," he says shortly. "But we really do need to get you back to the estate."

Hawke's looking at him, and she seems to sober for a moment, and nods. But then she's leaning close to him, so close that her nose almost touches his.

"Fenris-" she says.

"Hawke..." he says warily.

"You called me Marian, before." Her golden eyes are locked on his, insistent, demanding.

"Marian," he says, softly. And that fragile, fluttering thing is in his voice.

And she leans forward, and his lips find hers.

He's kissing her, she's kissing him. He doesn't know who started it. His hands are on her shoulders, but whether to pull her in or push her away, he doesn't know. He lets it continue. No, he gives in wholeheartedly, until she finally draws back, and takes a deep breath.

"We can go home now," she says, and smiles.


The walk back to the estate is quick and without incident. When they get there, Hawke smiles at him, and then he's staring at a closed door emblazoned with the Amell crest. He turns around, heads back to his own bed.

He flings himself down then turns and looks out the window at the moon. It is waning, more than halfway to the dark moon, and he cannot take his mind off that kiss.

She was drunk. She will either regret it or forget it in the morning. But his heart is hammering in his chest so loud that all of Kirkwall should be able to hear.

He closes his eyes, tries to recall every feeling of her lips on his, her arms around his neck, his nose filled with her scent.

It is a long time before sleep claims him.

The next morning, Fenris rises at the usual time but there is no knock on his door. He paces around the room, picks up his sword, makes practice swings, before putting it down again a few minutes later.

She probably just slept late. Or is taking the day off.

He just hopes it isn't shame that's keeping her away.

When the sun reaches its zenith, and his belly growls with hunger, he decides to get some fresh air, hoping the change of scene will take his mind off things.

He sheathes his sword on his back, and sets out for the Hanged Man.

"Elf," is Varric's greeting. "You missed a great game of Diamondback last night."

He doesn't know what to say, so he just grunts.

"Where were you, anyway? I didn't know you had any other friends."

"Busy," is his gruff reply.

"Oh ho, I can tell there's a story there," Varric says, a laugh in his voice. "But I won't press you. I know how you value your privacy."

"So who won?"

"Me, of course. Wiped the floor with the lot of them. You're the only one who gives me a run for my money. When you're not there, it's almost too easy." Varric indicates to the barman, and a waitress walks over with a tankard of beer, foam spilling over the top, and places it in front of Fenris. "Have you seen Hawke?" he says, "She hasn't come around today."

"No," Fenris says, and feels the clutching around his heart lessen slightly. "I haven't seen her."

"Maybe she finally took my advice and decided to have the day off. Good on her." Varric takes a draw from his own tankard. "Drink up elf, I know it's not your usual taste, but it's good for you."

Fenris picks up the tankard and takes a sip. The beer is thick and yeasty and warm. It could almost be a meal in itself and his stomach growls hungrily.

"You've got something here," says the dwarf, Fenris runs his hand over his lip and flicks off the foam that clings to his fingers.

He takes another drink.

"So what do you do when you're not following Hawke around?" he asks Varric.

"Me? I always find a way to keep myself in trouble. Call it a talent."

"You're an unusual dwarf."

"You're an unusual elf." The dwarf's blue eyes are on him and Fenris looks back to the tankard so he doesn't have to meet them. It's a long moment before the dwarf speaks again. "You know, I heard a story that might interest you. Call it a rumour. Of an elf attending the Viscount's ball."

"Really." Fenris does his best to try to sound disinterested and takes another, longer drink.

"Yes, I thought that might interest you. By all accounts, he danced with Serah Hawke all night, and most beautifully. Hightown is abuzz trying to find out this mysterious elf's identity."

Fenris doesn't know what to say. So he takes another drink. The taste is growing on him.

"You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"No."

"Interesting. Then I guess Hawke knows another tattooed, white-haired elf she's not telling us about."

He takes another drink, and is starting to feel distinctly light headed.

"It's none of your business, Varric."

"Of course not," he says, and taps a pack of cards against the table – where did they even come from? "But don't you find it interesting that Hawke chose to publicly associate herself with this mysterious elf?" He shuffles the cards and smiles. "Diamondback?"


By the time he leaves the Hanged Man, Fenris is much worse for wear and his purse much lighter. He's still thinking of Hawke as he makes his way home. But doesn't expect to see her leaning against the pillar outside his door.

"Hawke," he says, confused, and she straightens herself.

"Fenris."

"What are you doing here?" he asks, and feels a sense of deja vu.

She steps closer. She's wringing her hands together, and she looks down. "I came to apologise."

"For what?" He feels like he's thinking through a fog.

"Throwing myself at you. You were a perfect gentleman all night and I think I may have embarrassed myself. I'm.. I'm sorry for putting you in that situation."

He blinks.

Hawke tilts her head to the side, looking at him. "I hope you can forgive me."

A thousand things he wants to say. But none of them make it to his mouth. "There's nothing to forgive, Hawke." His voice rougher than usual. She doesn't seem to notice.

She smiles. "You really are too kind to me. I won't forget it, Fenris." She whirls and walks away.

Neither will I.