Chapter Four
He dreams of her that night. Of dancing with her under the stars. She's laughing with delight as they twirl and step, her eyes reflecting the starlight. His fingers find the scar on her shoulder, feeling every bump of knotted tissue, and he memorises the pattern, a silent promise to make it up to her. She snuggles up to him, her head resting on his shoulder, and he wraps his arm protectively around her.
"Te amor," he whispers into her ear, and she sighs happily, her hand slipping through his clothing, his shirt, to rest against bare skin. "Nunc scio quid sit amor."
She lifts her head, looks up at him. "I love you too," she says.
But something is not right. He looks up, and Anders is descending from clouds that have suddenly covered the stars, eyes and skin crackling with lightning. He cries out, brandishing his staff, and Fenris is aflame, the pain as bad as when Danarius burned the lyrium into his skin, and Hawke is backing away from him, shaking her head, saying "I'm sorry, this never should have happened, forgive me." And then he's watching again, peering around the doorjam, as Anders thrusts into Hawke, but this time Justice is in control, and Hawke is crying out, and she sees Fenris, reaches out a hand for him, crying "Fenris, help me!"
He wakes up covered in sweat. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, and sits there, head in hands, as he tries to slow his racing heart.
"So, are you happy?"
Mother is standing in the doorway, hands on her hips. Hawke blinks wearily at her from the bed.
"The whole neighbourhood is talking about you and that elf. The rumors are… unwholesome."
"Let them talk," says Hawke, and waves her mother away, falling back onto the pillow.
"All I want is for you to do well for yourself. Is that too much to ask?" Her Mother's voice is getting closer, but Hawke keeps her eyes firmly shut.
"Not this again, Mother."
"You dancing with that elf, making such a spectacle of yourself, has not helped your chances of making a good match."
"I don't care. I'm not looking for a lord to fuck."
"Marian! Don't you know the blood you carry in your veins?"
"Yes, yes. Must keep the Amell line going."
"Well, your brother can't. Nor can your sister. You saw to that."
"Mother!" She sits up. Mother is standing beside the bed, arms folded across her chest, wearing that frown. "Carver was always impetuous, I don't know how you expected me to stop him. And Bethany…. she's not dead, Mother. She's in the Circle."
"And any children she has will be illegitimate."
"I am more than your aspirations for our line! You gave up everything for father, what changed?"
"We're back in Kirkwall now. I can at least see that my father's line does not die out because of your stubbornness!"
Hawke gives a disgusted cry and throws off the bed clothes. She stands up in her nightwear, looks pointedly at the door.
"I'm getting dressed, Mother."
She crosses to the door, but pauses a moment before walking through, turning back to her daughter. "And don't think I don't know what's going on between you and that apostate. No good will come of it, Marian."
"Out!"
Lady Selbrech is taking tea in her rooftop garden when Hawke arrives at her estate.
"Serah Hawke," she says. "Care to join me?"
Hawke sits down at the filigree table, and takes a moment to evaluate her host. The blonde woman is actually wearing a dress but the delicate tea cup she holds looks oddly misplaced in her rough and callused hands.
Selbrech gently places the cup in its saucer before picking up the pot.
"Sometimes I like to play at being a lady," she says as she pours the tea, then looks up at Hawke. "Although I still don't find myself very convincing."
"I feel the same," Hawke says, with a genuine smile. "All of this pomp and pageantry is new to me."
"Really?" She passes the cup to Hawke. "That's not the rumour from the Viscount's Ball. I find it pays to play along, every so often. But I try not to forget my roots."
Hawke takes a sip of the tea, and looks out over the ivy-covered balustrade to the city stretching out before them.
"There's some good to Kirkwall, you know," Selbrech says suddenly. "I know it's got its share of scum and villainry, but it has a strong heart. A heart of freedom."
"Freedom?" Hawke says, raising her eyebrows. "From the City of Chains?"
"I think that's part of it. We have a long history of occupation. First the Imperium, then the Qunari, finally the Orlesians. That history drives us. Every Kirkwaller will fight to defend their freedom. It's in our blood."
"Your own freedoms, maybe. But not those of others." Not the freedom of mages, or elves.
"Can you show me a city that does?" Selbrech stands and walks to the balustrade, gesturing at the city with her teacup. "That's why this situation is such a travesty. The Viscount should be an independent office, one chosen by the nobles, not one granted," she almost spits the word, "by the Knight-Commander. We've gone from Orlesian rule to Templar dictatorship."
Hawke is silent, but Selbrech continues.
"I can't say that openly, of course. Even trying to ascertain the opinions of other nobles has proven rather dangerous." She suddenly turns, snapping her eyes to Hawke, and regains her seat. "Tell me, did you find anything when you killed those marauders?"
"Yes," says Hawke, and puts down the cup with a clink. "A promisory note. Unsigned," she says as Ser Selbrech's eyes light up, "But for a significant amount of coin." She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the note, smoothing it before she passes it across the table.
The lady takes the note. "Lord Hariman," she says promptly. "I knew my probing would get back to him."
"How can you be so sure?"
"He's a slippery one, and rich enough to pay this kind of debt. I've always suspected he supports Meredith."
"We need more proof before we can act. Is there anything we can do to make him show his hand?"
Selbrech taps the corner of the note against the table thoughtfully.
"I can arrange a caravan to Starkhaven, on the pretext of trading silk. But I'll let slip that I have supporters there. Hariman won't refuse the opportunity to learn more of my plans."
"You think he'll waylay the caravan?"
"I'm almost certain. And with the damage you did to his hired men, he'll have to use some of his own forces. If we capture them alive, we may be able to make them talk."
Hawke nods, once, sharply. "When?"
"As soon as we can. This plan hinges on him not having the time to hire more recruits."
"I'm ready whenever you are."
"Then give me two days."
It is days before there is a knock on his door. His hand has healed, and he keeps himself busy with swordplay, practicing swing after swing until his muscles are trembling with exertion and sweat runs down his body. As the sun descends over the city, he makes his way to Lowtown. Drinks with Varric, and hopes that Hawke will show up. She does not. Varric does not speak of it. And when Fenris falls into periods of silence, Varric rattles on regardless. He has a feeling the dwarf is trying to distract him.
When the morning arrives with a familiar knock, he grabs his sword and takes the steps two at a time. But when he opens the front door, his heart falls.
"Hawke," he says, then: "Anders."
The mage is standing behind Hawke, that irritating look in his eyes that screams smug ownership. He wants to beat it out of him, wipe that self-congratulatory little smile from his lips. His hands twitch into fists, but he forces it down.
"Fenris," Hawke says with a smile, "Care to take part in an ambush?"
Hawke's plan has them packed inside a caravan, hiding behind bolts of silk. There's so little room they're more or less sitting in each other's pockets, and Fenris is absurdly grateful for the dwarf's mediating presence.
After hours of Varric's small talk, the caravan is finally silent. The mage leans with his head back against the side of the cart, eyes closed, staff laid out across his lap. The dwarf is asleep against a bolt of silk, snoring occasionally, and Hawke, squished in between Fenris and Anders, is idly playing with one of her daggers. He watches her use it to dig dirt out from beneath a fingernail.
The cart continues to rattle onwards and when the movement jogs them together Fenris is aware of every inch of skin that touches. Hawke does not react. But neither does she move away.
"Hawke," he says softly, and she turns to him. He can feel her skin where the vambraces expose his arm. His eyes drop to their touching skin, and hers follow a moment later. Then she looks back up at him and is there… could there be… something hiding behind her eyes?
"Hawke," he says again, and then, more quietly, aware that Anders is just on the other side of her; "Marian..." And that forsaken, fluttering thing is back in his voice.
Her eyes widen, lips parting. "Fenris?" she says, and in his name is every question he's afraid to answer, and he takes a breath to respond when the caravan hits a rock and Anders is jolted awake.
"Hawke?" the mage says, bringing his staff up, and she turns to him.
"It's okay," she says, "We're not there yet." And she settles back down against the side of the caravan and doesn't look at him again.
When the attack comes, the bolts of silk get in the way. While men shout and clash swords around them, Fenris is grabbing his sword and trying to make his way past the bales of cloth to join the fray.
When he gets out into the sunlight, he can immediately see that the plan has worked – although dressed shabbily, the men who face them are not common bandits. They fight like noble-trained swordsmen, and it is a pleasure to cross swords with them.
It's funny how they fall back into their usual patterns so quickly. Fenris engaging the foes, drawing their attention, while Hawke delivers her quick and lethal blows to their flank. As the last enemy falls, he finds himself throwing a bloody grin at Hawke, and is surprised to see her quick, proud smile in return.
Then she is rifling through the men's belongings, and Fenris turns away.
Anders is moving amongst the men, and every so often Fenris can feel a prickle of magic; stabilising their wounds, no doubt; they need survivors today.
"Nothing," Hawke says, standing up and putting her hands on her hips.
"What were you expecting?" Anders asks with a laugh.
"I don't know, a note saying 'I work for Lord Hariman' would have been nice."
"Not going to happen, Hawke," Varric says. "The lords have been playing this game for a long time."
"We have forced him to extend himself," Fenris adds. "These men were not hirelings."
"We'll take them back for questioning," says Hawke, then turns to Lady Selbrech's men. "Tie them up, put them in the cart, and let's head home."
When Fenris returns to the mansion, his heart feels as empty as its halls. He takes off his sword, unbuckles his armour and sinks down into a chair in front of the fire. Reaching down, he fishes around in the cabinet next to him, pulls out a bottle, and takes a long drink. When he wipes his mouth, he looks at the red wine staining the back of his hand and remembers the feel of Hawke's lips. The look in her eyes when she faced him. The weight of her arms around his neck.
But she had regretted that. Had apologised for it.
And he – he had accepted it.
Coward.
He could have said something. Should have said something. If his tongue and his guts hadn't frozen inside him.
He takes another drink.
It's too bad Hawke isn't here now. There's nothing like a bottle of wine to loosen the tongue.
Another gulp.
What would he even say if she did come?
Hawke, he'd start. She'd be wearing her armour, still bloodstained, straight from the battlefield. He can imagine the smell of her sweat.
Hawke, he'd say. Then, Marian. He likes the sound of her name.
Marian, he'd say, just to hear it again. I.. I've been thinking. The other night. When we kissed. I... did not regret it.
What you want to say is you loved it.
What you want to say is you love her.
And she would step forward, the fire lighting her face, and she would smile, and step forward, until he can feel her breath across his chin.
"I did not regret it either," she would say. And he would take her in his arms, like he did at the ball, and he would kiss her. Again. And she would moan, the noise awakening something deep inside, and he would pull her closer, kiss her cheeks, her chin, nip his way down her neck as she gasps...
He realises he's fallen asleep when there's a knock on the door. A tentative knock, not her usual confident stacatto. He raises his head slowly, unsure that he's heard it. But then it comes again, a little louder.
He stands up, the empty bottle falling to the ground, and makes his way down the stairs. Heart thumping, he hesitates only a moment before he pulls open the door in one swift move.
"Got you," says one of the men, and a bag is thrown over his head.