Fenris held her. It felt… strange. There was a certain sort of wrongness in it, not because it was evil or because he thought he should be feeling guilty, but because he almost felt as thought she should be holding him. He let the thought go and sat down on the bed, easily bringing her down against him.
"Mahariel," he said against her hair.
"Lyna," she said, gently.
He looked up. "Hm?"
"Mahariel is my family name. Lyna is my given name."
"...I," he sputtered a bit.
"It's okay, Fenris," she said, and kissed his brow. "Would you like to sleep? It's late. I have some work I should finish but you… can stay here," she finally decided. She didn't tell him that she didn't want to sleep because she was afraid of the dreams that would come to her.
The Calling had gotten so strong lately. She wondered if Anders had felt it the same.
When morning broke over Vigil's Keep, Mahariel was already up; which was to say, she hadn't laid down again during the night. She had quietly washed and changed while Fenris rested, and piled the mostly empty plates from the previous night's meal on top of the table with the empty candlesticks to be cleaned, mopped up the spilt wine with a cloth from her washroom. She was working at her desk now since the top of the table was otherwise too crowded, dressed in a thin, summery shift, her hair braided and tied up high on her head, still damp from her bath.
She felt good. She felt warm. Before she had settled down to her work, she had leaned against her door frame and stared at Fenris, resting in her bed, for several minutes before she put out the candles and let him sleep. There was, of course, still a nagging, not so much in her heart as in the pit of her stomach, but she was quelling it slowly. She didn't love Fenris anyway, she told herself, no more than Fenris loved her. After all, Anders had been with others, even confessed to his feelings for the poor mage made Tranquil, and Mahariel had never held it against him. Right now, she sensed, she and Fenris were seeking the same thing: a way to not be alone.
Mahariel checked through one stack of papers for errors; it would probably be double and triple checked before it made it to the family it was actually intended for, but she was no slouch. Narrowing her eyes, she reread her words carefully, closely, and almost leapt out of her seat when she felt hands on her shoulders.
"My apologies," came a rough voice from behind her, and the warmth she had let go came rushing back to her heart, her stomach, her loins. Licking her lips, she stood slowly, and turned to face the silver-haired elf who had warmed her sheets the night before.
"Good morning, Fenris," she smiled at him.
"A very good morning indeed, M- Lyna." He wasn't sure if he should, wasn't sure what, if anything, bound them together now that the veil of night was lifted from them, but he bent forward and kissed her firmly, and was happy to find that even in the pastel glow of morning, she didn't pull away. He had been worried, had risen before the sun, but chose to remain in bed, wondering if it were only his previous rage, fear, sublimated into passion, that had joined them, and now, once dissipated, would rend them apart. But he found he did not hate her for what she had done, only found himself trying to understand it, knew how to understand it but could not himself understand it, and despite that, found himself still wanting to know every freckle on her skin, every hair on her head, again, and again.
It scared him, and was wonderful.
"Before I knew who you were, I saw you in The Hanged Man and thought that you were beautiful."
"Fenris, it's too early for flattery," Mahariel said, part in jest, but part seriously to quash any romantic notions the elf might be entertaining. "But," she confessed, "you're pretty easy on the eyes yourself." He was, at that. In fact, he was marvelous to look at. Long and thin and sinewy like a willow branch, eyes like a clear pond full of life, and his lips, she now knew, were just as soft and lush as their appearance let on. Everything else about him, though, was tough, solid, and more skilled than she had expected. Though, to be fair, she hadn't been sure what to expect, nor was she any great arbiter of what was skillful lovemaking. Alistair had been her first, and her only, until Anders. Neither had deprived her of any great pleasure that she could imagine, Alistair in his raw and innocent way, Anders much more experienced. But Fenris was almost violently passionate. It wasn't something she was sure could be taught. Maybe it had only been an outlet for his anger, maybe it was just a desperate forging of closeness. It wasn't better, wasn't bad, but it was so different. Alistair and Anders made love to her. Fenris… did not.
It occurred to her then that this was the first time she'd been with one of her own people. The two men she'd been with before had been human men, but she and Fenris were both elves. Mahariel wasn't sure what, if any, difference she had made, but had she stayed with her own people, she thought, the situation would more than likely have been entirely reverse. Indeed, when she was with the Dalish, her whole focus had been on her tribe and herself, especially her own physical and mental training; if it hadn't had been, she may never have been given the opportunity to become a Grey Warden - but then again, if she had not, she might never have been arrogant enough to go into that cave with Tamlen.
Mahariel took a deep breath.
"Care for a walk, Fenris?"