AN: Another surprisingly difficult chapter to get out. It also took the liberty of throwing me some plot twists that took me wholly by surprise and required a great deal of reworking of the last few chapters to fit in. Thank goodness the internet has a vast and thorough knowledge of obscure bits of Roman history, and special thanks to Jade for kicking my rear into gear and making me finish this chapter.

Chapter Six

-.-.-

Cruelty has a human heart,
And Jealousy a human face;
Terror the human form divine,
And Secresy the human dress.

The human dress is forged iron,
The human form a fiery forge,
The human face a furnace sealed,
The human heart its hungry gorge.

—A Divine Image, William Blake

-.-.-

The morning begins, as Hawke's mornings are not unknown to do, with a scream.

"Whasphit?" Hawke asks intelligently. She is blurry with sleep and vaguely aware of something pressing her down into the sheets—she'd been having such a nice dream, too, of Lothering and Bethany looking up at her, laughing, from her seat on a hooked wool rug—and then she realizes the thing across her shoulders is Fenris's arm, and that that arm is glowing blue.

"Fenris," she says then, suddenly fully awake, because his other, also-glowing arm is wrist deep in Palla's chest. The girl is white with terror and pain, her brown eyes huge and fixed on Fenris where he leans over Hawke, her half-raised hands frozen in futile supplication under the implacability of Fenris's strength.

"Fenris!" Hawke snaps—and that works; he blinks as if sun-touched, then pulls his hand from Palla in a sharp and graceless gesture as if he is startled to find it there. She stumbles back, weeping, and Hawke pushes Fenris out of the way as she sits up, barely remembering to pull the sheet over her nakedness as she reaches out one hand to the trembling girl. "Palla—"

Palla lets out a frightened sob and flees.

"Oh, damn," Hawke says as the door closes behind her, and then she turns on Fenris. He is as bare as she, the white sheets pooled around his waist a sharp contrast to the tanned skin of his stomach and chest; he looks at his hands as if they are not quite his own, brow furrowed and fingers crooked in unconscious threat, and the lyrium laid over his bones still leaks sporadic tremors of light. "What was that?"

"She surprised me," he says, clenching his fingers to extinguish the glow, and adds more uncertainly, "There—was a knife."

Hawke glances over the side of the bed to see a little silver tray upended on the rug, five or six sealed envelopes scattered around it, and beside her foot, just peeping out from under the bedskirt—

"Deadly indeed," Hawke says, and plucks from the carpet a slender ceramic letter opener.

Fenris scowls. "This is hardly the time for your mockery."

"I mock with love," she says, though her heart is still thumping out a sharp staccato behind her ribs. "Fenris, that was Palla. She's been bringing me breakfast for over two weeks and she hasn't tried to kill me even once. That's practically a record in Kirkwall."

"You know she is not safe to trust."

"Or used to finding a naked elf in my bed," she mutters to herself, but Fenris is right and worse, they now must manage the added complication of their relationship exposed for scrutiny—but still Hawke cannot shake the memory of Palla's pale and pleading face, frightened past tears, and she resolves to seek her out at the first opportunity to make sure she is all right. "That doesn't mean you should kill the girl for trying to save me paper cuts."

"She should never have entered without permission," Fenris retorts, but Hawke knows his concern is for more than a disobeyed order. "If she wished, she might have killed you."

"Accidents happen."

"Hawke."

"Sorry—I'm sorry. Don't give me that look." She leans over to drop a quick kiss on his frown, then slides free from the sheets and runs her fingers through her hair. "Okay. Turn off the glow and let's go see how bad the damage is."

-.-.-

"You sent her where?"

Dalos is pale with anxiety but still standing, though his eyes are trained firmly on the thick blue rug under Hawke's feet. "The market, mistress. For fresh candles."

"Dalos," Hawke says through gritted teeth, and Fenris can almost hear the drag of her fingers over her face. Fifteen minutes it had taken them to dress and track down Dalos—but apparently that had done nothing but give Palla a healthy lead in her flight. "She was distraught. Was it really a good idea to send her, alone, to the middle of Minrathous?"

Her steward opens his mouth, hesitates, and says nothing; his eyes dart to Hawke's chin and then away, and Fenris raises an eyebrow. Dalos is old enough to know his place, certainly careful enough to be circumspect if he survived six years under Danarius, and Fenris does not know if it is a mark of his growing nerve or Hawke's own nonexistent discipline that he dares to dissemble now. "Magister…" says Dalos, "I…"

"Spit it out."

"I feared for her," Dalos says all at once, and then he licks his lips as if to take the words back. His eyes fix themselves to Hawke's like a frightened rabbit's to a falcon's, wide and glittering with dread, and when she says nothing Dalos flinches back as if she has struck him. It does not matter that Fenris knows her silence is from surprise and not displeasure—Dalos's admission is as much a betrayal as a confession, as dangerous as the naked edge of a blade, and Dalos knows as well as Fenris does that any other master would have him flayed. "That is—I only—"

"It's all right," Hawke says, her face softening, but the words tumble from her greying steward like an unstoppered faucet.

"She—was terrified, Mistress, and weeping—she said she'd been—" and here a quick, anxious glance at Fenris, "—punished—because she trespassed on your privacy and I thought that, if you saw her, if she roused your anger again—"

"Better to send her out of the path of the storm, you mean," Hawke says, and her voice is gentle.

"Yes, Mistress," Dalos says miserably, his jaw clenched. "Just as you say."

"It's all right," Hawke says again, and when Dalos still does not ease his white-knuckled fists, she reaches out to touch his shoulder. "Honestly. It's fine. She didn't upset me; it was an accident. I just wanted to make sure she wasn't hurt."

She might as well have told the man she wanted to leap off the roof. "What?"

Fenris barely keeps from grimacing. Almost a month they've been in this marble mansion and still they are surprised when Hawke reaches for mercy over the whip—but in truth, he knows he should not be so surprised. Danarius was not known for his compassion and Hawke is, after all, his direct and legal heir; that she is foreign-born makes little difference to her slaves when her title and her tongue are those of their oppressors. A padded collar is still a collar, and Fenris knows that Minrathous slaves are not unused to the barbs hidden in a magister's honeyed touch.

Or too-sweet smile, he adds to himself, though Hawke's grin has precious little artifice in it. "Why, Dalos, I do believe you're showing your spine."

"Mistress, forgive me—"

"No need. No—Dalos, stop it. Look at me." It takes both hands on his shoulders, gentle but steady, before Hawke can keep the man from going to his knees, and Fenris mentally consigns their every effort at blending with Minrathous nobility to the flame. "I swear, Dalos, in the name of the Maker, that as long as I am mistress of this house I will never lift a hand against you. Any of you. I swear it."

Hawke, Fenris groans silently, but Dalos is staring at her like a man who has found himself in the presence of Andraste herself, startled and disbelieving and deeply afraid, and when she smiles he mimics the expression with something far too tremulous to be sincere. Still, there is something in the elf's face, something strong that was not there before, and he opens his mouth—

But before he can speak, the far doors to the drawing room creak open and a tall elven woman with blonde hair steps towards them with a bow. "I beg your pardon, Mistress," she says, "but the carriage you ordered has arrived."

Hawke lets her hands drop from Dalos's shoulders. "Thank you…?"

"Ara, Magister," she murmurs, and Hawke throws Fenris a glance as if the name is somehow meaningful.

"Of course. Thank you, Ara. Find Varric, please, and tell him we'll be right there. We're going to the docks," Hawke adds to Dalos, already reaching for the small satchel she'd left on a table against the wall, "and then to the amphitheater. Don't keep lunch—we won't be back until late."

"Yes, Mistress," he says smoothly, his face already composed into the placid obedience of a well-trained slave, and Hawke sighs as she heads for the door with Fenris close behind her.

"So long, Dalos."

"Goodbye, Mistress."

-.-.-

The Siren's Call II stands alone in the Minrathous harbor, tall and sleek and proud even with her sails furled tightly against her spars, and Fenris can feel his spirits lift despite himself at the clean, crisp sea breezes that blow in from the north. It takes little time to pay the driver and send him on his way; soon enough, he, Hawke, and Varric are aboard the comfortably rocking deck of the Call, quiet and private and as safe as they can hope to be in Minrathous without actually leaving her shores. Isabela meets them at the rail, tanned and grinning, and when they reach her Hawke practically leaps into the woman's arms.

"Isabela! You're still here!"

"You sound so surprised. I think I'm offended."

"No, you aren't, and don't even try to tell me you're spending your days just sitting in the harbor waiting quietly for our call."

Isabela laughs. "You don't believe I can lay low?"

"Not alone, no," Hawke says frankly as she holds the other woman at arm's length.

Isabela scowls. "Ooh, Varric. You've been blabbing."

Varric grins and doffs an invisible hat. "I do have friends, Rivaini, even here."

"Friends with sticky fingers and big mouths."

"We all have our vices."

"Some more than others," Fenris mutters, and gestures at the hold. "We should continue this inside."

"Spoilsport," Isabela says, pouting, and before he can protest she has slung him into a rough, one-armed hug. "Sounds like someone doesn't like his cushy mansion."

"It is not mine," he says shortly, ducking into the cool and slant-dimmed shadows of the ship's interior and shrugging her arm from his shoulders.

"Touchy," Isabela stage-whispers to Hawke, who at least has the courtesy not to laugh aloud.

The hatch falls closed behind them with a gentle thud, and Varric sighs. "Trapped again. If I don't make it back to the surface, tell Blondie I always liked his feathers."

"There are worse places to be, Varric."

"Yeah, like actually at sea."

Isabela rolls her eyes. "Does Tevinter always turn people into such squalling babes?"

"We mock because we care, Rivaini."

"But you care the wrong way—"

"If we could," Fenris says, voice even as he pushes open the door to the captain's cabin, "return to the task at hand?"

"Touchy and bossy," Isabela huffs, but she sails into her quarters without further complaint.

The room is not as large as he would have expected, given the size of the ship, but Isabela's cabin is still considerably grander than the rooms the rest of them had used on the voyage here. The centerpiece is a large, sturdy table covered in maps and star-charts, held in place with inkwells and an expensive-looking brass sextant; the walls themselves are light-wooded but well-made, lined above and below with intricate, mosaic molding; and on a platform raised two steps up at the very stern of the ship, jutted hard against the wall under the short, wide windows that let in the clear morning light, is Isabela's low bed, heaped with soft, warm blankets.

"Did I tell you last time that this is cozy?" Hawke asks, moving a half-full wine bottle away from the edge of a roll-top desk. "Because it is. Very cozy."

"You say the sweetest things, Hawke."

Varric sinks onto the narrow chair placed in front of the desk as if the wood itself is an anchor, gripping the sides of the seat so hard Fenris hears it creak in protest; Isabela pulls the other, grander chair from under the table strewn with maps and takes her seat with a flourish. There are no other chairs in the room, but she waves a generous hand towards her bed, and after a moment's silent, shared deliberation, Fenris finds himself and Hawke perching carefully on the edge of a red and black quilt.

"I knew I'd finally get you two in there."

Hawke snorts. "Don't push it."

"Anyway," Varric says, cutting off the argument before it can begin, "I think it's time to call this meeting of the Elfin Liberation Society to order."

"Ha, ha, ha."

"Varric Tethras, presiding." He pulls from his coat his little black book of Danarius's accounts and places it on the desk at his elbow with pronounced gravitas. "Who wants to go first?"

"I've got the numbers—"

"The chair recognizes Captain Isabela."

"Recognize me again and you're going over the rail." Varric grins, holding up a placating hand, and Isabela turns back to Hawke. "I've got the numbers you asked for, Hawke. It depends on the ages—we can manage two children for every adult, I think—but conservatively, I think I can take up to eight or nine extra bodies if we handle the rations carefully. I might be able to push it to ten if some of them can work abovedecks, but it'll be more crowded than the Rose on a feastday if we try for any more than that."

"Good. I don't even know if any of them will want to leave—Minrathous is their home, such as it is, and I don't know if they'll be willing to give that up for a city like Kirkwall, but it's good to know we at least have that option if we need it. How's the crew holding up?"

Isabela leans back in her chair, kicking one booted foot over the other on the lip of the oak table. "They're my crew and I'm their captain. They're paid to hold up and keep it up as long as I ask them to."

Hawke coughs into her hand. "Fair enough. Varric?"

"His books are an accounting disaster. Well, not a wreck, really—in fact, they're meticulous in their detail—but they're spread out over six different ledgers and accounts all over the city. The man really didn't want anyone to know how much he was worth—which by the way, elf, seems about a wink and a smile more than you're worth. I had no idea you were so, hm. Precious."

"Dwarf…"

"I'm just saying I can see why the guy chased you across the continent, is all. I mean, when the major controlling interest of a very valuable estate suddenly disappears into the Fade like a—"

"Varric!"

"Okay, okay! Look, you've got eighty-four slaves right now—eighty-three, not counting the elf with the glare—and even though it wasn't easy to get these figures straightened out, as far as I can tell you've got sovereigns to spare."

"Really? Even with the plans we discussed?"

"Hawke, I don't think you understand how much Danarius actually had. You could free another thirty slaves if you liked, each with a year's salary, and you'd still have coin to burn when you were through."

"Another…" Hawke straightens next to Fenris, her eyes looking off into the middle distance. "Another thirty."

"Don't lose your focus now," Fenris warns, and her gaze snaps back to his face, "or you will ruin them all. We still have unfinished business in this city."

She smiles. "The Fog Warriors. I haven't forgotten."

Fenris sits back, appeased, and the conversation turns to Varric's not-inconsiderable network of subterfuge. Hawke had been right about his effect on her household; with his easy charm and a judicious application of silver, he'd managed to turn all but one of the spies in her household away from enemy magisters—or simply noblemen with too much money—and into his own veritable army, but he'd had less luck curbing the outrageous rumors about Hawke herself spreading like brushfire through the whispering city.

"And they're saying the most delicious things, too," Isabela says with evident glee. "Every bar I go to I hear about the peculiar new magister and her…peculiar handsome elf."

"Are we really doing this again?"

"Bodyguard, they ask, or bodyguard—"

"And I'm sure you're the soul of discretion."

Isabela links both hands behind her head as Varric guffaws. "You know me, Hawke. Tact is my middle name."

"Really. Isabela Tact."

"It's got a ring to it, doesn't it?"

"Stop helping, Varric."

Fenris snorts. He is not usually so easy with Isabela's teasing, especially at his expense, but the clear sunlight through the windows is warm on his back and Hawke is laughing and they are safe, and even if he wouldn't trust the pirate with his coin he would with his life, and with Hawke's life, and if the price for a few moments of certain safety is a gentle dig at his pride, he thinks the cost is not so steep as to begrudge it. Besides, there is no ill will behind the jibes—and that in itself sets his companions apart from the whole of the city lying with sheathed claws at their backs.

Varric mutters something and Isabela explodes in laughter, her booted toe knocking over a small brass spyglass that had been standing on the corner of a faded, flaking map. It rolls back towards her on its side and bumps to a gentle stop against the raised lip of the table, resting there a moment, and then, with the rocking of the ship, falls away from the edge towards the center of the map. Sunlight pulls along the long amber lines of the barrel in narrow gleaming stripes as the spyglass passes from land to open sea; it hangs there for the space of a breath as the ship leans under it, and then, as Varric sits forward to explain something to Hawke, it retraces the gentle curve of its path to thump against the lip of the table again.

Fenris is caught in the sway of the ship and the sea beneath it: in the easy, rolling glide of the waves; in the sun warm on his back and sliding hot gold on the spyglass; in the sooty rhythms of Isabela's voice playing countermelody to the high, wild cry of a distant seabird. The blankets are soft and Hawke is safe, here; surely it can be no danger to lean his head against the wall, just for a moment, and close his eyes as Hawke murmurs something beside him, quiet, and lulling, and low…

-.-.-

"Well, well, well."

"Shh. If you wake him up, he'll kill us."

"But what a way to go! Look at those drooping ears!"

"Come on, don't tease. It's been a rough few weeks. He hasn't been able to relax since we got here."

"He looks pretty relaxed to me—oh, by all the bloody stars. His nose is twitching."

"Isabela."

"Now, now, Hawke, keep your voice down. Don't let your assassins know he's out like a light."

"Ouch, Varric."

"Aw, I think it's sweet. A moment of calm and he's out like a light. …Hawke? What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You're—are you all right?"

"No. Maybe. Shit. Oh, Maker, I'm tired of this city."

"Really? Huh. I rather like the odeur of oppression and total despair. Very classic."

"It's the piquant aftertaste of betrayal that gets me. What's wrong, Hawke?"

"Nothing. It's only—he's just so unhappy and there's—nothing I can do about it. I'm all right, really."

"He's a big boy. He knew what he was doing coming here."

"I know. I mean, I think he knew, but—it's so frustrating. I'm lying to people I'd rather help, brownnosing people I'd rather kill, and I can't even give him the courtesy of a handshake in public. And I can't even tell him about how sorry I am that he's suffering because of me, because he made his choice of his own free will and I promised myself I'd respect it, no matter the cost, but it's just as bad if I ignore it, and this place is hurting him and I don't know what to do. And I don't know how to stop Priscus from attacking Seheron, which is the whole reason he came here with me anyway."

"Hawke."

"What?"

"You love him?"

"Yes."

"Then that's enough."

"But…"

"Mm. Trust me. He's all right."

"But how do you know?"

"Because I know you, sweet thing. And I know him. And you should know me well enough to listen when I say a man's all right. This isn't too much for him, and you'd know it if it were."

"But I—are you sure?"

"Yes. Trust me, Hawke."

"...Okay."

"She's right, you know. Give the elf a little more credit. And we'll give you two a little privacy, in the interests of keeping our hearts where they belong, inside our chests. Hawke—I'll meet you in a few days. Come on, Rivaini."

"Aw, shit. And it was just getting interesting, too. Privacy and chests…and Fenris in my bed…"

"Wait—Isabela. Thanks."

"Don't think twice about it, pet."

-.-.-

Awareness returns slowly to Fenris, quiet and warm like the licking of sunlit bronze around the edges of his mind. He must have moved in his sleep; he is flat on his back on the bed, one arm thrown over his eyes and the other lying loosely over his stomach, his feet stretched out until they just brush the opposite wall. Hawke herself sits on the edge of the bed beside him with one leg curled under her, her back pressed into his hip, and he can see the sharp curve of gold turning over and over in her hands: the rolling spyglass.

Fenris shifts, pressing his toes flat against the wall to stretch the muscles in the back of his legs, and Hawke looks over with a raised eyebrow and a smile. "Welcome back."

His lips twist wryly at his own inattention, too lazy to be annoyed and too comfortable to muster the effort of regret. "How long…?"

"Not long. We still have plenty of time to make it to the amphitheater." She extends the spyglass to its full length and peers at him through it, the broad end less than a handspan from his face. "You know, you have very good skin. It's not fair."

"My apologies. I will endeavor to ruin it as soon as possible."

She laughs, collapsing the spyglass, and tosses it gently to the pillow beside his head. Hawke says, "Do you feel better, at least?"

"I do not feel worse."

"Small victories, I guess," she says with a grin, and then it slides away under the furrow of her brow, and she leans over his waist to prop one hand on his other side. "Fenris."

"Yes?" he says warily.

She opens her mouth, hesitates, lifts her hand to touch his cheek, to let her fingers draw over his jaw and neck to the place where his tattoos disappear behind his leathers. He waits, saying nothing, and she hesitates again, and then she threads her fingers into the hair behind his ear and says, softly, "I love being able to touch you, you know."

"Oh?"

"Yes," she says, her thumb feathering back and forth over his cheekbone. "I always have. Ever since that first night." He shifts, uncomfortable and shamefaced at the memory, but she does not mean to spur his guilt and she presses on without giving the moment time to linger. "Part of the reason I was so happy you came back was because I knew it meant I'd be able to—to embrace you, or to kiss you just because I wanted to, or even just hold your hand. Even the little things like that…they're important to me." She looks away, her cheeks coloring, and her hand drops away from his face. "Is that embarrassing? That's embarrassing, isn't it."

"No," he says, and he catches her hand to hold it against his skin. Hawke closes her eyes, the back of her hand pressed to his cheek, and then she curls her fingers over his knuckles. "Not to me."

"Just to the rest of the city."

Fenris tips his head in acquiescence. Hawke looks at him a moment, her eyes shifting from bitterness to something sweeter, and then she leans forward to lie across his chest, tucking her head under his chin like a tired bird might hide its face under the shelter of a proffered wing. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and she sighs, deep and slow and pulling all along his side where she rests with one booted foot still on the floor. The sunlight catches on her black hair in thin lines of flame and traces down her side; he follows it with his fingers until his hand passes out of the shadows to spark his lyrium into silver fire, until the moment they have captured here stretches into something longer, and lasting, burnt into his mind with the white and distant clarity of a beacon lit to guide the weary home.

He says her name to seal it.

"Fenris," she answers, and curls her fingers into a fist over his heart.

The boat rocks gently in an errant wave, as if to remind Fenris that there is still a gleaming city just outside that waits to welcome them back with sharp and shining teeth—but here, on Isabela's bed with Hawke's head nestled against his own, just for an instant, they steal in the golden silence falling through the high, wide windows something infinitely more precious:

Peace.

-.-.-

The amphitheater is just as Fenris remembers it: elegant and enormous and reeking with blood. It had been built over a century ago from shale and limestone ferried in from the nearby quarries; Archon Vespasian had meant it for the arts, for great plays and orators and philosophers' symposiums, but the natural cruelty of the city had triumphed even here in the end to replace the podiums with stakes and heavy chains, to fill the stands with bloodlust instead of students. Even in the city proper the symbolism is inescapable; on hot days the wind carries the scent of death as far inland as the Valerian Fields. The only survivor of the original building's loftier purpose is an inscription above the main gate: ad honorem.

For honor.

They pass quickly through the open-air atrium, three stories high and tiled in mirror-bright mica, paying little attention to the chatting nobles and magisters alike with their delicate glasses and plates of refreshments held for them by silent, attendant slaves. From here they can only hear the faintest of roars from the distant crowd, but even that is enough to spike discomfort up Fenris's spine; more than a decade since he has been here and yet the scent and sound of pitched battle still strike something primal inside him, something frantic and base and desperate to flee. He swallows once, and then again, and when Hawke glances at him over her shoulder he only hopes he is composed enough for scrutiny.

"You okay?" she asks under her voice, and Fenris sighs. Perhaps not so composed.

"Yes," he says in the trade tongue as they pass to either side of a pair of magisters, scented cloths pressed under their noses to mask the scent of dried blood. "Old memories," he adds, and Hawke's mouth quirks.

"Spent a lot of time here, did you?"

"Not so much as others." Danarius's entertainments had tended towards the more private and the more precise, though he had from time to time indulged himself in the vulgar amusement offered by the amphitheater. Fenris had never been sure, though, if his own presence had been demanded for the sake of the magister's protection or his own, whether the death-matches at his feet were meant to be inspiration or veiled threat of what his fate might be should he displease his master. But he has a new master now—no master—and as they cross the open expanse of the brightly-lit hall Fenris focuses only on Hawke's shoulders and Hawke's steady stride until the last of the lingering fear withers away.

At the other end of the atrium is a wide stairway leading up to the grand mezzanine; they move up it without pausing towards the open-throat shouts of the multitude in the arena proper. Here at Damia's suggestion, Fenris reminds himself, suppressing a scowl; here to meet a pair of magisters to garner more support for Hawke, and only in Tevinter would the screams of the dying be considered nothing more than ambiance.

A slave in a short white tunic meets them at the top of the stairs, the sun behind him bright enough to make Fenris shade his eyes. "Magister Hawke," the slave boy says with a deferential bow. "If you will it, I am to take you to your party."

"Yes, thank you," Hawke tells him, and they pass into the sun.

There is already a match in progress in the dust below them, a pair of elven men with short swords facing off against a tall human woman with a longsword and a shield as tall as she is. All three of them are bleeding from numerous wounds—one of the men's faces is more scarlet than flesh—and as they follow the boy deeper into the stands, the crowd around them rises to its feet with a bellow at some point well-scored. Fenris sees Hawke shift closer to him, uneasy at the open bloodlust in their faces, and he cannot pretend he is not relieved himself when at last they reach the secluded, shaded box reserved for the magisters and visiting dignitaries.

Fenris hands the boy a coin as Hawke steps forward. The boy takes it impassively, then bows and departs; a moment later he disappears into the crowds, and it is not until Fenris has followed Hawke into the relative privacy of the box that he allows himself to glance down at the small scrap of folded paper the boy had slipped into his hand.

Not here, says the scrawl on the outside, and Fenris tucks it into his belt to wait.

Then: "Domina," comes a charming male voice, and Fenris forces himself to put the letter from his mind, glancing up to see a pair of human men approaching Hawke with wide smiles: the Arras brothers, Damia's contacts. They are both tall, even for human men, broad-shouldered and bearded, and though one is fair and the other dark they have the same noses and the same jaw and even without Damia's information Fenris could have discerned the shared blood between them. The dark one takes Hawke's hand in his, smiling, and says, "My lady Hawke, daughter of Malcolm and Leandra. A pleasure to meet you at last."

Hawke smiles in return as he lifts her fingers to his lips. "The pleasure is mine, Ser Arras. Lady Damia has told me so much about you."

"And not a whit of it flattering, I'm sure," says the fair one in grey, laughing, and takes Hawke's hand when his brother releases it. Neither of them looks at Fenris. "But we've been warned about you as well, Euphemia Hawke," he adds with a wink. "I am Nius, and this is my brother Pol, sons of Claudius and Elia. Please, sit, make yourself comfortable." He gestures at a white-robed attendant who steps forward with alacrity. "May I offer you some refreshments?"

"No, thank you," says Hawke, easing herself onto the cushioned bench as another roar erupts from the crowd. "We—I've already eaten."

Now the dark one—Pol—glances at Fenris, but there is only frank appraisal in his gaze. Fenris meets his eyes levelly, a challenge in itself—and yet aside from a lifted eyebrow Pol does not seem overly surprised. Warned about Hawke in more ways than one, Fenris thinks, and settles into place at Hawke's back.

The magisters' box is relatively large, open at the front and sides and lined with a short white-painted railing to separate them from the rabble, but even with the cooling linen canopy it seems few magisters are willing to brave the heat this afternoon; save a cluster of giggling women at the far corner and a handful of silent slaves, they are alone. Pol and Nius seat themselves on either side of Hawke, their own slaves banished to the back of the pavilion, and begin the ancient and time-honored ritual of focused and empty flirtation. They speak of Ferelden, of Kirkwall, of even the Arishok—everything except their true purpose here, and Hawke plays along for a while, though her attention is divided and she winces more than once in real sympathy at the battle still raging below them. The human woman has lost her shield, her red hair flying loose, but one of the men is dead and the other limping badly on a fast-bleeding foot. Fenris would wager on the woman, but he knows as well as she does the sudden strength one sometimes finds when facing at last death's dark and lifted sword.

The elf screams in the dust, distant and defiant and just like a thousand screams Fenris has heard here before, and just as always the crowd screams back in rage and brutal joy. He closes his eyes, just for a moment—and just for a moment it is Danarius, not Hawke, before him, Danarius's smooth voice, Danarius's long fingers plucking iced grapes from a slave's proffered tray. Too many afternoons spent here and all of them like this, the smell of dust and rot and unwashed bodies, Hadriana giggling, Danarius laying a possessive hand on her knee as his eyes turned possessively to Fenris, smiling, knowing everything he saw to be his as he wagered favors and gold and men alike—

The crowd gasps and Fenris opens his eyes to see the redheaded woman staggering back, one hand clutched to her shoulder. Then the woman feints, trying to draw the elf she faces into closer range, and Hawke stiffens at the slice she suffers down her stomach for the effort.

Hawke turns then to Nius and Pol each, the smile gone from her face, and Fenris knows her patience has run thin. "Gentlemen, this is very kind of you," she says, her fingers folded politely in her lap, "but I'm sure Damia has told you my time here is short. I do not have the luxury of dissembling."

Pol leans back on his hands, raising his black eyebrows again in wonder. "So quickly you rush to the point, Domina," he murmurs, though his eyes flash with something closer to keen insight than Fenris would prefer.

"I am Fereldan, Ser Arras," Hawke tells him, and Fenris can hear her deliberately thickening her accent. "We are not raised to the intricacies of carrying on more than one conversation at once."

"We should do away with civility's golden raiment, you mean, and speak nakedly, without veiling ourselves."

"Not the metaphor I would have chosen," Hawke admits, glancing at a broadly-grinning Nius on her other side, "but yes."

"Plainly, then," Pol says, "we would know what you hope to achieve here. Minrathous is a place well-set in its ways, and the lady Damia is not known to give her support easily."

"Or ever," Nius adds helpfully. Fenris grits his teeth. Fool magister—fool man, toying with the cuffs of his grey robes as if he has nothing better to do with his time. At least his dark-haired brother in blue has given Hawke the courtesy of sincerity. Or at least the appearance of it.

But Hawke smiles at them both. "I have come to ask for your help in securing my estate against Lord Priscus," she says, and her voice does not waver.

Nius whistles. "Only against Priscus?"

"He poses the most open threat. Though," Hawke adds, her lips twisting, "there may be another magister whose power I have to fear as well."

"Jaculus," Nius offers.

"How did you know?"

Pol rests his bearded chin on his fist. "Minrathous trades in flesh and rumors," he tells her, his eyes on the woman in the arena below them. "This falls under the heading of both."

Hawke blinks, unbalanced—and then Pol's eyes cut from her to Fenris, and Hawke stiffens even as Fenris prepares to tear the hearts from them both—but before he can act, Hawke says, stunned, "You know."

Pol says, "We guessed."

Fenris does not relax—this had not been part of the plan—but Nius only glances between the two of them and smiles. "There are rumors about you two," he says, his face alive with intrigue and appreciation, and for a moment he meets Fenris's eyes before dropping his own, as if yielding him the victory. "And besides," he adds, his voice somehow both amused and resigned, "You are Fereldan."

"I could be Fereldan and want a houseful of slaves."

"Do you?"

Hawke looks away. "No."

"So," says Pol. Below them on the field, the woman snaps the neck of her one remaining opponent, and the crowd bursts into a mighty, wordless cheer as she gives an exhausted wave. Her shield arm looks broken. "A foreign magister who wants to set all of her slaves free, without the slightest regard for centuries of Imperial tradition and several actual laws."

"Yes," says Hawke, and Fenris watches as the woman disappears into the great, iron-barred gates at the southern end of the arena. A handful of white-robed slaves appear to clear the bodies; a moment later, the gates open again, and a boy who looks about sixteen enters the arena with a frantic, helpless stumble, clutching a knife in one hand. No professional fighter seeking glory, this one—either a slave or the son of a debtor, body sold to save his family. Fenris turns away.

"And what would we get in return?"

"The gratitude of Lady Damia. My gratitude."

"Riches indeed, Domina."

Hawke says, "Will you help me?"

Nius and Pol exchange a look, disparate eyes bearing the same expression, and then Nius gives a careless shrug and Pol smiles. "We will," he says, and looks up at Fenris. "Both of you."

"Thank you," Hawke says, rising to her feet, and if her hand finds Fenris's too easily neither of the Arras brothers comments.

"We'll be in touch," Nius promises, lifting her free hand to his lips again; Hawke grins, inclining her head to both him and Pol, and then at last, they are free.

-.-.-

Hawke rolls her shoulders as they pass briefly through the unshielded sun and then into the cooler air of the atrium, aching in the release of relief. That had gone so well—far better than she had dared to hope, and now all she has left to do today is finish a letter to another of Damia's friends, a young widow who has managed to acquire a reputation of gentleness even among the men and women who serve her—and that is more than enough to win her favor in Hawke's eyes, anyway, and if she has a bit of a bounce to her step then she can hardly—

It is nothing more than an indrawn breath, too soft to be even called a gasp, but the sound of it from Fenris's mouth is enough to stop Hawke in her tracks.

She turns on her heel, tensing for an attack, but there is no flash of sun-bright steel; instead, Fenris is staring at an unfolded letter in his hand behind her, brown parchment in steel-shod fingers, his face white with fear and rage—and when his head snaps up and his eyes look hot enough to spark a fire Hawke takes him by the arm and pulls him to one of the more private alcoves set into the atrium's walls before he can give away them both.

"What is it?" she asks in a low voice.

His fingers tense on the paper to shred its edges, his eyes moving so quickly over what is written there that Hawke is sure he can make no sense of it; he tries twice to speak as he reads, but the abortive attempts are as futile as his expression, and in the end he only thrusts the page at Hawke and leans his head back, hard, against the wall.

The handwriting is round and clumsy, but the first word is enough to spur Hawke's understanding. She glances up at Fenris quickly, trying to gauge his reaction, but his eyes are closed and his hands are fisted at his sides, and when he does not move Hawke turns back to the letter without speaking.

Brother—

I write to you in warning. I know you have no cause to trust me, but please believe I have nothing to gain from this. I only wish to caution you for your sake and the sake of the magister you travel with, and for what we once were to each other.

I am apprenticed to a magister who keeps records for a number of senatorial committees. He asked me not to give his name, but he knows of my relationship to you and wished me to pass on a warning to your companion. Two nights ago he overheard dealings between a senator named Priscus and another man whose name he could not hear, plans to hire men to do you harm as you traveled through the city. The day was not mentioned, only the place: a corner where the Grand Way meets the Vicus Iceni. You know as well as I how near this is to the estate of our former master.

I know it means little from me, but—I trust him. I beg you: move carefully, and do not relax your guard. I have too many regrets to add your death from my inaction.

Varania

Then, at the bottom, a postscript: They say that betrayers have a place only at Maferath's side in the Abyss. I would welcome that if it meant you did not suffer any longer for my choices.

Hawke rereads the last line again, more out of shock than anything else, and when she lifts her head she finds Fenris watching her, his eyes hooded with something deeper than anger, his mouth tense and implacable. She takes a breath, then lets it out and says, quietly, "What do you think?"

This is apparently the wrong question to ask; his lip curls in disgust and he snatches the letter from her hands, crushing it into one fist. "What do I think?" he snarls, barely able to control his voice, barely able to look at her. "I think that that wretched woman will never be satisfied until she destroys everything I have ever touched. First Danarius, now this—this unnamed magister—" he tears open the page again, searching the last line of the letter as if there might be something more there, something hidden, and then he says almost to himself, bitterly, "I would be a fool to trust her now."

Hawke shifts her weight closer, trying to read past the harshness in his face. "What could she gain from this?"

"She is apprenticed to a magister," Fenris snaps, and the derision in the word is sharp enough to cut. "His approval, his favor—what could she not gain?" He pauses for breath as if he means to continue, but his gaze is drawn again to the final words she'd written, the thing that is almost an apology, and instead he mutters, "Her choices. What have her choices ever brought me but torment?"

"She brought you your name," Hawke offers.

His eyes narrow in warning. "You sound as if you trust her, Hawke."

"No. Not all of her. But…this letter…" Hawke trails off, looking at the gauntleted hand clenched in a tight fist at Fenris's side, at the tendons straining the lines of his throat, and even though they are only half-hidden in a room wholly exposed to the easy cruelty and sharper spite of Minrathous, she reaches forward and cups his jaw in her palm. He does not relax, not quite, but his mouth eases and the tight corners of his eyes loosen, just a bit, and when Hawke's thumb strokes over his cheekbone he lets out a low, frustrated breath that stirs her hair. "You want to trust her," she says.

His eyes close. He says nothing, but the word is written in his closed fists at his sides, at the unsettled, sporadic flickers of light down his throat: yes.

Hawke looks down at the paper still clutched in his hand; then she looks up to meet his eyes and offers him a crooked smile. "Okay. Let's do it."

"What?"

"Can't be worse than last time, right?" She lets her hand slide from his face, ignoring his surprise. "I mean, Danarius is dead and we're already in the Imperium—what else can go wrong?"

"Hawke—"

"Look. It won't do us any harm to check it out. We'll go home a different route tonight, and then first thing tomorrow we'll ask Varric what his spy network says. A day's delay won't make any difference."

He stares at her a moment, and then something shifts and he shakes his head. "No. I'll go tonight."

"There's no reason—"

"No," he says again, softly, and the tone of his voice silences Hawke mid-word. "I cannot—I will not wait on this, Hawke."

"Then I'll go with you."

His eyes soften, but he shakes his head again. "I will go alone."

"Not a chance, Fenris," Hawke says more sharply than she means to. "We go together or not at all."

"I faced danger alone before I met you."

"I'm sure you did," Hawke snaps. "Now you don't have to anymore."

She can actually see the moment Fenris relents, the moment her stubbornness wins out over his pride; he sighs, and his hand relaxes on the letter, and the corner of his mouth twitches up in a smile he looks like he would much rather repress. "You are impossible, Hawke."

"And fully intent on keeping you alive to suffer through it."

"So be it," he says, and with one more glance at his sister's signature, he folds his letter and replaces it in his belt. "Tomorrow, then."

-.-.-

The sun is setting by the time they return home at last. Palla is still in the city, Dalos tells Hawke when she asks, out on other errands that needed doing—all the same she can see the uneasiness in his eyes at her absence, and Hawke cannot pretend that she herself is any less concerned by the time they finish dinner, by the time the sun sets, by the time night falls in earnest and the guards change their watch in the streets and Palla still has not returned.

She is staring out one of the enormous windows in the front sitting room, the one with the expensive white settees and the cloth-covered harp, when she hears the footsteps behind her.

"The girl is not back," Fenris says in the trade tongue.

"Not yet," Hawke murmurs, letting the curtain fall closed on the dark, empty gardens. "I'm worried."

"There are safehouses in the city for those caught unawares by night."

"Will she be safe in them alone?"

Fenris does not answer; that in itself is answer enough. Hawke draws herself up and sets her jaw—but before she can fetch her staff Fenris has caught her by the wrist, his eyes hard on hers. "I will go."

"I'll come—"

"No," Fenris says, and this is not the pleading of this afternoon but flat and absolute denial. "Some of these places are not safe for you."

"We just went through this, Fenris."

"Not for any magister," he insists, his fingers firm on her arm, and Hawke understands. Not just safehouses, then, but places made for secrecy and sanctuary—and flight. A magister's sudden arrival would decimate their strength, weaken every effort they have made to aid the slaves of Minrathous, and even if she is sympathetic to their cause Hawke will not jeopardize their freedom with her presence. A slave, even Fenris, might pass through without notice; a magister would only threaten them all.

"All right," she says, briefly covering his hand with hers. He relaxes at her understanding, but before he can pull away completely Hawke leans forward and kisses him, swiftly and without compunction. "Be careful," she says when she draws back. "Don't go by the Grand Way if you can help it. And if she's—" already free, "protected, then—don't force her to come back."

His lips twist into something wry and almost amused, and he says, "As you wish."

Hawke watches as he steps away, as he slings his greatsword home over his back, as he gives her one last look over his shoulder at the threshold—and then he is gone.

-.-.-

The scream wakes her just after midnight.

At first it is nothing but a collection of frantic shrieks without meaning—then, as Hawke blinks her darkened room into existence the sounds resolve into syllables she recognizes, a desperate and violent cry of one word over, and over, and over: "Mistress!"

In an instant she is up, not even bothering with a robe as she races from her room in the sleeveless linen sleeping clothes Palla had given her a lifetime ago. Her bare feet pound down the scarlet runner in the halls, around the corners, slide only a moment on the bright-polished wood at the top of the grand staircase that sweeps down into the marble atrium—

And there she stops, because Palla is at the foot of the stairs, staring up at her with eyes wild with horror and her spring-green dress dark with blood, and because behind her in the doorway are Dalos and her gruff gardener supporting a third figure between them, a figure beaten and bruised and bleeding from too many deep gashes to count, his head lolling low on his shoulders as his feet drag limp on the beautiful mosaic floor, his white hair stained scarlet with his own blood.

Fenris.