Chapter Seven

When she wakes, he is gone. She reaches out and touches the bed where he was, as though she can somehow find him by doing so, but he doesn't mysteriously appear.

She sits up, looks around the room, but the only sign that he was there at all is the tray of salves next to the bed. That, and the semen stain beneath her; convincing her that it wasn't all a dream.

Standing, she wraps the coverlet around her, makes her way to the bathroom, where Bodahn – as reliable as always – has already drawn a tub. She sits on the edge for a moment, letting her fingers dangle in the water.

What does it mean?

She remembers the way he responded, his gasps and moans as she gently slid her hand across his skin. It was like he'd never been touched before.

Maybe he hadn't. She didn't realise he'd never been with a woman before. If she had... maybe she wouldn't have let it happen like that.

She doesn't even know what it was.

Passion? Pity? Relief?

She drops the brocade quilt, and steps into the water, gasping because it is hot.

She remembers the sudden rush of relief when she saw him awake.

The way he said her name against her lips.

How he'd cried out her name – her first name – as he came.

The feel of his hair in her hands. His warm, caramel skin. His beautiful green eyes. His voice – his warm, dark, throbbing voice. Saying, but not saying.

Why did he leave?

She floats in the steaming water, but her belly is churning, and before long she stands, and steps back onto the tile floor. Goes back to her bedroom, where there is still no sign of him, and dresses.

But then she's at a loss – where could she go? Not to Fenris, who probably wants to be alone. Not to Varric – who would take one look at her and instantly know everything.

She's surprised to find her feet taking her to the alienage. That she's knocking on Merrill's door.

"Hawke!" the elf says brightly, "How unexpected!"

"Hi Merrill, how are you doing?"

"Good, good. I've been getting to know some of my neighbours. Friendly people. They keep coming over to borrow things. Of course, I never get them back. Would you like a cup of tea?"

Merrill bustles out of the room, and returns a few moments later with a steaming saucepan, and two jars. She puts the jars down, and fills them from the saucepan.

"They borrowed your cups?" Hawke asks, raising her eyebrows.

"And my teapot. But they promised to return them. They said they were just having a party."

"A tea party?"

"Yes, that's right. Isn't it lovely that people do that in the alienage?"

Hawke just shakes her head, picks up the jar, and takes a sip. The tea is surprisingly good, despite the lack of crockery, and it seems to settle her stomach.

Merill sits herself down in the chair opposite, and picks up her own jar. "So how is Fenris?"

Of course she was going to ask that. Hawke swallows, feeling a strange lump in her throat.

"Ah, Fenris? He's... fine. A little sore, but nothing that won't heal. You did well."

"Maybe Anders should take a look at him when he gets back."

"Yes," Hawke looks away, not able to meet Merrill's eyes.

"He's a very strange elf," the other elf says. "Never comes down to the alienage. I offered to give him a tour, if he wanted one, but he said he didn't care for the smell, even if that is how elves live. It's not that bad, I said. You get used to it."

Hawke nods, still feeling that strange lump in her throat. "So you haven't seen him?" she asks.

"Noooo," Merrill says, drawing the word out. "Isn't he at your place?"

"He was gone this morning."

Merrill reaches out and pats her hand, lightly.

"Like I said, he's a very strange elf. Do you want a biscuit? I still have some."

"Thanks Merrill, but I should probably get going," Hawke says, and stands up from the chair.

"Well, anytime you want some tea, you come and see me. Or biscuits too. I always have biscuits in case I get company."

"Thanks Merrill," Hawke says, and smiles. Then, impulsively, she reaches out and hugs the elf. "You're a good friend," she says.

"Oh my, Hawke, you are too. Let me know if I can do anything. And I'll let you know if I see Fenris."


Fenris's fist slams into the wall, and plaster rains down onto the tiled floor.

Coward.

He hits the wall again, ignoring the growing pain in his side.

He had woken before her. She was sleeping on his shoulder, her hair tickling his neck, one arm thrown across his chest. He'd stayed like that for a long while, afraid to move, afraid to wake her.

Afraid of what she would say.

This had only happened, he'd realised, because of pity. He should never have let her give him that. Should never have let her give him...

But he was weak. He was weak, and for a moment, just a moment, he'd let himself believe–

But he did not want to have to face her, hear her tell him that it had all been a mistake.

Or worse, ask for his forgiveness again.

So he'd carefully eased himself out from under her, dressed back into his filthy underclothes, made his way to the mansion, where he'd sat on the bed, and stared at the floor and punched the wall.

He was a coward.

There is a knock on the door, and Fenris freezes. The knock comes again, louder, more insistent, and he hears Varric's voice; "Elf, I know you're up there, let me in."

So he makes his way downstairs, and opens the door.

"You look like shit," the dwarf says in greeting, and walks past Fenris, up the stairs. Fenris follows, silently padding after him, and finds the dwarf restarting the fire in the grate.

"What are you doing here, Varric?"

"Heard you'd gone missing from Hawke's. Figured this was the only place you'd be."

Fenris blinks. "Gone missing?"

"News gets around. Hawke was worried. Told Daisy. Daisy told me."

"Well you've found me."

"Can't get rid of me that easy, elf. Something's eating you. And I'm here to help you out."

"I don't need help, dwarf. I'm perfectly fine."

"Yeah, looks like it. It's written all over that miserable face of yours."

"I'm not miserable."

"Keep telling yourself that. I'm just going to have a seat here, and wait until you feel like telling me what's going on."

The dwarf sits down on the wooden bench in front of the fireplace, looks at the lute propped up next to him, and picks it up before plucking notes from the strings. It is horribly out of tune, but the dwarf appears not to notice.

"Do you have any requests?" Varric asks. Fenris shakes his head mutely, and the dwarf starts playing an awful rendition of the Wild Maid of Starkhaven. Fenris cringes.

Varric plays the whole tune, then looks up at him. "Still not going to tell me? Well, I'm going to have to continue on with the ballad of King Cailan then."

"Stop, dwarf." Fenris walks forward, takes the adjacent seat, and Varric puts the lute down. The dwarf leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together in front of him.

"So what's going on? Merrill said Hawke was worried sick."

"It's not something I'm going to talk about," says Fenris, staring at the fire. "Not to you, not to anyone."

Suddenly he's reminded of the smell of her hair as it fell like a curtain all around them, the way she said his name as she slid herself down onto him – Maker.

Varric's eyes are on him. Fenris looks away.

"You love her, don't you?" he says gently.

Fenris jerks his head up, eyes wide.

"Don't look so surprised, elf. You're easier to read than you think."

Fenris forces out a laugh. "At least that explains why you always win at Wicked Grace."

"It's not my fault you're predictable. If you love her, why'd you leave?"

Fenris looks away again, surprised by pinpricks of pain in his eyes. He swallows.

"I-" he starts, but realises that he has no idea what he could say. If nothing else, he can't violate Hawke's trust in him. So he shakes his head. "I don't know," he says.

"When Hawke realised you'd been taken," says Varric, "She demanded that Selbrech give her the men you captured. To exchange them for you."

"What happened?"

"Selbrech refused. So Hawke took matters into her own hands. She was determined to get you back, no matter what."

"She shouldn't have bothered."

"I hope you didn't say that to her. If you had seen her- well, let's just say that you would've known what staring down death looks like. I've never seen her like that before. Hope I never do again."

"Why are you telling me this, Varric?"

"Thought you should know." Varric stands, dusts off his trousers. "You know where I am if you ever want to talk."


When Anders returns, there is a line of people waiting outside his clinic. Some are sitting, leaning against the walls. Others are sleeping with their heads on the laps of friends or family.

When they see him, they get up, their eyes brightening, and he is tired, so tired, but he holds up his hand for them to wait, fishes around in his pocket for the key, unlocks the door, and pushes it open.

Then he stands back, and waves them in.


Hawke comes to see him that night.

He's sitting on the cot in the backroom, his head in his hands. And he cannot. stop. shaking. He looks up when she comes in.

"Hawke," he says, and his voice sounds as tired as he feels.

She doesn't say anything, just sits next to him. And when he turns to her she wraps her arms around him, and he buries his face in her shoulder, and just shakes, and shakes, and shakes.


It's morning, and she's lying awkwardly on Anders' small cot. Anders is lying half on top of her, his head resting on the top of her chest, his hair just under her chin. She lays there for awhile, though her neck is cramped and she can't feel her right side, just happy to be.

When she moves, he wakes and rubs his eyes. "Morning already?" he asks.

"Unfortunately," she says, and moves to the mirror to fix her hair. She glances at his reflection. "You were pretty tired last night."

"It was a long day," he says, and in the mirror she can see him glance down at his hands.

"Did everyone get out okay?" she asks.

"They did. Though I had a run in with some thugs on the way back."

She turns. "Thugs?"

"Yeah." He rubs at his mussed hair, then pulls out the band holding it back. It gently swings down around his face, and she's tempted to run her hands through it. "They had this." He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket, and wordlessly hands it to her.

She holds the note by a corner, and looks at the mage sitting on the bed.

"They're after me?" she say. "Why?"

"I don't know," he says. "But someone wants you dead."

"Hmm," she says. "Maybe I've just ruffled too many feathers in Hightown."

He looks up at her and smiles. "You do have a knack for causing trouble," he says, then his expression becomes more serious. "But seriously, Hawke, be careful."

"I'll be careful," she says, then smiles a lopsided smile. "You know me."

"That's what worries me," he says. He stands, walks over to her, and places a kiss on her forehead. "Stay safe, my love."


Lady Selbrech receives her in the sun room.

"Is it done?" she asks, gesturing her to seat opposite.

"It is," Hawke answers, taking the proffered seat.

"And the elf?"

Hawke grimaces. "Badly injured," she says, "But alive."

"Well, at least you have him back." The woman looks at her pointedly over the top of the needlework she is doing. "You ought to take better care of your possessions... particularly those you demonstrate affection for in public."

Hawke almost spits her tea all over the mahogany table. "Excuse me?"

"Come now, Hawke. We're friends, aren't we? It's just a friendly word of advice, from one who has been playing this game much longer than you."

"I'm not playing a game, Selbrech, and I can assure you that Fenris is not my 'possession'."

"Well, what word would you prefer? Man-servant? Bodyguard? Consort? … Lover? I must admit, most ladies aren't brave enough to take them out in public. That set a cat among the pigeons."

"What, are you suggesting that Fenris and I..?" But she has a horrible feeling that the outrage she's showing doesn't quite match her intentions.

"Now, now, Hawke... we all do it. Or most of us anyway. Elves know their place. They're not likely to ask about marriage, or expect that they'll suddenly start running the show... Why, thank you, Marcus."

Hawke suddenly looks at the elf that hands Lady Selbrech her tea in a new light.

"... And even if they do," the Lady continues, "It's easy enough to get rid of them. I must admit, though, that elf you have is quite the prize. Where did you find him?"

"Lady Selbrech, Fenris is not – never will be – mine."

"Is that so? Hmmm," the woman looks thoughtful, with a small smile. "Well maybe he will consent to be mine."

Hawke has to laugh at this. "Fenris will never be anyone's. And it may be hazardous for your health to even try."

"A shame." The lady takes a sip from her cup. "Well, anyway, now that this matter is resolved I will take my case to the Viscount. I look forward to seeing Powell's face when he's summoned to court." She replaces the tea cup in its saucer. "You may be called as a witness, to corroborate my evidence. I trust this won't pose a problem?"

"Not at all," Hawke says with grim satisfaction. "I look forward to seeing Powell go down. It's just too bad it won't be at the tip of my blade."


When the tea is finished, and the goodbyes are said, Hawke makes her way back through Hightown. As usual, there are no lights in Fenris's mansion, and she almost – almost convinces herself to go and knock on his door. But there are just too many questions she's afraid to answer. Too many silences she's afraid to fill.

She doesn't go to see Anders either. Instead, she lies awake in a bed that seems way too big with no one else to fill it.