Hawke made her way up the stairs, her heart pounding in a ridiculously adolescent way. It was hardly the first time she'd propositioned a man—what was so nerve-wracking about this one? It had taken her months to get up the courage to have this conversation in the first place, and she'd spent ten minutes standing outside the door of the mansion before pushing it open. They all did that now, barged in without bothering to knock. Hawke figured there were enough rooms in the mansion Fenris could hide if he didn't want the company, but he didn't seem to mind the intrusions.
As a matter of fact, he already had company. She heard voices as she reached the landing. Recognizing the rich drawl, Hawke came to a stop as if her boots were glued to the carpet. Isabela. Had she waited too long? Had Isabela swooped in while she agonized? Hawke leaned her head against the wall, feeling defeated. She hadn't forgotten the night she'd come into the Hanged Man and found the pirate dangling her assets in Fenris's face. What man wouldn't want Isabela? The woman was sex on a plate. Hawke didn't have any false modesty—she knew she could be pleasing to the eye when she wanted to be—but Fenris usually saw her sweaty and blood-spattered and hardly at her best, while battle only seemed to add a fetching flush to Isabela's cheeks and a wild-eyed lust that if anything made her more desirable.
Hawke wanted to cry. All this time, trying to smother her attraction to him, and now to lose him to Isabela just when she had worked up her courage? Her shoulders slumped, and she turned, leaving the way she had come.
Fenris's keen elven ears had heard the distinctive sounds of Hawke coming up the stairs—the light jingle of her armor, the sure-footed whisper of her boots across the carpet. It was still mildly disconcerting to him that the others all felt comfortable simply barging into the mansion, but he was hardly going to ask them to ring the doorbell of a supposedly empty estate. And part of him, a part he kept tightly hidden, even from himself, liked it. It made him feel like one of them, as though he belonged somewhere.
After a moment, Hawke turned and walked back down the stairs, moving quietly. Isabela, still jabbering on about the tax collector, hadn't heard her. Fenris was irritated at the Rivaini suddenly. Would she never shut up?
"Thank you, Isabela," he said, cutting her off in mid-story. "I appreciate your efforts."
"Do you?" She lounged in his extra chair—Hawke's chair—with one leg thrown casually over the arm. In that position, it was obvious what she wasn't wearing under that brief sailcloth tunic.
"Yes." He stood up, waiting for her to do the same.
"Have it your way," Isabela sighed, getting up from the chair. She didn't look overly disappointed, however, and Fenris assumed she had better fish to fry elsewhere. He couldn't say he cared. All he really wanted was for Isabela to leave so he could find out what Hawke had wanted.
At last she was gone, and Fenris hastily followed her down the stairs, slipping through the shadows of Hightown. He rang the bell at Hawke's estate, waiting until Bodahn opened the door.
"Ah, messere!"
"Is … uh, Hawke in?" He felt awkward asking for her this way, like some stammering schoolboy. It was not a sensation he enjoyed.
"Yes, serah. Come in!" Bodahn's cheerful smile didn't fade as he motioned Fenris inside. He led Fenris to Hawke's office, where she was perusing a stack of what looked like bills.
"Bodahn, next time my mother goes shopping, let's remind her that we can't actually fit the contents of every store in Kirkwall inside the house," she said, not looking up.
"You have a visitor, Serah."
Hawke lifted her head, her eyes meeting Fenris's, and she froze, looking guilty. "Oh. Um. Hi?"
"Hawke."
Bodahn looked from one to the other, and hurried off without another word.
"Come in, Fenris. Have a seat. Is there, um, anything I can do for you?"
"I just wondered what you wanted. At the mansion, earlier."
"How did you know it was me?"
Now it was Fenris's turn to freeze. He couldn't tell her that he knew her firm footfalls, the clank of her armor, that sometimes he could tell how she felt from hearing her breathing change. She was agitated right now, her breath coming faster than usual. "Lucky guess," he said, hoping he sounded convincing.
"Good guess." She laughed slightly, watching as he sank into the leather seat opposite hers.
"So."
"Uh-huh."
They looked at each other for a minute. "You came by for a reason, I assume?" he said finally.
Hawke bit her lip, looking conflicted. "How long have we known each other, Fenris?"
"Three years or so. Why?"
She swallowed. "Um … We haven't talked about Danarius in a while. Are you still expecting him to show up? It's been three years."
That wasn't what he'd expected. Not at all. "There has been no sign of him," Fenris said. "I cannot imagine that he would give up … but I do not know why it would be taking him this long."
"Maybe he's dead."
Fenris snorted in humorless laughter. "Not he. I will believe that monster is dead when I hold his dripping heart in my hands. Not before." He looked at his fists. He could almost see Danarius's ribcage in front of him, and he shook his head, bringing himself back to the present. "It bewilders me," he continued quietly, "that he has done nothing."
"Isn't this what you wanted?"
"I want to kill him! If he never comes, I can never stop waiting for him." He gathered control of himself with an effort. "Tell me, Hawke. What do you do when you stop running?"
"I'll let you know when I figure it out."
"You feel as though you're running?"
"No, I feel like I've finally stopped. And … I don't know what to do. I suppose the best answer I can think of is to start over."
"A fine idea. But I wouldn't know how." He stared at the tattoos on his arms, revealed by the opening in his armor. Then he looked up into her blue eyes, and suddenly he wanted her to know what had been taken from him, that there was a black empty space in his mind where whoever he used to be had been burnt away. Taking a deep breath, he said, "My first memory is receiving these markings, the lyrium being branded into my flesh. The agony wiped away everything. Whatever life I had before … it's lost."
Hawke gasped. "I had no idea. I'm so sorry."
"You could not have known. It is not something I generally reveal."
"You don't know anything about who you were?"
Fenris shook his head. "Even my name is not my own—Danarius bestowed it upon me. His 'little wolf'. Whatever name I had before, any family or friends, they were taken from me. All of which leaves the question open: If all that I am is what Danarius made of me, how do I know how to start over?" He sighed, getting up from the chair. "I'm sorry. I should not trouble you with this. You don't need me to burden you with my problems."
"Everyone else does; why shouldn't you?" She didn't sound particularly bitter, seeming to take their constant neediness as a fact of life.
Fenris thought of Merrill's tainted mirror, Isabela's lost relic, Anders's recent conviction that a conspiracy was afoot to turn all mages tranquil, Varric's determination to find his brother and enact his revenge, Aveline's requests for assistance. They all did come to Hawke with everything that bothered them, but to his knowledge no one—not even Varric, it seemed—ever asked Hawke if anything bothered her.
"Perhaps one of us could occasionally listen to your problems." Fenris looked at her with concern. "Is there anything troubling you, Hawke?"
That strange mixture of fear and guilt, and maybe a little excitement, was back in her face. "I …" She pushed the chair back, standing up, her eyes searching his face. "There is something. A problem. To do with you."
"With me?" He racked his brain to think of what he could have done to disturb her. "Hawke, whatever it is …" He heard his own voice as if it came from someone else, the softness and the vulnerability there, and he stopped himself. "If you tell me what I have done, I will do my best to rectify the situation."
"It's not anything you've done, it's, uh, the good kind of problem."
The good kind? Fenris was mystified. How could a problem be good? "You've lost me."
He'd never seen her this agitated before. He'd never seen her at a loss for words, either. Fenris moved around the desk, closing the space between them, thinking only of finding some way to resolve whatever problem had her so disturbed. He didn't realize how perilously close to her he would be until it was too late. Her blue eyes met his, widening and softening, and her sweet mouth opened, her tongue reaching out to moisten her lower lip. Suddenly Fenris couldn't remember what they had been talking about, and his tongue flicked over his own lower lip in unconscious imitation of hers. All he could do was stare at her mouth, somehow so close. A single step would put him in reach of her.
"Fenris, I—" She looked him in the eyes, and understanding flooded through him, turning his whole body molten with a kind of heat he could never remember feeling before. Time hung suspended between them, time in which he struggled between the certain knowledge that this was not a good idea and the weak longing that urged him to take that step, to taste her kiss. He could almost feel her in his arms, and it seemed that he might not be able to fight his desire.
And then he stepped back, looking away from her. "You are a beautiful woman, Hawke. Surely there must be others who have your … attention."
"You've fought at my side almost every day for three years. If there had been anyone else, you'd have known."
Desperately he sought to remind them both of the realities. "I am an escaped slave and an elf, living in a borrowed mansion. Do none of those things bother you?"
Hawke shrugged. "I'm a human and a barbaric Fereldan refugee who kills people for money. Do those things bother you?"
"You have me there." He had to tell her no, he told himself. He had to make it clear that this could never be a good idea, that she needed to find someone worthy of her, someone who didn't come with as much darkness in their past as he did. "Your interest is most flattering," he began. "I cannot deny that I am tempted. Very much so," he whispered. The sudden happiness in her eyes was more intoxicating than the finest vintage he'd ever tasted. He couldn't remember ever wanting anything as much as he wanted to give in to her right now. But even as his control on himself began to slip, fear wormed its way into his mind. Could this be real? A woman like this, a man like him? Or did she want a mere dalliance, the thrill of the unfamiliar? It unnerved him to think of opening up to another person. How much worse if he did so and her interest was merely casual. He went on more briskly. "This is not an opportunity I ever expected to be presented with. I am not certain that I … am in a position to accept. I will need to … consider." He couldn't look at her.
"For how long?" It was practically a whisper.
"I can't say."
"Very well," Hawke said crisply.
He stood there miserably for a few more moments, before walking on rather weak legs toward the door. Then it occurred to him that she might not realize he was doing this for her sake, to protect her. He stopped, looking at her over his shoulder. "It was not my intention to upset you."
She studied him briefly, then her face relaxed into a smile. "You haven't. Anything else would have been—unFenrislike."
He chuckled. "I suppose it would, at that."
"Well." Hawke resumed her seat behind the desk, picking up the pile of bills again. "We have a meeting at the Hanged Man later."
Fenris was grateful for her return to business. Once again, he had to appreciate her generosity. "I will be there," he said gruffly, taking his leave before any more emotional upheavals could occur.
Hawke's next visitor was Varric. "What are you doing up here?" she asked him.
He shrugged. "The next installment of 'Hard in Hightown' is going badly. Thought I'd take a walk and get some ideas. Got any?"
"Ideas?" Hawke was glad she'd never been much of a blusher. The deep gravelly tone in Fenris's voice when he'd said 'tempted' earlier had given her quite a few ideas, but she didn't plan to share any of them with Varric. Not that she didn't trust her friend … but she also didn't want to be the star of his next dirty serial. "Not a one."
"Come for a walk, anyway. Something interesting must be going on in this town. Maybe we'll run into some mercenaries who are out to kill us."
She shook her head. "I thought you wanted to find something interesting. All the mercenaries in this town want to kill us."
Varric grinned. "Maybe we'll find some who want us to kill them."
"Now that would be a refreshing change of pace."
They crossed through a courtyard in the midst of Hightown Estates, passing a dark-haired young man going the other way.
"I know that boy," Varric said quietly. "Anders's helper in a certain endeavor, if you follow me. Name's … Trevor, I think."
Hawke looked the young man over with interest. He didn't look like a Templar—too young and open-faced. All the Templars seemed to have a certain hardness about them.
Trevor was looking up at the windows of one of the houses rather than where he was going, and he cannoned into an old woman who stood in the midst of the square.
"Sorry, mistress," the young man said.
The old woman looked up into the Templar's face. "Alms?" Hawke recognized her as the woman they'd seen in the Lowtown market years ago, the one who had called Justice forth out of Anders. She'd never seen Anders and Fenris come so close to killing each other as they had that particular evening.
The young Templar dug into his pocket for a coin.
Taking it, the old woman bit it to determine its authenticity. Satisfied, she dropped it into the patched reticule that hung from her wrist. "Watch yourself," she said to Trevor. "Young men who loiter about Serah Terrien's get themselves in trouble."
"Serah Terrien's?" the boy echoed. His eyes brightened eagerly—clearly, he was disregarding the warning. "Do you know the woman who lives there? The one with the beautiful voice?"
The old woman's eyes widened in fright. "No, no, stay away from Susannah! Trouble for her. Trouble for you." Still muttering, she fled from the square.
"Susannah," Trevor repeated. His eyes clung to the windows of the house as he continued out of the courtyard.
"I think he's going to wish he'd listened, if the things I've heard about Terrien are true," Varric said.
"I wouldn't be surprised." Hawke shook her head. "Terrien's known to be strict with the girl, to put it mildly."
"Make a good story, though."
"It would, at that." Hawke grinned at her friend. "Let's go get something to eat. I hear they've got bronto ribs on special at The Fat Nug." Varric made a face. "Come on," Hawke cajoled. "We're so close to figuring out what they put in the sauce. Just think how Dougal Gavorn would hate it if we could recreate his chef's special seasoning mix."
"Okay, but you have to keep the Merchant's Guild off me. I swear, those dwarves live for meetings," Varric grumbled.
Later, they met with the others in Varric's room at the Hanged Man. Hawke supposed they could have had meetings at her estate now, but they were all used to the Hanged Man—it never seemed worth changing the pattern.
"Any new business?" Hawke asked, leaning back in her chair and looking around the table.
"One of the workers from the Bone Pit came to the clinic yesterday," Anders said.
"What was his problem? Repetitive motion injury from lifting too many ale mugs?" Hawke asked. The Bone Pit's workers were notorious malingerers. Some days she thought the half-interest in the mine she'd been given as a reward for killing some dragonlings wasn't worth the effort it took to keep the workers motivated.
There was a general chuckle in response to her words, but Anders shook his head seriously. "This was Hargis, one of the more conscientious workers. He said there've been strange rumblings in the mine."
"Such as the sound of men, you know, mining?" Hawke asked.
"Those men give Fereldans a bad name," Aveline said, clucking her tongue in disapproval. "Not that we don't already have one."
"Just telling you what the man said. He seemed legitimately nervous," Anders said.
"If anything's seriously wrong, I 'm sure Hubert'll come running, wringing his hands. 'Oh, 'awke, zat mine! What will we do wiz it?'" Varric said, his voice rising in imitation of the mine owner's Orlesian accent.
"No doubt," Hawke agreed. "Meanwhile, we have to track down that shifty dwarf, Javaris Tintop, before he gets himself in trouble with the Qunari's poison gas formula."
"The Coterie seem to be after him, as well. Maybe we can pry some information out of them," Varric said.
"Sounds like a job for Fenris," Isabela drawled. "That fisting thing he does can be very persuasive."
No response came from the elf's corner, and Hawke glanced his way. He was staring at her mouth, his eyes half-lidded. She caught her breath, feeling that gaze as surely as if he'd touched her. Then a shadow passed across his face, sadness replacing the desire in his eyes, and he looked away from her.
Well, she hadn't expected this to be easy, had she?