Chapter 11

It had all started so well, even if Garrett was acting a little odd. Maybe he was embarrassed about her bringing up Isabela, not that Eve could figure out why, he was a grown man who fuck around with whoever he wanted to. Or maybe, and she both liked this reason the least, and felt it was very probable - he wanted to re-hash some long past romance they'd once had. Maker, she hoped not. She ought to talk to him soon, just in case, maybe give him a gentle push, or shove, in Isabela's direction. She hadn't been lying about the pirates attraction to Garrett and maybe if he got laid really well he'd get over her.
Anyway, none of that had stopped Garrett from being a complete charmer with the women who flocked around him like starving dogs around a piece of prime beef. He mouthed the words 'help me' a couple of times but she had just smiled and turned away, flowing through the room like air, drink in hand, picking up bits of conversation. If eyes watched her she ignored them, if someone stepped too close she moved away. It was only when she came upon a group and heard a familiar name did everything kind of fall apart.
"I don't know what those backwater Fereldan's were thinking putting a man like Alistair Theirin on the throne." A fellow Eve had been introduced to as Seneschal Bran was saying, his voice so self-righteous.
"I believe it wasn't so much the people but that Grey Warden they ended up calling the Hero of Fereldan." An older woman replied, who looked like she alone had been the cause of the food shortages in Kirkwall when the refugees arrived, and had squeezed herself in to a pouffy Orlesian style gown Eve had been clever enough to avoid. "And wasn't she a woman? Of all the things!"
"If you ask me," an Orlesian accented man continued, "Women should have no say in politics, they always make rash decisions."
"Indeed." Replied the Seneschal, catching Eve's eye. "You there," such manners he had. "Are you not Fereldan? Serah Hawke is your compatriot isn't he?"
"Yes, he and I are both from Fereldan. But we were not there during most of The Blight, or the Coronation."
"And what do you think about the news of your King?" Eve inwardly grimaced. He was not her King. Not anymore.
"And what news is that?" She asked, trying to be as polite as possible, despite the fact Seneshal Bran seemed unable to take his eyes from her chest.
"That he is to marry the daughter of a low level Ferelden Lord, Bann Sighard I believe."
Eve's mouth went dry. Her heart beat like it was in the death throes.
"I... Didn't know..." She managed to stutter out. The room felt claustrophobic, suffocating.
"That's practically inbreeding!" She heard the woman laugh haughtily.
Eve felt sick. "Please, excuse me. I um... Sorry." She escaped the group
"Even the Fereldan finds it repulsive!" The Orlesian sniggered.
She fled as quickly as she could, from the laughter that followed her, mocked her, from the concerned glances, and the whispers of 'someone cannot hold their drink'.

All Eve could think was Alistair was getting married. Married. Married. To someone that wasn't her. To someone that would give him the heirs she couldn't. To someone who would share in his happily ever after while she just... drifted.
Her eyes stung, her throat closing up with the tears she was determined she wouldn't cry. Not again, not over him. He was the one that deemed her only good enough to fill the role of mistress. The one who had failed to tell her that her secret dreams of children were in vain before he could break her heart. That his words of love and affection meant little to him. Her heart convulsed painfully, her stomach twisted and tightened in pain.
Was he in love with this bride of his? Was she prettier than Eve? Sweeter? Nicer? With hands that were soft and primed to care for babies and not hard and scarred like her own. She was probably younger too, not burdened with the nightmares of a traumatic childhood, of tainted dreams. Eve betted she was warm and kind too, not cold and bitter.

She emptied her stomach in burning, retching heaves. But she wouldn't cry.
"What's this we 'ave 'ere boys?" A voice broke her from her madness. "Appears this pretty lass 'as 'ad too much ta drink. Maybe we should 'elp 'er out?" His voice was rough and mocking.
She looked up from the spilled contents of her stomach and noticed she'd somehow gotten herself lost in Hightown, far from the Viscounts Keep, alone at night.
"What do you want?" She growled at them. There were seven, dressed in cheap armour all with equally cheap weapons. Three had shortswords, the rest equipped with daggers.
"Ain't it obvious, pretty?" The apparent leader stepped forward, lank greasy black hair fell to his shoulders, his muddy brown eyes stared leeringly at her. "We wanna give ya a good time."
Her skin crawled. "Fuck off." She told them, "fuck off right now and you might live."
The group of men laughed lewdly at her.
"Don't think so, Dove." Another one said, his face mostly hidden by a hood. "We're gonna cut that pretty dress off you and then we can get a good look at those ripe tits of yours." A knife glinted on her right. Her hands curled in to fists, ready for whatever they tried.
"And then we're going to see what that dirty little mouth of yours can do!" The leader threatened. "Bet you know your way around a prick. Rich whores like you always do."
"Why don't I show you what I can do with my hands first?" She grinned menacingly at him.
"Oh, we got a eager one 'ere!" He laughed stepping forward, a dagger in one hand and unlacing his trousers with the other, but before he could present himself to Eve, she slammed a palm up in to his noise, a satisfying crunch echoing around the quiet street, followed by a painful yell, before she brought a leg up and kicked him between the legs. He screamed in pain and crumpled to the floor. He'd be lucky if he ever got a hard on again.
The rest if them turned to her now, angry glares, hands on weapons.
"We're gonna teach you a very painful lesson now, missy for what you just did to Flin there. A long and painful lesson and you'll be wishing all we did was fuck ya."
"Good luck." She replied, and quickly she reached under her skirt and pulled two long daggers she kept in her boots.
They were stupid, all of them, all rushing her at once. Their only experience having been defenceless victims and drunken bar brawls. It was almost too easy to dodge and parry the attacks, to sink her blades in to necks and bellies, sweeping legs from under them, letting the hard ground knock them incapacitated long enough to plunge a dagger between horrified eyes.
Soon there was only one left. Flin. He had crawled a couple of feet away, one hand cradling between his legs, the other pulling him away from the chaos of blood spilled on Hightown stone.
Eve strode over to him, ready to send him off the The Maker with his friends, when a figure dressed in black with a shock of white hair beat her to it, and lifted the whimpering bastard off the floor to dangle a foot in the air.
"Please, Messere, help me! She's a monster! A monster!" He cried panicked. Eve couldn't help but bark out a laugh.
"I believe you owe the woman an apology." Fenris's rich voice spoke low with threat.
"But, I, she killed them!"
"An apology and you might have mercy."
Fenris threw the man at her feet, Flin looked up at her fearfully, his face bathed in blood from his broken nose. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Mercy, please! I beg forgiveness!" He cried tears streaming down his face.
"You shall have none from me." She told him, kicking him over, a boot on his stomach, leaning over him as his eyes widened in realisation, one of her bloody daggers pressed unfaltering against his throat. "You had better hope the Maker is more forgiving." She pushed the blade through his neck, slicing through his spine, till the point scraped on stone. His eyes went wide, blood gurgled sickeningly from the wound and his mouth for a few moments before his eyes turned dull and his noises ceased.

"Stupid shits." She commented quietly, straightening out, wiping her bloody blades on the skirt of her dress. The thing was ruined, torn, ripped, covered in so much blood and tissue it was nearly black.
She sheathed her knives again and then her eyes met Fenris's.
"What are you doing here?" Her voice sounding more accusatory and angry than she meant it to be. But angry was good, angry meant she was wasn't upset over Alistair, or on the verge of pathetic tears.
"I was on the rooftop when I saw this band of ingrates corner a women. I did not realise it was you until I got closer." He stepped towards her, surveying the carnage at her feet. "I thought you may need some... help."
"I can look after myself."
"Clearly." He looked her in the eyes, they were large and a startling green. She had never noticed just how green before.
"I really should be getting back to the Hanged Man." She told him turning away, trying to get her bearings. What had Varric told her once? Go down enough stairs in Hightown and you'll end up in Lowtown?
"You are hurt." Fenris stated unequivocally.
"I'm fine." She looked down at herself. One of her sleeves had been ripped off and a long cut decorated her forearm seeping blood.
Okay, maybe she was a little hurt, she was feeling a bit lightheaded, the adrenaline of the fight wearing off so she could feel the sluggish effects of bloodloss and alcohol on her body. "I just," she breathed heavily, "I just need to sit down for a bit and then I'll be alright." She moved towards a bench.
"You should not stay here. No doubt the City Guards will be here shortly and they do not look kindly on bodies littering Hightown."
"They shouldn't have fucked with me then. Idiots." She glared at the corpses.
"No doubt." He sighed. "The estate I am staying in is just around the corner. You can clean up and rest before you go back to the Hanged Man."
Eve mulled over the offer for a moment. "You don't have to." She told him.
"Hawke would not forgive me if anything were to happen to you."
"Fine." She grumbled. "Lead the way. I hope you don't mind bloodstains on the floor."
"It will make no difference." He told her walking off. She huffed at him. Varric was right, he was broody. Even Nathianial couldn't compete with him. But at least he didn't try to coddle her with help. That was far worse than indifference and right now, with Alistair on her mind, any kindness would make her cold reserve crumble.


Authors note:

Next chapter, Fenris POV. Mmmm, Fenris...