AN: Thank you for sticking with me this far, whether you've been reading since the beginning, or as recently as just now. I'm so glad to have been able to share this with you, to have been on the receiving end of your support and kind words. This is my last fic that I'll be putting up on this site, but you can find me at AO3 under the same name!
Thanks for everything.
Marian had no idea Kirkwall used to be home to the number of theatres on Bethany's list. She wasn't sure even Bethany had known it when she used to live in the city. Marian had tried to be a good sport at the beginning, but after searching up each theatre to find more often than not a listing reading "Closed permanently," her good cheer began to wear out.
Still, it had been at least two years, probably more, that she'd last seen her little sister. Bethany had gone off to ballet school shortly after Dad had died of the plague. Bethany had been the only one in the family to support Marian when she decided to use her inheritance to open Studio Amell with Anders, who at the time had been overeager to start up his own studio. Even Mother hadn't approved; she had blamed Marian for splitting the family up both all over the globe and all over emotions.
Bethany was chattering about something to Isabela on the metro, but Marian squeezed her hands together and tried to shake her dead mother's words out of her head. It wasn't easy, between the kachunk-kachunk of the metro car barreling along the rail and Bethany's baby flirtatious banter with her friend, but she forced herself to check the print copy of directions to Circle Theatre. This was one of the few larger theatres that hadn't been converted into office buildings or warehouses or just plain demolished. No one in her friend group seemed to care very much that the city's art scene was dying, and Marian had confessed to Fenris that she couldn't see herself spending the rest of her life here. Fenris had said something similar, but he'd got that lost look on his face that broke her heart when she asked where else in the world he'd like to be.
"Gallows District," the voice on the metro warned. Marian got to her feet and widened her stance to keep her balance. Bethany clung to the pole like she didn't take the metro often, babbling up a storm while Isabela smiled at her baby sister, one of her slow smiles that tended to make Marian hot around the collar. Bethany seemed to be affected, too, judging by the way her babbling sped up as her touristy camera shook in her hands. Fenris liked her sister, too, or at least they got along whenever he had two seconds of free time. He had a week and a half left until opening night, and those two seconds were becoming few and far between. He tried to make allowances, however: knowing just how many tickets Bethany's expensive school had purchased for this trip, Fenris had offered her and Marian two tickets to opening night.
Bethany had explained, once Fenris had the two ticket receipts in hand and had taken them aside at the Hanged Man, but he took it well. He didn't scoff at the prestigious ballet academy's funds when Bethany had carelessly tossed out how easy it had been for them to acquire opening night tickets. He didn't bristle when she'd suggested giving her ticket to one of the contemporary students who'd come along with her. Instead, he'd looked mildly embarrassed, thanked her, then asked Bethany if she wouldn't be upset if he passed her ticket along to someone else.
Now, Marian and Varric were poised to be the least glitzy people at opening night of Ballet Magisterium's production of Swan Lake.
"Gallows District," the voice boomed more confidently, and Marian followed Isabela and her sister off the wagon and up the escalator. She passed the directions to Isabela and let her steer the way—Isabela knew the area by the harbor better than anyone.
Gamlen hadn't put up much of a fuss when Marian got Mother's things out of the closet the other day. He'd complained more when Bethany had showed up with her piles of bags, despite her promises that it would only be for a couple of weeks and she'd stay in Carver's old room. Marian had sifted through Mother's clothes trunk with care. They didn't smell like her anymore—only faint traces of perfume on the pieces stuffed further down. It was easier now to do this. Mother had sold her finer, more sentimental things—even her wedding dress—when they'd first arrived as refugees fleeing the epidemic after Dad's death. There wasn't much to choose from. But Marian knew for a fact that she'd kept one piece of finery: the dress she'd worn to the awards ceremony when Malcolm Hawke won his first prize for improvisational dance.
After a couple minutes of searching, she'd found it and its matching clutch. Mother had always liked red even though it wasn't quite her color—too warm for her skin tone. Red taffeta capped sleeves and skirt just down to the knees with a black ruched top to show off her cleavage. Marian didn't have enough of that, but to her surprise, the dress hung nicely on her figure in need of only a little tailoring. She'd even found a gold cloth belt with plastic buckle in the trunk that made sewing even less necessary. It didn't quite go, but she later bought sheer golden tights for only a couple of sovereigns, and that sort of made it all come together.
"Marian, you look—" Bethany had covered her mouth with her hands and had broken off as Marian played model. "I mean," she said through her fingers, "you don't really look like Mother, but you look like—like if someone told Mother and Dad 'If you had a baby, this is what she'd look like.'"
Marian had laughed and walked around her room a bit to show off. "Good thing I am their baby, I guess."
She had a not-too-beat-up pair of tiny black heels and that took care of her outfit for opening night. A larger part of her than she would've liked to have admitted wished she could go all out and buy a new dress for her significant other's important life event, but her savings were growing nicely and she couldn't justify such a splurge. It was prom season, anyway, and no respectable dress shops were having any sales.
One day, she daydreamed as Isabela and Bethany laughed at an ugly statue outside Circle Theatre, she'd walk into one of those stores and try on every suit and dress they had and walk out with three bags worth of ritzy fabric. But until then, it was still nice to play dress-up in her Mother's clothes.
"Hawke, hello?" Isabela waved her hand at her. "You having nice thoughts, sweet thing?"
Marian grinned and walked over to the two of them. "Fancy clothing."
"Oh, Bela," Bethany cooed, grabbing onto Isabela's arm. "You absolutely have to see her in the dress she's going to wear to Swan Lake. She looks so definitely lovely!"
"I'll show you when we get back," Marian offered, and Isabela's eyes gleamed.
"I bet Fen is going to want to rip it off as soon as he sees you in it," she said with good cheer.
The Hawkes laughed, Bethany a little gigglier. "He's probably going to be exhausted," Marian disagreed.
"He'll watch you all throughout the afterparty, then, thinking terrible and beautiful things."
"The afterparty doesn't come until the end of the season."
"Go ahead, then!" Isabela pouted. "Ruin my imaginative fun!"
"Come on, Bela." Bethany pulled her arm. "We have to go inside! I need to meet my group."
"Fine, fine."
Marian's boredom and straying thoughts returned as Orsino explained the history of Circle Theatre and the famous Orlesian ballet dancers who had come out of it. The oddest bit of stress on her mind had to do with Gamlen. Tired of Bethany "treating my apartment like a flaming hotel and not even chipping in," he'd gone out drinking, drunk too much, and had spent the night in prison for getting in a serious bar fight. Marian had been planning on spending today packing up her belongings and moving them to Carver's. The stuff was packed, but Bethany had overslept, and so they hadn't had the time to meet Orsino's group at the hotel with her suitcases, much less go to Carver's. Gamlen still had another seven hours to serve, and she didn't want to be there when he exploded.
Carver, at least, was happy to let her stay with him for the time being, while she looked at other apartments. At the same time, she was starting to feel starved for creative expression as her roots seemed to sink deeper into Kirkwall's industrial soil.
Fenris held Diana steady in practice, body more on autopilot than a week before opening night warranted. Today, Hawke had moved in with her brother, and although she'd told Fenris in no uncertain terms that she didn't want to be a charity case, quietly he wished she'd moved in with him, instead.
Out of character thoughts, but he wasn't going to act on them. The stress had gotten to him more than he'd realized, and Hawke hadn't asked for anything save that he make a decision after the season's end. Fenris agreed that he couldn't make rational decisions about their relationship on a good day, much less in the week of dress and tech rehearsal. Still, logical thoughts about how they had only been together, in an official capacity, for less than three months were often overshadowed by other, intense thoughts. He didn't know how to tell her that nothing could be worse than the thought of living without her. A dark fear of losing her prevented him from giving voice to his sentiments.
He needed to focus. He needed to trust her. He needed to improve. He needed to do everything, everything, everything, better, better, better—
"Look alive, Siegfried! Moderato e maestoso, and a-one-!"
The hours and days swept onwards, full of flat backs and aching feet. Keeping his eye on one spot in the room, avoiding dizziness. Clap! Clap! Clap!
"One two three one two three—"
Shouts of different Orlesian phrases running together. His body reacted to them more than his ears did.
Makeup tests clogging his pores. Dye burning his scalp. Shivering, being stripped of costumes—someone had measured the shoulders incorrectly, leaving him shirtless and cold.
The same songs stuck in his head on the drive over, on the metro, walking to practice. His foot tapped in line at the grocery store.
Sweat-stained tights, reeking practice shirts, and he'd worn through another pair of practice shoes.
Coughing on a cloud of rosin when he'd stepped in the box too vigorously. No one laughed, exhaustion clear in their silence.
Coming home was no pleasure. He spent long minutes in the shower, alternating from hot to cold like he'd always done.
Tech rehearsal was a mess, and he'd expected this, they all had, but it's a mess and everyone is furious.
He'd forgotten what Hawke dances like—
"Flat back, Siegfried!" The ends of Pavus's mustache quiver.
No protein shakes.
Just water.
Mrs. Elegant's submarine sandwiches assaulted his memory with phantom oil and tantalizing fat while he ate his fast lunch with the company. Green salads for everyone.
It's pressure it's stress
He hates this he hates this
Why didn't he quit when Danarius—
Hawke moved, her heat engulfing his rage, quieting it as he gripped her hips. Soft skin and the sound of her ecstasy. Words he didn't know he could arrange in such an order spilling from his lips: Festis bei umo canavarum. Words from another family, another life, another country he can't remember. Words for now, with her.
"No talking in the wings!" The lights went up—when had the orchestra started up? Oboes alive, instruments swelling. How did they work? He'd never learned, he'd just danced—
"Break a leg."
Break a leg.
The lights dimmed, packed theatre mumbling into silence, and Marian batted Varric's suit sleeve. He grinned at her and lowered the program bearing Fenris and the principal ballerina's faces, the music clear and resonant through the Kirkwall Opera's high ceilings.
She had never sat in an opera box before. It wasn't the closest one to the stage nor the highest up, but the velvety bannister and excellent view thrilled her all the same. The orchestra, enormous both in size and in sound, spread below her, a feast for the ears as the trumpets picked up over the swelling voices of the violins.
Her stomach fluttered, the music's volume intensifying before falling to a decrescendo, and the curtains rose on the lit scene.
He caught Marian's eye the second he was visible. He was supposed to: center stage, all eyes focused on him, in the brightest blue on stage, arm raised to command attention. His hair was black, dark skin perfectly smooth and unmarked. Even from the distance to the box, his features and expression and smile stood out. Varric nudged her and she let out her held breath.
On stage, he gestured to the court and smiled again before moving to a throne in the back of the stage. Liquid grace. The first waltz began and the court sprang into action, but Marian kept her eyes trained on him. He never once shifted out of his slanted sit, observing the dance Marian was ignoring. He didn't look like he could feel her staring.
He looked at ease. Vaguely bored with a passing hint of interest, but relaxed in a way that she didn't recognize.
"Pavus doesn't tolerate evidence of hard work," Fenris had complained to her once after a particularly grueling day of rehearsal. "'Ballet is easy, Siegfried.' That's his favorite criticism. 'Ballet is effortless.' Sometimes I hate him when I hear that for the tenth time in a day."
But his director's criticism had paid off. The lines of his body, sharply defined by the tension in his muscles, betrayed nothing of his thoughts—he was raw physical energy, a presence created out of the momentum of the other waltzing dancers, attuned only to them. He existed as a product of dance even when still. Marian tore her eyes away from his figure and tried to focus on the corps de ballet, but the waltz ended and he was soon descending the stairs with the new song. He raised his arms.
A memory surfaced: another solo from another act from another time. Fenris's legs hyperextending, the muscles outlined perfectly beneath his tights. Crisp, precise, and flawlessly executed.
On stage, he smiled, expression excited and excitable, his motions to the court infecting their own responses with dynamism. Oblivious of his mother the Queen's stern expression, he flitted from friend to friend, inspired and unrestrained joy bursting from his body.
Skill, grace, power, movement, precision, energy, talent, beauty: words that didn't do him justice. Varric, sitting beside her leaning his elbows on the cushy bannister, could probably express what she meant to say in more adequate terms.
The oversize props—each courtier holding a goblet, the crossbow the Queen presented—Varric seemed to find amusing, and as the shock eased from Marian's heart, she relaxed and followed the story more closely. The prince's carefree attitude towards his courtly duties was evident enough, but she had to refer to the program when he found himself alone in the forest after having left the first act in a flurry of enthusiastic revelers. Everyone knew Swan Lake, she'd thought before arriving. Marian hadn't done more than glance at the pamphlet when they'd first sat down, too intent on soaking up the decadence of the theatre. Apparently there were more details than she'd remembered.
The oboes eased off, and Marian paused her page-ruffling self-consciously. The audience had gone still in anticipation. Even Varric had leaned forward in his seat. The Swan Queen let the prince take her hand, the music drew syrupy long tones from the string section, and the two of them swept offstage through the trees as one by one swans emerged to take their places.
He returned occasionally, following the Swan Queen through lines of dancing swans and back out of sight again, and each time he did, Marian locked the sight of him in her vision. The excitement and wonder never left his body—eyes looking where Odette was right about to be, arms reaching for her oh-so-slowly in the moment before she pirouetted away from him—and when the evil wizard appeared, his energy transformed, reimagined into aggressive shoulders and threatening leaps. Softness and gentleness returned close to dawn, holding Odette aloft with equal parts strength and yearning. When the light changed and dawn arrived, he reached for the Swan Queen turned swan once more, and the promise in the gesture gripped Marian's heart even as the curtain fell and the lights flicked on.
The audience bustled about, ready for intermission, but Marian ignored Varric's offer to buy her a drink in favor of gripping the plush bannister. Enjoyment, entertainment, delight didn't cut it.
Prince Siegfried was not Fenris. He wasn't reserved, didn't unfurl slow smiles, didn't tap his foot to a complicated staccato while waiting, wasn't uncertain in his displays of affection or disciplined to the point of rigid.
But Fenris was Prince Siegfried, finally, finally, finally, finally, finally.
"Hawke?" Varric clapped a hand on her shoulder. "You know I love you, but that line's gonna make for a thousand-year wait."
Marian nodded and collected her clutch before following Varric out. "I'm so proud of him," she said—quietly, she thought. But Varric reached behind him, offering his hand. She took it, black glove on large tanned palm, and he squeezed.
Hands clapped on Fenris's back in congratulation as soon as he stepped backstage. Everyone's smiling faces sparkled with sweat under the lights, their chests heaving and costumes damp. Fenris allowed himself to breathe, adrenaline fading and leaving his body feeling the exertion.
Another hand. Director Pavus's, on his shoulder, a paternal gesture. "Don't relax yet, Siegfried," he chastised Fenris, but his grin was too huge to take seriously. "You haven't finished yet."
"I need my makeup touched up," Fenris reminded him. Pavus flicked his eyes in the direction of the curtain, and the grin widened. It was indeed a full house, but—"I can feel the foundation sweating off me," he spoke up again. Pavus turned his attention back and nodded, releasing Fenris from his grip.
"I'll send the crew over in a moment."
Fenris retreated to his dressing room and closed the door behind him. Sweat trickled down his overheated chest, exposing the tattoos on his skin in a smear. Pulling off the costume shirt was difficult, the fabric sticking to his damp skin. He glanced up, and the mirror showed someone unfamiliar. He looked like the boy he'd been, like that boy had been allowed to grow up properly. He looked like—
A knock at the door, and he turned to greet the crew. But instead, there were only two people in the doorway: a tall, all-too-familiar old man, and a short, all-too-familiar girl—
"Leto."
His heart pounded beneath his tattooed skin.
The drink was good, but not as good as what Varric usually made. Marian wasn't going to say anything about it to him, since he'd bought it for her and all, but Varric took one sip and rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, you do it better," Marian agreed, nodding at the glass, but her friend only frowned.
"No, not the drink, Hawke." Marian deflated, embarrassed. Varric lowered his voice. "Look. Three o'clock. Don't be obvious."
She took another sip of her drink and flitted her eyes over the brim. When she caught sight of the older woman in the sharply cut suit, Marian nearly choked.
"I said not to be obvious, Hawke."
"I can't believe Meredith Stannard is here," Marian whispered. "Of all people. Carver says she couldn't care less for this sort of thing."
"Well, she's been buying up all those theatres, right? Maybe the Opera's fallen on hard times," Varric said lightly. Marian took in the chandeliers dripping in glass and maybe even crystal for all she knew.
"I doubt that."
"There's no concern like this in Orlais," a new and unimpressed voice chimed in. Marian tried to turn around slowly, but Varric shook his head only half-irritated. Too obvious. Bethany's instructor stood behind them swirling a flute of champagne.
"Messere Orsino, am I right?" Varric said jovially, but the man sighed and took a sip of his drink, keeping his gaze trained on Stannard.
"Orlesian secrets are harder to unearth," Orsino said. "It's easy for us to throw lavish fêtes and perform expensive operas in the name of 'beauty.' It's trickier to see the ever-creeping cuts to education and the arts. You have to be paying attention to that. Here in Kirkwall, all your secrets are laid bare. I didn't have to spend a week here to know everything about Stannard & Co."
"'Everything' is a big word." Varric's smile grew so smoothly. Marian wished she could wipe the curiosity off her own expression. She bit her tongue. "You sure you haven't missed something important?"
Orsino shrugged. "Undoubtedly. But nothing's been handled discretely. I'm sure Stannard's next exciting scandal will be handled with its usual degree of tact."
"Marian! There you are," Bethany called from somewhere behind Orsino. His shoulders relaxed visibly, and Marian felt her own muscles release some of the tension she hadn't realized they'd been holding. "I know it's not good etiquette, but I have to ask you what you think so far—"
"If we could have everyone's attention, please!" a voice drawled over the speakers. The bustle of snacking audience members began shuffling its way back towards the doors.
"They didn't even flash the lights," Bethany complained, crossing her arms, but Marian and Varric stared at the speakers.
"No, no," the voice continued. "It's not showtime yet. You can stay right where you are."
"Do you think that's—" Marian began, and Varric nodded, expression grim.
"Sounds like Blondie."
"Showtime will commence shortly," Anders said from somewhere unseen, "but for now, we have an announcement to make." The crowd began chattering, and Anders's voice rose. "You've watched these dancers' final product of their labors with delight this evening. It's been a fine performance, wouldn't you agree?" Several members of the crowd clapped while others lifted their glasses to the speakers. Marian could see Meredith Stannard's glower. "We're overjoyed you're deriving some benefit from seeing the polished, pristine result of grueling hours upon hours spent in class and rehearsal." Some people were still nodding, but fewer now.
"I have a bad feeling about this," Varric mumbled.
Marian twisted her head around, but Anders was nowhere to be found.
"We're so thrilled you're profiting from these dancers' bodies," Anders continued, even louder now. His microphone crackled. "Your ravenous hunger for art keeps this business alive in Kirkwall and beyond. You're so starved for beauty, for emotion, you'll eat up whatever processed movement is thrown your way. You don't care that dancers have bled for you, have been stripped of any substance for you, have become bleached bones devoid of creative expression on parade for you."
"What's he on about?" Bethany's mouth hung open as she stared at the speakers.
"We've got to find him," Marian said to Varric over Anders' speech. "Something terrible is going to happen." He nodded and set his drink on the bar. Marian followed suit.
"—no longer! No longer will we stand by and allow industry to suck the life out of this city! No longer will we bow for you starving masses after you've swallowed our lives!"
The crowd surged uncertainly, some people making for the exit, others for the theatre doors, still others rooted in place. Marian pulled Bethany by the wrist along with her as she and Varric weaved through the masses. She jerked her chin in the direction of the stairs, and the three of them squeezed their way past stupefied people.
Two security guards were stationed at the bottom of the stairs, eyes on the speakers and arms crossed. Marian took a step out of the crowd and froze, sweat trickling down the back of her neck. The security guard with long black hair had her exposed arms laced with white tattoos.
"Varric, take Bethany and get out of here."
"What?" Varric said from behind her, peeking over her shoulder. "Oh. Well. Shit."
"What's going on?" Bethany called. "People are leaving, sister. Should we leave, too?"
"You can run if you need to," Anders was saying. "It's better if you do. But leave today knowing that this destruction will not stop—not with us, and not with Stannard & Co. And certainly not with you."
"Take Bethany," Marian repeated, turning her back on the security guards. "You know Kirkwall and she doesn't. I have to get Fenris."
"Hawke, don't you think—"
"I don't have time to think!" Marian snapped.
"Looks like it's showtime, Free Marchers," Anders said, voice clear as ice.
Marian took off running. The security guards jumped as she sped by, the long-haired woman reaching for her hip, but she ignored them and the stairs, racing down the marble hall. Her heels clacked on the floor, tack, tack, tack, in steady rhythm.
"You all have ten minutes, perhaps, before this prison collapses," Anders's voice finished. "Old buildings, old establishments…Some burn quicker than others."
No one was stationed by the rear auditorium door. Where was Aveline and the rest of the force? Marian tugged the door open and dashed inside. Anders's voice followed her in her desperate flight down the aisle.
"Good night. Maker preserve us all."
"Varania," Fenris breathed, and for a moment, everything came to rest, to peace. His sister pushed her bright red brows together above the same green eyes he had. She'd grown tall, taller since they'd been children, taller than a school photo could convey. Her hair, no longer unbrushed and hanging loose around her collarbones, was neatly pinned in a bun on the top of her head. She bit the side of her lip, like she always did when she was nervous but trying to be brave, and Danarius stepped closer to her, casting his shadow over her shoulder. Immediately, Fenris's shields snapped straight up. "You led him here," he accused her. He tried to ignore his thudding pulse coming to life.
"No, Fenris. I brought her. To see you. It's been quite some time." Danarius's steely gaze cut deep into Fenris's skin, eyes lingering over the makeup-streaked tattoos. "Your performance tonight was…inspired."
"I'm sorry it came to this, Leto," Varania began, but Danarius silenced her with one quick jerk of his head. She shrank back, and Fenris clenched the edges of the counter.
"I only thought," Danarius said, moving ever closer to him, "that seeing your long-lost sister would remind you of the important things. The reason you're even here, backstage, in this," he dismissed the makeup bottles on the vanity with a wave of his hand, "dressing room."
A surge of courage shot through Fenris's lips. "Shut your mouth, Danarius."
Danarius sighed. "For all your improvements, you still lack," Fenris saw the hand coming too late, "discipline."
The slap knocked a thousand memories into his head. Danarius's rough pull on his thin arm carrying the small suitcase as he said goodbye to his now-dead mother. A cane slapping his spine—flat back, Fenris. And a new thought, with his sister in front of him now, flinching at the impact of Danarius's hand on Fenris's face—Varania, undergoing the same treatment. Varania, who should've been safe.
Danarius seethed in front of him. "I give you everything—everything—and the best you can do for me is give me lip and a half-trained sister. Do you think you have the power to ruin me, little pet? Do you think you know anything of what you're playing with?"
Fenris tasted fire.
"If we could have everyone's attention, please!" a voice drawled over the speakers. Danarius stood still, dangerously so. "No, no. It's not showtime yet. You can stay right where you are."
"Then we can continue," Danarius said. "Fenris, you have one of two choices right now."
"Showtime will commence shortly, but for now, we have an announcement to make."
"You agree," Danarius continued, "to return with me—and your sister—once you've taken your bow."
"You've watched these dancers' final product of their labors with delight this evening. It's been a fine performance, wouldn't you agree?"
"You continue to receive support, housing, gas, whatever you need to keep you from acting out." Varania, behind him, looked away when Fenris tried to catch her eye.
"We're overjoyed you're deriving some benefit from seeing the polished, pristine result of grueling hours upon hours spent in class and rehearsal."
"You sign a contract I will draw up with the proper attorneys, in which a perfectly justified share of your earnings is returned to me as payment for putting you through school all these years."
"We're so thrilled you're profiting from these dancers' bodies. Your ravenous hunger for art keeps this business alive in Kirkwall and beyond. You're so starved for beauty, for emotion, you'll eat up whatever processed movement is thrown your way. You don't care that dancers have bled for you, have been stripped of any substance for you, have become bleached bones devoid of creative expression on parade for you."
"In exchange," Danarius spat, "I don't sue you within an inch of your life for theft, debt default, vagrancy, whatever I need to get my investment back from the waste of time I spent raising an ingrate like you. I run in circles more important than your little circle of champions of the just, Fenris. I know more powerful people."
"Sir, do you hear the—"
"Silence, Varania."
"We will suffer your injustices no longer! No longer will we stand by and allow industry to suck the life out of this city! No longer will we bow for you starving masses after you've swallowed our lives!"
"I am not your slave!" Fenris bellowed, lunging for the old man. His fingernails scraped cloth, then met air. Varania clutched Danarius by the shoulders.
"Leto, please—"
"Stop calling me that!"
"You can run if you need to. It's better if you do. But leave today knowing that this destruction will not stop—not with us, and not with Stannard & Co. And certainly not with you."
Danarius wheezed in Varania's arms, toppled backwards by her forceful pull. He jerked out of her grasp and leaned over by the door, catching his breath. Varania rushed towards Fenris, and he put up his hands.
"You would do this to me, your brother—"
"He is my only chance!" she shouted. "You do not know what it's been like since mother died, since your checks stopped coming."
"Looks like it's showtime, Free Marchers."
"You wanted this life," she jabbed a finger at his chest in the face of his guilt, his rage. "You wanted this more than anything as a kid. You did what you had to in order to survive. Well, so did I."
"You all have ten minutes, perhaps, before this prison collapses. Old buildings, old establishments…Some burn quicker than others."
"I was going to save you from him," Fenris hissed. "I just needed—"
"More time?" Varania laughed, a hollow, angry sound. "You took a decade, Leto!"
"Good night. Maker preserve us all."
Fenris stared at her, and she stared unflinchingly back, her eyes bright and fierce.
Danarius rose slowly, clutching his back. He turned to face them, unscathed. "I will not tolerate—"
The door banged open, the edge colliding with the back of Danarius's skull. He crumpled to the floor, coat falling gracelessly around his still form.
"Fenris, thank the Maker. We have to get out of here!" Hawke's voice. Fenris felt the blood leaving his brain. "Did you block the door? I felt—" Black high heels tapped into sight, legs in gold tights coming out of the shadows of backstage.
"Hawke, it's him," Fenris tried to say, but his tongue felt heavy. Varania gave a cry of alarm and scurried over to kneel beside the fallen Danarius.
"Oh, shit," Hawke whispered, covering her red mouth with a black gloved hand. The crimson fabric of her dress fell around her as she stepped closer uncertainly. Fenris had never seen anything more mesmerizing than the movement of that cloth against her skin. His stomach lurched. "Is he—"
"He's alive," Varania babbled. "He's alive, we have to move him—"
"Hawke. What's going on?" Fenris walked away from the counter and closer to Hawke, surprised by the steadiness of his legs. An ominous rumbling began to growl in the walls.
"It's Anders. I think he's going to blow up the place. He must be part of that group. We have—we have to get out of here." Hawke wrenched her eyes away from Danarius. "What will we do about this guy?"
"It's Danarius," Fenris said, then hesitated. Hawke inhaled sharply, and the plaster in the wall next to her cracked.
"What do you want to do?"
Fenris slowly turned to face Varania. She loosely held Danarius's limp hand in hers, staring up at her brother.
"He's our only chance, Leto," she begged, and Fenris's resolve hardened.
"Come on, Varania," he said, tone brooking no room for argument. The walls shook.
"Leto!"
"I won't lose my sister again to this man!" he snapped. "Let's go!" A piece of plaster fell from the ceiling onto the vanity, and Varania jumped up.
"What will we do about—"
"This way, officers!" someone called from a distance. "I hear voices backstage."
"That's Meredith Stannard," Hawke told him. "The police will find him."
Fenris grabbed his bag and pushed past her through the doorway, pretending not to see the blood on the door. A flashlight beam rounded the corner.
"I saw the rest of the cast evacuating," Hawke said, following him out. "Was he with you the entire time?"
Fenris nodded. "Varania." He heard her shuffling behind him, and as soon as he was sure she followed, he gestured to the left. "There's a fire exit this way." He began running, and Hawke and Varania caught up. Plaster, wood fragments, and clouds of dust sprinkled the hallway floor.
"Shouldn't we tell the police?" Varania asked, her voice half a whisper. Fenris blinked once, twice, then realized the darkness was mostly smoke. He sped up.
"They'll think we killed him," Hawke answered for him, her voice even softer. The fire exit winked in the smoke before them, red light diffusing. Fenris shoved the bar and sunlight poured in, polluted air filling his lungs. The concrete back parking lot of the Kirkwall Opera was empty except for his car, Danarius's, and two police cars. Fenris unzipped his bag and began rifling around for his keys.
"We have to keep driving," Fenris said, surprised by the raspiness of his voice. "Get in—"
"You!" A hoarse scream bellowed from behind them. Fenris whirled around to see a tall woman with long blond hair clutching the exit door. As he watched, she began clambering down the stairs. "You, with those blighted tattoos!"
"Get to the car!" Hawke shouted, and the three of them took off. Fenris fumbled for his keys and found them when they sliced his hand open. Hands shaking, breath ragged, he pressed the unlock button twice, and they piled in. The key trembled as he tried to put it in the ignition. Hawke reached over him and slammed the lock. The car roared to life, and Fenris sped away from the screaming woman and smoking opera house. Armored police vans just barely blocked the exit, troopers hurrying into the building. Fenris swore and swerved around them.
"They found him, right?" Varania demanded from the back seat. "They must have found him."
"Maker, Varric and Bethany must have gotten out safely," Hawke whispered. Sweat dripped into the cut on his hand and stung. "I told them to leave as soon as Anders started—started doing his stupid shit!"
"That was early," Fenris assured her, lips tight. "They must be long gone by now."
"Leto, I can't believe you just left him there!" Varania shouted. He narrowed his eyes at her in the rearview mirror, but she didn't back down. "He would have given me everything!"
Fenris bit down, hard, on his lip to keep from swearing at her. "We can figure everything out when we get back," he said. Sirens wailed, emergency lights zipping past them in the direction of Kirkwall Opera. "You're not alone. We'll get through this."
Varric had hurried Bethany to his place along with the tide of the fleeing crowd. Carver, Merrill, and Isabela had been spending every day there since the destruction of the Opera, but Bethany's school was cutting the trip short due to the attack. She would be leaving with Orsino and her fellow students tomorrow.
Aveline, for her part, was furious with herself. She had not been stationed at Kirkwall Opera that night due to a last-minute change in patrol, and while she had no proof, she was certain the Fog Warriors had sympathizers within the force. Anders, for his part, had simply vanished. No explanation. No further speech. Nothing.
Varania had refused to engage in any conversations with Fenris lasting longer than two sentences, but Marian suspected she didn't know how to adjust, either to his new name or his new self. The evening news had reported Danarius among the missing.
And Fenris spent each day of canceled performances pacing, on the phone sometimes, talking with his hands, while they made their plans for Danarius's return.
"You know, I hear Orlais is pretty nice this time of year," Bethany said once Marian had released her from the goodbye hug. The rest of her class was clustered in small groups around the lobby, speaking in muted tones. Their own party—Carver, Fenris, Merrill, and Isabela included—gathered around Bethany, a protective huddle. "I even heard you have family down there."
Marian's answering smile wobbled a little, but Carver spoke for her. "We're picking up the pieces here, sister. I for one am glad you're headed back."
"Carver, happy I'm going to dance school? You've changed."
Carver's somber expression didn't change. "A lot has changed."
Bethany's teasing grin faded. "All I'm saying is—"
"I know, Bethany," Marian said, stepping close to kiss her cheek. She could feel her sister's eyelashes against her own cheek, a little damp. "We're not as far from home as you think."
Merrill gave Bethany a quick but strong squeeze once Marian had moved away. "The same offer goes for you, Bethany," Merrill said seriously. "You're welcome any time." She returned to Carver's side, letting Fenris in.
He considered Bethany for a moment, and she raised her arms halfway. Instead, Fenris walked forward few paces and pressed a kiss against her other cheek. "Be well," he told her. Bethany nodded several times more than necessary, visibly fighting tears as Fenris walked away.
She hadn't wanted to talk about what had happened, Marian realized. Varric had only told her that he'd gotten Bethany out as fast as he could, that Orsino had helped, and Bethany had affirmed this. But that was all she'd got out of them. Orsino, eternally an enigma and standing by the revolving glass doors talking to the bus driver, looked much more drawn than she'd remembered.
Marian opened her mouth to offer her sister more reassurance, but to her surprise, Fenris placed a hand on her back and began guiding her away. She quirked an inquisitive eyebrow at him, and in her peripherals, she saw Isabela step close, very close to her sister. Before Fenris could clue her in, she twisted around just in time to see Isabela, her hands cupping Bethany's face, press a gentle kiss against her lips.
Fenris's hand pressed more firmly on her back, and she allowed him to shepherd her out of the hotel.
Once inside the lobby of his apartment building, Fenris stopped. Hawke didn't notice and kept walking, but when she tugged on their linked hands and he didn't follow, she twisted around with concern in her eyes.
"What's eating at you?"
"Hawke," he said. He pulled on her hand to bring her closer, then lifted it until her palm was against his mouth. He let his lips linger, eyes closed. An instant passed, and Hawke's free hand was tracing the curve of his jaw, the edge of the bone below his left ear.
"Fenris?"
His eyes opened, fixed themselves on her face. Her slightly jutting chin, where he knew if he touched he'd feel a small raised scar. Her freckled cheeks, growing darker with increased exposure to sunlight. Her short black hair curling just under her ears and brushing the sensitive nape of her neck. The slope of her nose. Her pale blue eyes, now shining with worry and postponed tears, but so often alight with passion and excitement and laughter. Her body, full of the same passion, the same dynamic desire to live.
He memorized her features, catalogued them. Saved them to his mind and body in case—just in case—
"Meeting you," he said, letting her hand fall, "was the most important thing to ever happen to me."
Hawke blinked quickly, a few delayed tears spilling down her cheeks. "We've done a lot of big things together," she agreed, voice thick. "In the future, we'll have even bigger and stranger things to tackle."
Fenris smirked. They let go of each other's hands and began heading to his flat. "Is that a promise?"
"If you'll have it," she said. Fenris reached in his pocket for his keys. Then, more quietly: "If you'll have me for them."
He nearly dropped the keys. "Hawke," he began, but she was already shaking her head.
"Forget what I said. I don't mean it. It's just—with opening night—and with Danarius, I just—I know you've been through a lot, and it just sort of got to me for a second." She wiped her eyes with a quick swipe of the back of her hand. "I'm not actually worried, I'm just, you know, a worrier about everything else."
"Hawke," Fenris said firmly, and she met his look with the tears already drying in her eyes and on her face. Something in his chest squeezed once, warm and bubbling in a not-quite-uncomfortable way. With more conviction and confidence than he'd ever felt in his life, he seized her by the shoulders, then slid his hands up her neck and jaw to rest his fingers against her pressure points. "Nothing is going to keep me from you," he said, fingers insisting, demanding. She reached for him so quickly he hardly had time to remember to kiss her, mouths colliding with such desperation that it might have frightened him once.
But now, he pulled her flush against his body, sifting his fingers through her hair and letting his nails scrape against her scalp. He knew he was shaking, could feel her tear-streaked cheeks against his skin, but his urgency and her ferocity made these things trivial. Fenris's hand slid down her back, and she shivered against him, breaking free of the kiss to caress his neck and follow the movement of her fingers with her teeth and tongue. His hips jerked, hand slipping up the hem of her shirt, her skin smooth and warm—
The door handle to his apartment clicked, and they broke away from each other like busted teenagers. When the door opened, Fenris hadn't quite managed to adjust his jeans, and Hawke's hair stood up in the back. Varania leaned against the doorway, surveying them coolly.
"Hi, Varania," Hawke chirped, voice cracking in the middle of his sister's name.
"Dropped your sister off already?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. Hawke and Fenris nodded. If she'd been willing to talk more these last few days, Fenris would dared to have called her tone amused. "Aveline's outside," Varania continued. "I was going to let her in."
Hawke and Fenris exchanged a look, mood sobering. "I can go get her," Varania rolled her eyes, misunderstanding. She stomped down without allowing time for a response. Hawke shrugged once she left, and Fenris held the closing door in time for the two of them to enter his flat.
"I have bad news and more bad news," Aveline said as soon as Varania let her through his door. "I don't know which of them is worse, so I'll let you be the judge."
"Well, don't keep us in suspense," Marian said from the sofa bed. Fenris waved a glass of wine Aveline's way, but she shook her head.
"No, thank you. You know we caught some of the conspirators before they could blow up the whole place, but Anders and the bulk of these 'Fog Warriors' are still at large."
"That's what the news report said." Marian pointed to Fenris's small kitchen TV, tuned to the station.
"Well, keep watching, I guess. And turn up the sound."
Fenris did as she said, and they listened, waiting. Varania leaned in closer, and Fenris upped the volume again.
"—were survivors rescued from collapsed sections of the basement. We can thank the KPD for finding them in time. In sadder news, two of the formerly missing persons were discovered to have been killed in the attack on Kirkwall Opera's opening night of Ballet Magisterium's Swan Lake."
Fenris's apartment went silent.
"Grand Cleric Elthina of the Kirkwall Chantry, known for her humanitarian and missionary work in Par Vollen and beyond, was identified today, as was Danarius Prosperus, a prominent—"
Varania whirled on Fenris. "You said they would find him. You said the police—" now she turned on Aveline, "I can't believe you didn't find him. I can't believe you didn't look—"
"Aveline wasn't there," Marian objected. Varania's hands shook.
"You understand what this means, don't you, Le—Fenris? We have no future, no hope of survival! I can't rebuild from nothing!"
Fenris said nothing, only sinking into a kitchen chair. He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, exhaled slowly.
"That's part one of the bad news," Aveline said.
"I see no problem with this," Fenris intoned, eyes still shut.
"Meredith Stannard says she saw you fleeing the room where Danarius was found."
Marian jerked in her seat, but Fenris remained still. Varania clapped her hands over her mouth, tears—of anger, sadness, or something Marian didn't understand—welling up in her eyes.
"I would say no one would believe her, seeing as her testimony is full of holes at best, but—Hawke, Stannard holds sway in this city. I didn't want to believe it, but it seems that power extends to the KPD." When Aveline received no other response, she took a deep breath. "And now the other bad news. Stannard is accusing Fenris of orchestrating not just the attack on Kirkwall Opera, but on her other damaged properties."
Fenris laughed, the sound piercing through the room. "She has no proof."
"She says she saw your tattoos. Everyone at Ballet Magisterium knows you have them, Fenris—this is no laughing matter."
"Wynne will vouch for me," Fenris said, opening his eyes at last.
"Everyone we know will vouch for you," Marian shot back. "However much 'sway' Stannard has with the police, they can't just build a case up from baseless lies. There's absolutely nothing to be worried about." Aveline took another breath, and Marian glared at her. "I don't like that sound."
"That's because you should be worried," Aveline retorted.
"Are you here to arrest us, Officer Vallen?" Varania snapped, and Aveline relaxed.
"That's not fair, Varania. No, I'm not. They took me off the case—"
"Oh, so there's a 'case,' now?" Varania laughed, echoing her brother.
"Would you let me finish? They took me off the case, but the everyday officers and detectives are more loyal to me than they're afraid of Stannard's threats. Her case won't hold water. I'd doubt we'd even get to an arrest or trial stage. But Stannard has been so rabidly following the arson cases that she has ties to other means."
"Aveline, please. The suspense? I don't like it," Marian interrupted. Aveline sighed.
"You sound like Isabela. My point is you're in danger. Most of us, I should think. Stannard is practically carrying out an underground inquisition. Hitmen and informants at worst, public outrage and riots at best. Kirkwall isn't…" Aveline massaged her temple, the weight of the news etched into the crinkles of her eyes. Guilt for her fearful impatience settled heavy in Marian's stomach, but before she could say anything, Aveline recovered. "Kirkwall isn't safe for any of us."
The room erupted.
"Then what about our—"
"I told you we should—"
"I'm not going to—"
Marian was the first to shut up at the sight of Aveline's haggard expression. Fenris stood up from the chair and started pacing while Varania began taking what sounded like calming breaths. "Then we have to get out," Marian said after a moment. "The Free Marches are city-states, and they're far. Kirkwall's law can't follow us forever. And Stannard is one person."
"One very wealthy company," Aveline corrected. Fenris quit pacing the kitchen tiles and shot Marian a look. She nodded. Aveline caught their eye. "Have you planned for this?"
"I mean, it was under different circumstances, and sort of a worst-case-scenario plan," Marian hedged. At Aveline's frown, she straightened up on the sofa. "Yes."
"But it will take some time to settle our assets," Fenris acknowledged. Varania darted her eyes from Fenris, to Marian, to Aveline, and back to Fenris. "Is there anything you can do to keep eyes off us? From the force, if nothing else?"
"I can't promise anything," Aveline said stoutly, "but I'll do what I can." She set her jaw. "Donnic and I may have to follow suit if this…trouble increases."
"I don't like having to pack up my life to run again," Marian said gently. "But I'll do what it takes to protect the people I care about."
Aveline fixed her with a searching look, memories from the Blight year clear in her expression. "What about your family, Hawke?"
"Carver has his own plan. Merrill with him. Oh," Marian grit her teeth. "You mean Gamlen."
"I suppose that answers that, then."
"Fenris." The three of them looked at Varania in surprise. She pursed her lips under the scrutiny, but addressed the room. "I have no future here. There is nothing for me here."
Marian saw Fenris swallow. "I will not abandon you again."
"I don't need to be protected," she said, irritable for a moment, but her face soon smoothed. "I am not pining for a happier time that never was. I've learned enough in my life to know you can only look at the future only a few days in advance. But I—" Her voice quaked.
"If you want to join us," Fenris said as if he were discussing the weather, nothing pitying in his voice, "I would like that very much."
"I will not stay with you long," Varania said, lifting her chin. "I've taken care of myself."
"You have," Fenris said, rubbing one eye.
"Then I will come with."
Varania and Fenris stepped forward at the same time, backs straight and identical green eyes shining, and hugged so briefly, if Marian had blinked slower, she would have missed it. But there was no awkward bumping of limbs, no uncomfortable pause. Once upon a time, in different heights and different lives, this was familiar to them.
Marian stood from the sofa and cleared her throat. "Then we should get ready."
"That can't be it," the woman whose name Varric kept forgetting said over her untouched martini. "You must know more."
Varric wiped dry a wineglass and hung it on its rack with the others. "'Fraid so, Seeker."
"Stop calling me by that nickname. I have a real name."
He grinned evasively, then swept to the other end of the bar to take another customer's order. By the time he returned to the sink, he could feel the Seeker's eyes boring holes into the back of his shirt.
"Check, Seeker?"
"If you continue, I shall have to think of a name for you as well," the Seeker scowled. "I like the sound of 'Liar.'"
"You're breaking my heart. I've never been called that in my life." Varric reached for her undrunk martini, and a possessive hand snapped up to grip the glass. He held up his own hands. "Fine, I get the hint."
"Why are you playing coy?" the Seeker said quietly. Varric didn't know she was capable of speaking in anything other than that barking, commanding register. "I want to know the end of this story. The real ending. Kirkwall is still passing witch-hunting laws while protests spring up like weeds. These people can't have all simply…disappeared, as you suggest. They all vanished. Why didn't you?"
"Me?" Varric laughed. Bartrand looked up from where he was serving customers on the couch, but Varric only shook his head ever so slightly. "I don't get caught up in that political crap. I have a business to run. And someone has to spin this story."
"You're not doing your friends justice by ending their tale so poorly," the Seeker pointed out in a way she probably thought was clever. "You're leaving something out. Something important. It's not a proper story with holes in the plot."
"Read a lot of romance novels, Seeker?" Varric asked lightly. Her glare deepened, as did the color of her cheeks. "Fine, I'll give you the missing piece." She leaned over the counter intently, subtle as a train whistle. "I don't think they just disappeared." Closer still she leaned. Varric eyed the martini, hoping it wouldn't spill. "I hear rumors sometimes. Only sometimes. I think…they left the country."
The Seeker shot straight up, jostling the martini glass, but Varric continued thoughtfully, "If that's the case, no way for me to hear from them ever again. My cell service doesn't cover international fees."
The woman made a disgusted noise and slapped a handful of sovereigns on the bar. "I don't know why I came here," she spat, turning on her heel.
"Kept me captive long enough, telling this story," Varric shrugged, but the Seeker had already opened the door, the bell jingling violently seconds after her departure.
Varric dumped her martini in the sink and wiped the liquid she'd spilled, keeping an eye on the door. "Bartrand," he called, and his brother came over with a tray full of empty glasses.
"What is it now, Varric?"
"I think that last customer gave us too much change. Do you think she's gone too far?"
Bartrand left the tray on the bar and hurried to check outside. Varric unloaded the tray, whistling to himself.
"Saw her heading down the metro stairs. Can't say I felt like following her," Bartrand reported after a few minutes, the bell tinkling again.
"Thanks, brother."
"Yeah, yeah. She won't miss a little extra."
Once Bartrand headed back to the main floor, Varric slipped a hand into his pocket. Passing over the sleek smartphone, he pulled out his older blue phone. He flipped it open and tapped down to a number he'd never added to his contacts. He'd gotten good at hitting each button multiple times to get to the right letter, but it had taken a while to get back in the habit.
Just told some suspiciously curious lady you weren't worth an international service fee
He clicked the phone closed and set the dishwasher to "glassware," whistling some more in time with the chug chug chug of the machine sloshing to life. His pocket vibrated once, softer than the smartphone did. Varric cast another casual glance around the bar, its denizens as rowdy and loud as the summer weekend demanded, before taking the flip phone out again. A message and a picture.
I hope she called you a liar
And the low-quality image underneath. Fenris and Carver hunched over a table, looking deep in conversation or, more likely, argument. Merrill leaning her chin against her palm, watching them. A grainy Isabela winking at the camera, the only one aware, her arm wrapped around Bethany. Donnic in the background holding some indiscernible dish, a flash of red behind him hinting at Aveline's presence. The top of Hawke's head down to the bridge of her nose was the only part of her that made it in as she took the picture—no front-facing camera.
Varric smiled, a flash of pleasure at the text, a jab of pain at not seeing the one person missing from the photo. He looked at the file for a moment longer before tapping his way up to settings. Another tap, and the texts and photo blipped free from his history.
"You're actually joking. Alert the Chantry! They need to put this on the calendar!"
"And you thought I was always serious."
[end]