A/N: Yeh. I apologize ahead of time, but this chapter might seem a bit dry. I had to account for the time lapse in between the Deep Roads and Act 2, so this is mostly just a recap/retelling of what Varric narrates in-game, with some extra embellishments for fluff because I thought they made sense in the context of the story. So I hope you all like it! Things should pick back up again in the next chapter. Thank you all again for the reviews! I love you guys.

Weeks had gradually stretched into months, each rolling by with a peaceful, drowsy sort of slowness. Leandra was able to use the money from the expedition and her correspondence with the viscount to reclaim her old family home in Hightown. Bodahn Feddic had voluntarily installed himself as a sort of servant, meaning he and Sandal now lived in the mansion as well. That was fine by Hawke. The estate was just too large for her, Leandra, and Winston. Even with Sandal's antics and Bodahn's running chatter, the house still felt quiet. Too quiet.

Leandra was happy though, and cared for—and Hawke was happy for that. Despite everything that had happened and all the uncomfortable distance that had grown up between them in the past years, she still loved her mother, and wanted her to be happy. She was making an effort to be more patient with the situation, to take her mother's oftentimes thoughtless comments in stride. It was difficult, but she was trying. She knew Leandra was too. She didn't mention Bethany as often, and she didn't blame Noel for Carver leaving to join the Templars.

Carver wrote regularly, though she rarely got to see her little brother. He was so busy with training that she couldn't blame him. He managed to stop by for dinner now and again, and he put up with Leandra's fussing over him, always reassuring her that the Order was feeding him enough, that he was fine, that he was happy. He endured her comments about finding him a wife with more reserve. He didn't mention Merrill, and Leandra was happily oblivious.

Hawke wasn't sure just how far the relationship between her brother and Merrill had progressed, but she had her suspicions. She knew they'd left the party that night together, and when she had to go to the Gallows, Merrill always volunteered to come along. The sweet girl sighed frequently, and when she didn't think anyone was looking in her direction, she oftentimes looked wistful or sad. There was a part of her that thought she should be embarrassed that her little brother had probably lost his virginity before her, but Carver was handsome and had always been popular with the girls in Lothering. Frankly, she approved of Merrill a whole hell of a lot more—despite her being a Blood Mage—than that awful Peaches girl who used to moon around after him.

Otherwise, things hadn't changed too much. Sebastian spent more time with the group when they played cards at the Hanged Man. Aveline was doing an exemplary job as Guard-Captain. Anders was running his clinic and complaining about the iron grip of the Templars. Varric still had his ear to the ground for any news of Bartrand. Isabela was as elusive as ever, looking for the relic she needed—though she did have enough time to give Hawke many a stern lecture about the fact that she and Fenris hadn't done the deed yet.

Honestly, Hawke didn't mind too much that she and Fenris were taking it slow. She preferred that he set the pace, since he was the one who'd suffered so much emotionally. She wanted to let him know that he was the one in control and that things would only go as quickly as he was comfortable with. She wanted more, but she contented herself with waiting.

Even after moving into their home in Hightown, Hawke still spent almost every night sleeping in Fenris' arms. Leandra would never have approved and as such Hawke had become fairly inventive. The lie about sleeping at the Hanged Man lost much of its validity once they moved out of Gamlen's hovel, so she usually ended up sneaking out of the house in one way or another. Fortunately, Leandra often went to bed early, but Hawke sometimes had to climb down the trellis near her window or use her magic to turn herself briefly invisible.

The nights when she couldn't get away from the house, or when Fenris was playing cards with Varric at the Hanged Man til the sun was about to come up, were agony. Her bed was too large for just her, and felt painfully empty without the comfort and warmth of the elf beside her. Typically, on those nights, she ended up wrapping herself in a blanket as tightly as she could and sleeping curled up on the floor.

It was after one such night that Hawke awoke, curled up in her blanket like it was some kind of protective cocoon, to knocking on her door. "What is it?" she called, blearily trying to rub the sleep from her eyes.

"A message for you, messere!" Bodahn called through the door. "Your presence has been requested by the Viscount after breakfast, which I took the liberty of preparing."

Hawke groaned and stretched, trying to extricate herself from the tightly-wrapped blankets that had her limbs prisoner. "What's the Viscount want?"

"I'm afraid I don't know. The messenger didn't say. He just said it was urgent. Why don't you come on downstairs and have some breakfast? I'm sure that's just what you need." The older dwarf said kindly. Hawke heard his feet padding along the floor as he headed off toward the kitchen.

The mage finally managed to disengage herself from the blankets and dumped them unceremoniously on the bed. After she'd washed and gotten dressed, Hawke headed downstairs, fussing with trying to force her hair into a bun. The result was messy, at best. As she entered the dining room, she saw that her mother was already seated at the table and waiting for her.

"Maker, dearest! Look at your hair," The woman immediately fussed, causing Hawke to duck her head in embarrassment. "You really ought to get it cut."

"I was thinking about growing it out." Hawke mumbled as she sat down across from her mother, serving herself a generous helping of pancakes and sausage. Bodahn was an excellent cook, and he'd figured out that pancakes were her favourite.

"Well, if you must. But really, if you're going to let it grow you ought to do something with it. Style it, or something. You look positively bedraggled." Leandra said more gently.

"Yeah. Sorry. I'm not used to it." She replied, avoiding her mother's gaze. She'd begun to suspect that Fenris was partial to long hair, ever since she'd worn it down at the party.

"I suppose Bodahn told you about your meeting with the Viscount later today?"

"Yes, he did."

"I was thinking, while you're at the keep…" Leandra began, adopting a careful tone.

Hawke had to hide her wince by taking a drink of orange juice. She was afraid of what her mother was going to say. "Hm?"

The woman folded her hands neatly, leaning forward as she fixed a stare on her daughter. "Well, Seneschal Bran has a son about your age. I was thinking this might be a fine time for you to arrange a meeting."

Hawke slumped in her seat, paling. She gingerly pushed her pancakes around on the plate, her appetite lost. "How can he have a son my age? He looks so young, himself." She mumbled.

"I suppose he's just aged gracefully, dearest. But his son is a handsome young man, and I don't need to remind you that he would be well off, considering who his father is."

"Mother, I don't know…" Hawke said through her teeth. Oh, she knew alright. She knew there was no way in hell. But she couldn't say that outright. She had to be careful. "I always wanted to marry a man who was more… I don't know… adventurous? I don't need to live in luxury."

Leandra sighed, but she smiled nonetheless. "Alright, alright. I suppose I should have expected as much. You're so like your father. What about that nice young man who comes to visit? The blonde one."

Maker save her, the subject went from bad to worse. "Anders?" she asked in a squeak. "I don't think so, Mother. I don't think Anders is interested in me in that way." Hawke lied quickly, staring at her uneaten plate of food. She tried to force down a few mouthfuls, but she might as well have been eating sawdust.

"Oh, of course he is. I can tell when a young man is making eyes at my little girl. Besides, even when he stops by to call on you and you aren't home, he still stops and talks to me. He's very sweet. And he'd be a much better match for you than your, ah… elf friend. The grumpy one. Anders has a much sunnier disposition, and I daresay that you could use someone who could teach you a thing or two about smiling."

Hawke scowled at this remark, pushing her plate back. She couldn't stand the way Leandra talked about Merrill and especially Fenris— and the thought that Leandra knew about what was going on between Hawke and Fenris left her sick with worry. "Well," she said carefully, "I'm not interested in Anders."

"I notice you haven't mentioned the elf in that rebuttal." Leandra said quietly, peering at her daughter over the edge of her coffee cup.

Hawke couldn't take anymore. Rising, she headed for the door and called over her shoulder, not caring anymore what conclusions her mother drew, "His name is Fenris." Before anyone else could stop her, she stormed out of the house and beelined it for the Viscount's keep.

Hawke sighed wearily as she tried to fix her hair, managing at last to pull it into a respectable-looking bun. Now she'd done it. All her attempts at fixing her relationship with her mother and all her attempts at keeping the older woman at ease by not mentioning her relationship with Fenris—it was all ruined. Why couldn't she just keep her mouth shut? Still, if she was going to mess up her relationships with those she was close to, she decided she might as well get it over with and tell Anders to piss off while she was at it. She resolved to stop by his clinic after she got done talking to the Viscount.

The nobility of Hightown gave Hawke a wide berth as the Fereldan tromped her way up the stairs toward the keep. They'd quickly grown to learn that when she was on the warpath, she wasn't to be stopped.