A/N: I don't know how, but this one's not too terribly long! Well, comparatively :| I know the chapters have been growing a bit on the lengthy side lately... I'm trying harder to keep them manageable.
Thanks again for all the lovely reviews. I am so overwhelmed by the response on top of all the great milestones. First hitting twenty chapters, then breaking 60 reviews. Now we're topping 100k words, and it's been a month since the first chapter was published. And I still have so many ideas! I'll keep it coming, and thanks again for reading :)
Don't forget, you can check up on me on twitter at lotusflwrfanfic if you are curious about the progress on the next chapter.
As always, these are BioWare's toys and I'm just playing with 'em.
25 Bloomingtide - 9:31 Dragon
Maker, but it is muggy and miserable out. The summer is definitely full upon us now. The rain stopped sometime during the night, so Varric, Anders, Merrill and I went to the Wounded Coast this morning, as the mysterious letter instructed. Isabela wanted to come along, but I told her that her help wasn't needed. I may have been a little sarcastic, and rather glare-y, because Merrill tried to hide under Varric's bed — but I think Isabela got the hint, finally. The last I saw of her, she was heading for Hightown. No surprises there.
The writer of the letter turned out to be Ser Thrask. I had not expected that. He is… a very unique templar. First an apostate daughter, and now this. The Maker makes all sorts, I suppose.
He wanted my help with a number of mages who had escaped while being transported from the burned-down Circle at Starkhaven to the Circle here. Since their phylacteries had been destroyed in the fire, they thought they could get away from the templars easily. Unfortunately for them, Knight-Commander Meredith and her ruthless lackeys do not give up so easily. Ser Thrask was trying to get the apostates to surrender before Ser Karras, one of Meredith's favorites, tracked the mages down himself.
Though Ser Thrask did not specify what Karras would do, exactly, I could read between the lines. Templars have a limited number of hobbies, after all — drinking lyrium, whoring (apparently… why Keran, why?,) defending the Chantry, and suppressing mages. In Kirkwall, at least, suppressing mages is being taken to a whole new level, thanks to Meredith and her ilk.
I really did not want to get involved with more templar business — especially where apostates are concerned, with two of my own in tow… but I didn't want to let Anders or Merrill down by allowing the wholesale slaughter of mages either. Besides, Anders, who initially looked like he would go all Justice-y at the mere sight of Thrask, suddenly turned to me with the most ridiculous puppy dog eyes when he realized we could help defuse the situation.
Since the escaped mages were attacking templars on sight, Ser Thrask waited outside while we went in. We barely got a dozen feet into the cave when an apostate scout spotted us and summoned the dead. Anders was furious that they would make deals with demons (and I once again let his hypocrisy go unmentioned. As I said, the day was miserable enough with the hot weather.)
The further in we went, the more blood mages and corpses we had to fight. Just when I began to wish that I had let Karras handle the clean up, we ran into a young man named Alain who was trying to reach the exit. He said he had run when the leader of the mages, Decimus, had turned to blood magic. Alain also insinuated that this Decimus was quite mad, and may have been the one who burned down the Starkhaven Circle to begin with. Madness and magic do not make for a happy combination in a man.
The young mage wanted nothing more than to return to the Circle, so I sent him to surrender to Ser Thrask. Anders did not complain, for once, but he was quite caught up in his anger over the Starkhaven mages' use of blood magic. I do admire him for his conviction that mages should be free, but one day he will come to realize that not even all mages think the Circle is irredeemably bad.
We found the rest of them in a large cavern, deeper in. Decimus was there, and he was indeed performing some kind of blood ritual. When he saw us, he shouted, "The templars are here!" or something to that effect.
Now I do not know if templars in Starkhaven look terribly different from the ones everywhere else, but even so, the man must have been utterly deluded by whatever demon had claimed him. Anders was in robes, Merrill is an elf, and Varric is a dwarf. I have not looked into a mirror lately, but somehow I doubt I look much like a templar myself.
Some of the mages tried to stop Decimus and the others from attacking, but there was nothing for it. We had to slay him and several other blood mages, as well as many vile corpses and rotting skeletons. Anders was, by this point, livid that they would profane the dead in their desperate bid for freedom. It is good that even he has lines he will not cross — it would be very troubling if he gave himself over to vengeance fully. "Any means to an end" is spelled d-o-o-m, in my book.
Once things quieted down, Grace, who was apparently Decimus's lover, half-accused and half-thanked us for putting a stop to things. She seemed appalled by the use of blood magic, but also angry that we had killed Decimus and doomed them all to return to the Circle. I suppose I understood her distress, even though I questioned her taste in lovers. But I let Anders explain to her that we were trying to help, and that we had no choice. She seemed to finally get it, since she had realized he was an apostate as well. She then asked for our aid in escaping — to kill Ser Thrask so they could flee.
Anders, the utter hypocrite, took all of half a second to mull it over before telling me that killing one templar was a small sacrifice to save a handful of mages.
I swear, he does not seem to think things through rationally when it comes to mages and templars. What about Bethany and Merrill? What about his own safety? I was not about to risk my neck and everyone else to help some senseless mages escape. Not by murdering one of the kindest, most sympathetic templars this side of the Waking Sea, while at the same time pitting us all against Meredith, Karras, Cullen, and every other templar in Kirkwall who thinks like they do.
Anders. I could have throttled him. I probably should have throttled him. He needs a decent throttling.
No, I told Grace I would not kill Ser Thrask for them. I said the best I could do was convince the templars that they were all dead. It would buy them time to escape, but anything beyond that was not an option. She seemed sure that it would never work, and Anders was disappointed… but neither of them have ever seen me lie. I have been lying to templars since I could speak, probably. Not to mention I had an ace up my sleeve in Varric. One of us was bound to spin a suitably believable tale.
Ser Karras arrived with a large company of templars just as we were exiting the cave. I admit I shot Anders a rather smug look, but he seemed to be straining to keep Justice reigned in. That he had to struggle not to fight over a dozen templars tells much about his mental state. Ser Karras was arguing with Ser Thrask, but we interrupted them to make our "report."
Varric spun a wonderful tale about me being a Ferelden templar that Knight-Commander Meredith sent for especially for this delicate task. I told Karras and Thrask that we'd killed the blood mages, but that their leader escaped through the back of the cave, heading towards the coast. Karras was only too willing to believe all the Starkhaven mages had turned to blood magic, and thankfully Thrask picked up on the tale. He led Karras and his men away, to the coast to track "the leader," leaving the way clear for Grace and the others to escape.
I do not know if those apostates will make it long, but I suppose a chance at freedom is better than none. At the same time, I would hope that should Bethany ever be taken to the Circle, she would not be so foolish as to attempt an escape from the templars of Kirkwall. They seem to breed their templars utterly ruthless, and mages quite foolish here in the Free Marches. I do not know if things were different back in Father's day, but I can understand why he ran. That he escaped to Ferelden seems a miracle. Still, I wish the mages luck, and hope they show better judgment than they showed following Decimus to near-ruin.
I am terribly glad that Fenris did not make an appearance today. I do not want to even think how things would have gone had he been along. It was daunting enough, keeping Thrask and Karras from looking too closely at Anders and Merrill. I'm starting to feel we may be better off without him, despite the difficulties of holding the front line on my own.
It always comes back to mages and templars lately. Maker, I find myself almost looking forward to the Deep Roads.
Hawke fanned at the fresh ink at the bottom of the page, then slid her journal across the table to Varric. He put his sketchpad aside and flipped back through her entries until he reached a page with indecipherable figures, blobs and spirals on it.
"You know, I forgot to ask you the last time I caught up on your journal. What is this supposed to be, exactly?" He spun the book around, pointing at the smudgy picture.
Hawke's cheeks flushed. "My memory is a little... fuzzy, but I think I was drawing the dragon fight from The Bone Pit. I… had a lot of brandy that night."
He turned the book back towards him, squinting at the page. Then he pulled it closer, almost to his nose, moving the journal slowly out until held it at arm's length. "I don't see it," he finally said, shaking his head.
"I don't see you showing me any of your drawings," she huffed. She reached across the table, snatching his sketch pad away. Varric just waved one hand lazily, thumbing through the pages to resume reading while she began flipping slowly through his sketch pad.
The first handful of pages were simple shapes — bowls, flowers, trees, fruits, wine bottles. Afterward came weapons, swords, daggers, staves and shields, and many, many drawings of Bianca. Hawke chuckled at those. He had drawn scenes from Kirkwall too. The distinctive shape of The Gallows, the Twins, chains and spikes, ships. Then came the people.
Though Varric drew with few strokes and details, favoring stylized outlines, she easily recognized Norah and Corff from the bar. Next were several pictures of Merrill, her willowy elvish figure, and innocent, curious stance giving her away. Aveline, holding a sword and shield. Anders, complete with feathered pauldrons, jabbing his staff at a stiffly standing templar. She recognized herself wielding daggers, next to Bethany, who held a staff in one hand while the other had ice and flame hovering above it. Isabela, low-bodiced and bedecked with her blue kerchief and gold jewelry, carrying a small chest under one arm. A picture of Bethany and Isabela, both now wearing low bodices, their protruding bosoms a little larger than life.
"I'm starting to think I know why Bianca is so jealous," she drawled.
"What Bianca can't see won't hurt her," Varric said without looking up from her journal. He seemed to be concentrating, so Hawke let the joke drop.
She flipped to the next sheet. She immediately recognized Fenris — tall, lithe and unmistakably elven, his unkempt mop of hair, huge sword; he was clad all in black, of course. Varric had drawn him standing tall, though usually Fenris hunched over. Her eyes lingered on the simple portrait, surprised at the actual complexity of it.
He's captured Fenris's brooding, feral quality pretty well, I'd say. She stared at it for several long minutes, lost in thought.
"So, the shine is off the apple, eh?" Varric asked after a while, closing her journal. He set it aside, then leaned back in his seat to peer at her over steepled fingers.
Hawke stopped tracing the outline of his drawing of Fenris, looking up. "What do you mean?"
"I was wondering where our elf's been these past few days."
She screwed up her face, closing the sketch pad and pushing it away. "Who cares? Besides, I thought for sure he'd be here, with Isabela." She crossed her arms over her chest.
"I haven't seen hide nor hair of him," Varric explained with a shake of the head, "and neither has Rivaini. She's spent every night stringing that lovesick poet along for drinks and gifts. In the morning, she sells them, and spends the coin at The Blooming Rose. Since you haven't taken her with us lately, she's been pretty bored." He paused, raising one eyebrow as he fixed her gaze. "Now, why would she be paying to entertain herself, if she had a broody elf willing to do it for free, hmm?"
Hawke scowled down at the table. "I don't know. It isn't my affair. Besides, he hasn't come to see me either."
Varric sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. "It's like primary school all over again," he muttered to himself. He shifted in his seat. "Look, Hawke. We need the elf, and there's nothing going on between him and Rivaini. She was after him pretty hard, I'll grant you, but she's moved on like she always does. We're going to want him and his ridiculously huge sword on the expedition. You need him…"
"No, I don't," she cut in, glaring sullenly.
He sighed again. "You need him," he continued, "so you don't get pummeled into dust before we even get to the Deep Roads." He tapped the cover of her journal. "You said it yourself, it's hard being the only one out in front. As difficult as the guy is — and believe me, growing up with Bartrand, I know difficult — he is useful. Go talk to him already."
She looked away, pouting. "He should be the one coming to talk to me. I'm the leader, or so everyone keeps telling me."
"As the leader, it's your responsibility to take the high road, set expectations, be a good example," he chided.
She snorted, still looking away.
Varric rolled his eyes. "The two of you have enough pride between you to fill the Waking Sea thrice over and drown us all. You're more alike than you know." He shook his head. "Think of it this way. He's a little messed up in the head from being a slave, and from being hunted. Staying in one place, trusting people… it's all new to him. He's scared, but instead of showing it, he puts up that broody wall and expects people to leave him alone. It's the only way he knows how to protect himself." She frowned.
"But the Hawke I know doesn't scare that easily," he said, continuing. "She rips the arms off of ogres, kills dragons with her bare hands, and outwits the Arishok. Surely one elf with a dark little raincloud over his head is no match for her."
A small smile tugged at her lips, so he pressed on.
"When people have nothing, they usually cling to what they do have — their pride. And proud people don't know how to ask for help. They'd rather push friendship away than let anyone see them down on their luck. I've seen it happen over and over with surface dwarves who arrive from Orzammar with nothing, and merchants who lose everything in a bad investment. Think about it from his point of view. How did you feel when you first got to Kirkwall?"
Hawke squirmed in her seat. She was staring at the floor now, brow furrowed.
He leaned forward in his chair. "Where would you be without your family? Or I if I hadn't approached you about partnering on the expedition? If I had let you run me off with your skepticism, instead of persisting and making a good case for teaming up?" he asked.
She chewed at her bottom lip. Looking up after a moment, she said, "I… see your point." Then she groaned, propping her elbows up on the table as she let her face fall into her hands. "Andraste's red nosehairs, but I feel so stupid."
Varric leaned back in his chair, chuckling. "There, there now. It's hardly your fault. Our elf has brooding down to a fine art. It was hardly fair of him to use it against someone as nice as you."
She peeked at him through her fingers. "And you're sure he and Isabela aren't…?" He nodded his head, and she groaned again. "Maker's breath, then what in all of bloody Thedas is his problem? After seeing the Arishok, he wouldn't even speak to me, let alone look at me! It seemed so obvious that he was pining after her… " She trailed off, shaking her head in her hands.
Varric smiled wryly, remembering the way Fenris had been staring at Hawke all the way up and down the Wounded Coast, and the private conversation he'd had with him after they'd returned from the Qunari compound. "I've no doubt he's pining after something, but it's not our Rivaini," he blithely informed her.
She puffed out a long breath, then sat up, oblivious to his true meaning. "Well… I suppose we should go see him, then."
Varric waved his hands. "Uh-uh. No 'we.' You go see him. I wasn't the one leaving him behind out of mistaken jealousy, in a pique."
A flush rose to her cheeks again, but she tilted her chin up. "Fine. I see I have to take care of everything." She pushed her chair back and rose gracefully, head still held high. She waggled a finger at him, but her tone was teasing. "Just remember that it was I who did all the heavy lifting, when you're splitting out the profits from the expedition."
He chuckled. "Sure thing, Hawke. I'll make sure you get everything you want and then some, trust me. Just leave it to me, I'll take good care of you." She nodded, then marched out the door.
A minute after she left, Isabela poked her head in. "Is she going?" she asked. Varric nodded.
She sagged in relief. "Thank the Maker! I don't want to wake up with one of her daggers in my back. How is it that she's so incredibly dense when it comes to men?" He shrugged, spreading his hands wide. "Besides, if she doesn't take Fenris on the expedition, I might have to go." Isabela shuddered visibly. "I can't stand small, tight, dark spaces." Then she paused, adding with a smirk, "Well, actually…"
Varric sighed. "And here I hoped that you'd tired yourself out, going to the Rose every day."
Isabela gave him a wanton smile. "Never." She paused. "I hope they get on with it. The sooner they do, the sooner they'll get a little bored, and I might have a chance of squeezing in the middle. You know, to liven things up a bit for them…" She trailed off with a dreamy look in her eye, and Varric just shook his head.
The sun was beginning to set as Hawke trudged up the long steps to Hightown, thinking of things to say to Fenris. The streets were nearly empty, most sensible folk staying indoors, seeking refuge from the heat.
"'All right, you've had a nice rest. Back to work tomorrow then?' Hmm, kind of flippant. Maybe 'How have you been? Tongue all better, can you speak now?' No, too sarcastic…" she muttered to herself as she turned to head up the next flight. She kept her eyes on the stairs, not wanting to take a fall in distraction, bouncing down all the way back to Lowtown.
Someone on the landing above came around the corner, descending the steps, traveling in the opposite direction. She moved to the right, then to the left. In Ferelden, people always kept to the right but in the Free Marches, the custom was the opposite. She was always forgetting, after lifetime of habit.
How about "I missed you, and I was miserable without you, even though you drive me insane." Too truthful? She chuckled softly, then quieted herself as the other pedestrian passed by. People really will think me insane if I go around laughing to myself in public.
"Oh Fenris…" she muttered to herself, as a familiar, deep voice behind her said, "Hawke?"
Fenris's thoughts had been distant, on whether he'd find Hawke at home or at The Hanged Man, and what he'd say to her when or if he found her. He had meant to wait until nightfall, but had been too restless to stay home any longer. Though his attention had been elsewhere, he'd caught her scent after he'd walked past her.
Hawke whirled, turning so fast that she almost lost her balance. He stood nearly at the bottom of the flight of steps, well below her; she had been so lost in her thoughts and in watching her footing, she had not even looked at who had passed.
"Fenris!" she exclaimed, a little breathless from the long climb.
"I… didn't notice you there," he said by way of greeting, looking up at her. He focused on her face, averting his eyes from her bare, shapely thighs, which were displayed much to his advantage with him being on a lower step.
"I didn't… I mean, I thought that was you," she lied, unable to think of a good reason why she would be saying his name otherwise.
They stared at each other silently. Fenris clutched a rolled up parchment in one hand, and it made a crinkling noise as he clenched his fists. Hawke chewed at her lip. Finally she took a few steps down towards him.
"I was just on my way to see you," she offered, remembering Varric's lecture. She hesitated. "I'm… sorry I didn't come sooner."
"I see." He looked to the side.
She frowned, trying to search his face though it was turned away from her, his expression now hidden behind his white hair. "Are you still not speaking to me, then?" she asked, giving up.
Fenris glanced at her, fist tightening, crushing the parchment further. "No…" he said, shrugging then looking away again. His thoughts were still jumbled, and he felt woefully unprepared to face her.
She threw her arms up into the air. "No? 'No,' as in you aren't speaking to me, or 'no,' as in you are?" Her hands went to her hips, and she glared down at him imperiously from several steps above. She found it a little strange to look down at him since he was several inches taller than her, and she usually looked up at him — but it did not deter her from glowering overmuch.
Fenris felt his hackles rise at her tone. His whole body felt suddenly hot, and he snapped. He lunged up the stairs, just one step below her and of a height with her now. They were face to face, armored chests nearly touching. His expression was dark, and Hawke stood motionless, caught between equal impulses to lean towards him and take a step back.
"And what would you have me say?" His voice was angry and bitter. "I waited nearly four days, with no word from you, or anyone else. I sat around doing nothing for hours on end, while you went gallivanting around the city and countryside, probably with Anders, that pirate wench, the nosy dwarf and that… Dalish creature," he said, eyes narrowing, his face now mere inches from her own.
She was taken aback by his words and tone, but she did not flinch away. He's trying to intimidate me, to push me away just like Varric said. If this wasn't about Isabela, then what was it about? Well, no matter. I've had enough of being chased off like some annoyance. Hmph! This gets sorted out here and now, for better or for worse. She stubbornly set her jaw while he continued his rant.
"And now you graciously come for me, like I'm some useless afterthought." He waved one hand in a vicious, mocking way, the red sunset glinting off his clawed glove and steel vambrace. "What, did you run out of other people to talk to? Do you need me to kill someone for you, to do something that you are too weak to handle yourself? Is that what I am to you, a slave to have at your beck and call?" he demanded.
His breath smells like strawberries and wine. The grocers must still be making his deliveries — good. The berries this time of year are so succulent, a small part of her mind thought idly. The rest of her reeled at his vehemence. She pursed her lips when he ended his tirade, holding in a number of sarcastic responses that sprang to mind.
She concentrated on his eyes, searching them. His face was dark and inscrutable, as always, but the deep well of hurt in his eyes was unmistakable. She could hardly fathom where it had all come from; she wasn't sure she could even handle the knowledge. Her sarcasm evaporated. "I would rather die than see you a slave again," she said fiercely. "I would never treat anyone like that, least of all you, Fenris." He blinked, but his expression didn't change.
His vitriol bled away, her resolute declaration like a sweet stab to his chest. Fenris's heart swelled instead with a now-familiar ache, as he read the open, honest truth in her lovely eyes. He wanted to run, to hide, overwhelmed by the forcefulness of her presence, by the immovable strength he read deep within her. He knew here at least was one person he could neither overcome nor intimidate. Though it had been he who pinned her with his gaze, he wanted to squirm, to look away. Part of him panicked. Part of him was aroused.
Their faces were so close that his large, green eyes filled Hawke's entire field of view — not that she minded. Kirkwall faded into nothingness, and she felt like she would fall into those eyes and be swallowed up in their depths. It frightened her even as it enticed. Though the day was still hot, a small shiver ran through her. She almost wished she hadn't run into him, that she hadn't confronted him… almost, but not quite.
A strange tension hung between them — anger, concern, irritation, lust, fear and fascination all swirling and shifting like the colors in a soap bubble. Unbeknownst to one another, they both fought off the urge to fidget, to look away, to close the gap between them and taste the other's lips, to flee.
"You didn't seem to want anything to do with me after we spoke to the Arishok," she finally said, unable to bear the uneasiness any longer. "It seemed you wanted to be left alone, so I gave you your space." He didn't respond, though she could see his jaw muscles clenching. "Was I wrong?" she asked, one eyebrow quirking up. He held her gaze a few moments more, his whole body going taut.
He looked away from her then, rattled, but not willing to show it. He tilted his face down and his curtain of white hair shielded him. She could no longer see his expression, but she was grateful for the reprieve from his intense gaze.
Even the tips of his ears felt hot, and Fenris consciously made the effort not to fidget. He kept his voice as nonchalant as he could. "I… suppose you could have interpreted it that way," he said. He closed his eyes briefly, giving a small sigh of relief when his voice did not betray him.
She gritted her teeth at his dodging, inwardly cursing his fool pride. "You didn't have to wait at home. You could have come to The Hanged Man, you know," she said, trying to stay non-confrontational. "That's what you usually do. When you didn't show up…" She sighed. "Even if you didn't want to talk to me — whatever your reason — you could always have spoken with Varric. Or sent a message." Fenris did fidget then, his face still hidden behind unkempt hair. She balled her hand to keep from tucking it back behind his ear so she could see him properly.
He turned, going down to the landing. He put his sword aside then sat there, forearms resting on his knees, head hung low. She watched him for a moment, then followed, sitting beside him. She was careful not to get too close, lest she inadvertently touch him and set him off again.
Fenris glanced over at her, then turned his gaze out to the city. Hawke studied his face, her eyes tracing over his profile again and again in the dimming light, as if making up for lost time. The Chantry bells tolled from somewhere above, marking the dinner hour.
"I… was on my way to find you," Fenris eventually said. "I went out to the market today, to sell some of Danarius's garbage." The corners of his lips turned down in disgust at the mention of the magister, and she could see the slight tightening under his eyes that marked his displeasure. Then he turned to her, giving a small wry smile. "Remind me to spend the coin on something… frivolous. It would please me greatly to waste his gold."
Hawke laughed delightedly. It felt good to relieve some of the tension. "Oh, I can think of many utterly stupid things to do with it. Several at The Hanged Man alone." She chuckled some more, then paused. "Maybe you should give some of it away. Put it to good use. Turn Danarius's wickedness on its ear, serve the the greater good and all that." She smiled and shrugged, and Fenris looked back out over the city.
"Perhaps." His expression was thoughtful.
They sat in silence for while, until a throng of Lowtown residents began to file past them heading home for supper at the end of the workday. Fenris ignored them, but she had to move over, leaning towards him to avoid being trampled. She held herself rigidly, trying to keep her body from touching his while also trying not to be kicked, or carried off down the stairs.
"Gedda room! You lovebirds hangin' about onna stairs make me wanna sick up," a big, sweaty man said as he stomped past, eying the pair of them. He noticed Fenris's ears, and he snorted. "Bleedin' elves, I dunno what you women see in'em. A real man's got some muscle!"
"Aww, leave the pair of 'em alone Daryl. They's adorable," a plump woman dressed as a scullery maid shouted from half a flight above. "I 'member when you was a skinny lad, an' use'ta court me like that. Now look at ya. Muscle? More like all fat an' piss an' vinegar!" Several people laughed, all of them glancing at Hawke and Fenris as they descended.
"That's cuz I left courtin' till afta dinna, dinn'I! When we wasn't gettin' in people's way. A workin' man's gotta eat first, then have his sweet lil' dessert later, luv," he called back. The plump scullery maid giggled, and the other servants laughed raucously.
Someone jostled her, and she was thrust up against Fenris fully as the thickest press of people filed past. He stiffened and leaned against the wall, but he didn't stand or push her away. Though he seemingly still ignored both the servants and her, she could see that he looked uncomfortable. He kept his face turned away and he hunched inward, as if he didn't want to be seen or recognized.
"Sorry," she whispered to him as someone's knee bumped into her back, throwing her against him again just as she was trying to straighten. Some of the men started jeering and whistling as they moved off, and several older women tutted at her in disapproval. She tried to glare, but it was growing a little too dark for anyone to see her expression.
Finally the flood of people became a trickle, and then they were alone once more. She scooted away, adjusting her armor and smoothing her hair. She laughed nervously, glancing at him. "Rude bastards. The people around here are something else."
He still didn't look at her, and the paper he'd had in his hand was completely mangled. Bigots though they are, those people were right. I am making myself look ridiculous, he thought with disgust. What is wrong with me? I can't believe I've let myself do this again. What was the point of staying away from her if I'm just going to come crawling back like a wounded animal? I even accused her of abandoning me, when I was the one that pushed her away. Why am I setting her up to hound me? I want to be left alone, don't I?
Yet here we are, being mistaken for lovers? As if I know the first thing about love. As if she could bear being close to me for more than a minute's time. As if we have a past or any hope of a future. Either I am a fool, or I am mad. He began to swear colorfully in three different languages, weaving Arcanum, Qunari and the Common Tongue into a tapestry of invectives under his breath.
Hawke scrambled away backwards as he began to growl out the melange of harsh words. "Really, I'm sorry, Fenris." Her eyes were wide, her back pressed against the opposite wall, one leg drawn up and the other resting on the step below.
He looked over at her when she spoke, and his stream of curse words cut off abruptly as he drew in the sight of her. No, I am not a fool. Not for being attracted to her. That armor is entirely too… flattering. It may keep her from getting killed, but it will be the death of me. She will be the death of me. "Festis bei umo canavarum," he muttered.
She cocked her head at him. "Um… what?" she asked. She was still sitting pressed up against the wall, but her eyes were now confused rather than frightened.
"I like your new armor." He kept his eyes firmly on her face, though he itched to run them up her legs again. Yes, this must be some form of madness.
She flushed, realizing her unintentional display. She turned hurriedly to sit properly on the steps. "Andraste's striped knickers…" she cursed, smoothing down her scaled leather skirt. "I am not used to it yet."
He kept his expression neutral. "I didn't see any stripes." Her cheeks went a bright crimson, and he barely kept down a laugh. Yes, my mind must be breaking. She will be my undoing. I should walk away, and never look back. His heart twisted painfully at just the thought of it.
So instead, he stood, retrieving his sword. Then he extended a gloved hand to her. "We should move on." She looked at his hand for a moment, hesitating, before she allowed him to help her to her feet.
She brushed herself off, then rubbed first one boot and then the other on the back of her leg. Fenris watched her, silently amused at her predictable mannerisms. "Shall we go back to your mansion then?" she asked, looking up at him.
"The Hanged Man," he said quickly, unwilling to trust himself to be alone with her. She paused, cocking her head at him again before she nodded. Taking the lead as usual, she headed back down towards Lowtown.
She really has no idea what even an innocent question such as that does to me, he thought. He rolled his eyes to himself. Of course she doesn't think about what she says or does around me — why should she? Look at me, I am no one and I have nothing to offer her. This attraction is obviously one-sided; I am the one reading meaning into her actions where there are none.
He looked down at his gloved hands, flexing the wicked claws the armor made of his fingers. What he hoped was the viscount's notice was still wadded up in one hand. But it is probably for the best. I know nothing about courtship or love or… wooing. I can't even read up on the subject. I know how to run, and how to kill — that is all.
As long as I control myself around her, I can keep myself from playing the fool. Eventually, something will drive us apart, and that will be the end of it.
Besides, her mother is right — she is meant for someone far better than I. What do I know of happiness for myself? I have no hope of making her happy.
Hawke stopped, looking back up at him. "Aren't you coming, Fenris?"
He pushed his brooding thoughts away and descended quickly, thinking instead of how he'd chased her down this same flight of steps two nights ago. Realizing those thoughts didn't help either, he took a deep breath to clear away the memory of her looking so wild and breathtaking. When he caught up with her, he brushed past to lead the way, not feeling up to the strain of following behind her just yet.
They walked in silence for a time. "You know, some cat scared the ever-living daylights out of me near here, the other night," she said, making small talk as they wound their way down.
"Oh? Scared the daylights out of you at night, did it?" he deadpanned.
She snorted indelicately. "Haha. You know what I mean."
"And here I thought you had nerves of steel. What will people say if they learn small animals frighten the mighty Hawke? Who will hire us then?"
She laughed, recognizing his dry humor. "Well, I'm not convinced it was just a cat. Something was following me, but it was the cat that made me jump out of my skin."
"You seem to have put your skin back on well enough." She chuckled. "Maybe it was a wolf following you," he continued, finding himself enjoying this teasing, easy banter.
"A wolf?" she asked, incredulous. Peals of her high, delighted laughter echoed down the cliffside. "What in all of Thedas would a wolf be doing in Kirkwall?"
What indeed? "A fair point," he conceded, grinning wolfishly to himself. They passed through the Lowtown market as twilight fell. She caught up and walked beside him. He glanced at her, then spoke again to keep himself focused. "As I was saying before, I came to find you. While I was in the market, all the nobles were gossiping. I think you might want to hear about it."
She grinned. "You know me only too well. I love a bit of juicy gossip."
Varric settled back in his chair contentedly with a large tankard of ale. He smiled openly at the pair of them, but Hawke was scanning a rumpled paper, and Fenris was pouring out two cups of wine.
"'Offered on the authority of His Excellency, Viscount Marlowe Dumar,'" she read, glancing up from the savagely crinkled parchment to look at Fenris. "I wish you had just tucked this into your belt. It's nearly impossible to make out the words. You practically turned it back into wood."
Fenris pushed a cup across the table to her, then leaned back languidly in his chair. "Just read it." He sipped at his wine, trying not to let his nervousness show.
She squinted down at the wrinkled page, then cleared her throat. "'Citizens of able nature, Viscount Dumar requires your aid,'" she continued, her voice mockingly deep and authoritative. "'His son, Saemus Dumar has been lost to uncertain company, and a safe return is sought with all haste. Make your case of skill to Sensechal Bran at his station in His Excellency's Keep, and the reward for this act shall be generous in both sentiment and coin.' What, they couldn't just state the amount on the notice? It probably means it's too small. I wonder if we can go without the sentiment and double the coin..." she mused, setting the notice aside.
"Uncertain company?" Varric asked. "What's that supposed to mean? He was abducted by a whore? He ran off and joined a mercenary band? He put on women's clothes and is passing as a serving girl at an inn somewhere?" His eyes glittered hungrily. "We should take the job just to find out the backstory here. I'll get free drinks for a month for this tale." He rubbed his hands together.
"It could be slavers," Fenris said darkly. "This city is infested with them." He stared into his cup, lost in thought.
Hawke began to reach for his hand, then picked up her wine instead as she realized what she was doing. "I suppose there is only one way to find out," she sighed. "We'll go see Seneschal Bran tomorrow... though I've heard from Aveline that he's a real hard-ass. Oh, we can pay a visit to her as well." She took a long drink, relishing the complex, sweet flavor of the wine. She hadn't drank any since she last shared a bottle with Fenris — that had been several nights ago. She swirled the red liquid around, thinking how she'd almost forgotten how satisfying it could be — both the wine and the company.
Varric looked between them as they both started vacantly into their cups. "So… when you say 'we,' I assume you mean yourself, me and the elf here?" he asked.
Hawke looked up at Fenris, who gave a small, casual shrug, still brooding at his drink. She sighed and rolled her eyes, but her lips curved up into a small smile. "I suppose. After all, why mess with a good thing?"