A/N: I apologize to anyone who read the last chapter within the first few hours of me posting it. I'd left out one short, last section, and it took a while for it to go live.
You might want to go back and hit up the very end of the last chapter, just in case. My fault for posting tired, sorry!
And now, I give you the final installment of this interlude — part 3. Many thanks, as ever, for your kind reviews! *squish*
Hawke crouched in front of the door, picking the lock silently as Fenris, Bethany and Varric shielded her from view. The latch clicked softly and she turned the knob, nudging the door open the tiniest crack. Her companions casually turned and followed her as she strode inside.
"Leave nothing. It must be clean with no ties. It…" Petrice turned as the room brightened, sunlight streaming in around Hawke's group. Despite the obvious look of displeasure on all their faces, the Chantry sister smiled. "Hawke. It was Hawke, right? From the streets? You… took the Qunari from the city? Without incident?" Ser Varnell stepped up beside her, a snarl on his lips.
"I think the 'incident' was rather your idea," Varric said testily.
Petrice caught Varnell's arm, halting him as he took a step towards Varric. "Mind your tongue, dwarf," the templar spat.
Hawke raised an eyebrow at the familiarity between Varnell and Petrice, but the sister just gave her a look of forbearance. "Please. Do speak your mind."
She scowled, irritated by the Chantry sister's patronizing tone. "Don't string me along. You know that I know."
"Whether you believe it or not, I wished you no harm." Petrice glided serenely forward, but her mask of benevolence began to crack around the edges, turning to disappointment. "That might have been useful for someone, but still regrettable. A massacre of citizens protecting a slave might have forced the Chantry to doubt appeasement, to see the Qunari for the monsters they are." She gave a small, innocent shrug. "Perhaps finding a mage was a rushed opportunity. If such a plot existed, I see how it might be… disagreeable to you."
Hawke's arm came up swiftly, and the Chantry sister flinched. But Hawke just dangled a gold-rimmed piece of horn in front of the woman's pointy nose. "Your 'Ketojan' killed himself rather than be free," she said, voice shaking with anger.
Sister Petrice spread her hands helplessly. "I assumed he wanted to escape, just as I would. My pity is genuine, but they are not like us."
Hawke scoffed. "I want no part of your little war. Pay me what I'm due." She shoved the amulet back into her pouch, then thrust out an impatient hand.
Petrice's lips pressed into a thin line and she flicked a gesture at Ser Varnell. The templar slowly pulled out a bag of coins, testing the weight of it almost thoughtfully. Then he lobbed it at Bethany, of all people, seeming to aim it at her head.
Hawke stood still as stone, her narrowed eyes following the trajectory of the purse as it fired passed her. Bethany flinched, cringing backwards to avoid being stuck. But Fenris's arm flashed out, quick as lightning, and he snatched it out of the air before it hit her. He squeezed it tight in his clawed hand, and gave Varnell a lip-curling sneer to match the man's own.
Voluntarily defending a mage — if only from a bag of coins — and now glaring at templar. There truly is a first time for everything. Especially when I am in the company of Hawke.
Hawke's empty, outstretched hand made a fist, and she stared icily at the templar. Her whole body seemed almost to vibrate, like brittle glass about to shatter, her patience all but exhausted. After a few tense moments, she closed her eyes. Then she rolled her head languidly, audibly popping several vertebrae, and took a loud, calming breath through her nose. In this way, she managed to stay her hand — but just barely.
"Take your coin," Petrice said disgustedly when Hawke reopened her eyes. "Disappear back into Lowtown. Rest assured I will not make the mistake of looking for help outside the faithful again." She fixed each one of them with a confident, haughty look. "The stakes — eternity — are just too high." Giving them an indifferent gesture of benediction, she turned her back.
Hawke spun on her heel, marching out of the hovel. Bethany all but ran after her, Varric sauntering behind. Fenris waited until last, staring Varnell down as the others moved outside.
Now that he too was covered in qunari blood, Fenris recognized the smell on the templar for what it was. He turned his back on the knight as he left, hoping Varnell would take the bait, and give him an excuse to rip out the man's lyrium-addicted heart. But Varnell only crossed the room to slam the door shut behind Fenris.
Disappointing. And yet I have a feeling this is not ended. I think I actually look forward to killing a templar. This must be how Anders feels all the time. Hmm.
Fenris walked over to where Hawke was standing near her own home, across from Petrice's safehouse, watching a group of children play in the small square. "We'll be hearing from that one again," he told her as he handed over the bag of coins.
She looked at the pouch for a moment, frowning at it. Then she undid the purse strings and flung her arm wide, sending a cascade of sparkling silver and copper coins scattering around the square. "I'll not take her blood money," she said fiercely. "No doubt decent people donated this to the Chantry in an effort to see good done in this world. I won't have it, not for this. This wasn't even about politics. I may not be religious, but even I know this was… some perversion of the Maker's will. Saarebas didn't have to die, not for this. I won't have it." Her voice broke slightly.
Though Fenris shared her anger over the senseless betrayal, he found himself irritated at the Hawke's blind optimism that the saarebas could be saved, and at their wasted effort.
So moody. Perhaps she is even more tired than she looks.
The saarebas was what he was; there was never going to be any changing that. If she had any idea how dangerous Qunari mages really are, she would… but no, she thinks all magic harmless.
But what was the point of all this if she's just going to throw away perfectly good coin? I must be too weary to see it.
Scrawny children clothed in rags came running, scrabbling excitedly to pick up the money. They laughed and yelled as they chased after some of the bits which still rolled away down the street. Wary adults began to poke their heads out of windows and doors as the noise in the square grew, then cheerfully joined in the hunt when they saw what was transpiring.
Hawke's shoulders slumped, and she suddenly looked exhausted. "We should get some rest," she said tiredly. She went up the steps to her house, moving out of the way of the swelling crowd.
Fenris watched the poor, dirty throng with disgust, reminded uncomfortably of how the slaves in Tevinter jostled and pushed at mealtimes, or when the rare healer came around. How they bickered and fought over the discarded scraps of their masters' clothes and linens on the first day of each month, hoping to eke out an extra shirt or change of underthings.
Some things never change, no matter how far from the Imperium I go. Pathetic. I am glad I am no longer such as they are. I will never become that again. I would fight until my last breath not to go back. I imagined I looked much as they did... probably worse, for they are all human, and elves in the Imperium are less valuable than even beasts of burden. They should consider themselves lucky that they aren't in the Alienage around the corner, at least.
No, I will kill Danarius for what he has done, and every other slave-owning piece of filth I find.
"We'll go see Bartrand tomorrow," Hawke called down from the landing, breaking Fenris out of his dark thoughts. Behind her, Bethany waved farewell and went into the house, leaving the door open for her sister. Ruff bounded out onto the landing, barking at the crowd excitedly.
Varric craned his neck up at Hawke, nodding to her. "All right. Today is shot to the Void and back anyway," he agreed, yawning. "Come meet me whenever, Hawke. You know where I'll be." He began plodding towards The Hanged Man, inclining his head to Fenris as he passed.
"Go home, have a bath, Fenris." Hawke gave him a tired smile as he looked up at her. "You look terrible."
He glanced down at himself, gore-flecked and dusty, then back up at her. She looked as though she'd been dragged through a charnel house. "You should see yourself."
She laughed, examining her scraped knees, blood-spattered boots, and the fronts and backs of her dirty hands before beckoning him over. She crouched at the edge of the landing, Ruff sniffing her madly as she lowered herself. She fondly shooed the dog back into the house.
Though Fenris wanted nothing more than to go back to his mansion, get clean and have a bite to eat, he drew nearer. With no imminent threat at hand, the cold grip of control he'd held on himself had begun to ease, and he found himself searching her face as he regarded her.
She looks drained. And filthy. How many other women would walk around, smiling while looking that dirty? She is something other entirely. Perhaps... no. He held his tongue before he wound up inviting her to his mansion, to take a bath.
"That was some fight with Arvaarad." Her voice was soft and bemused, but he could hear concern too, despite the rowdy noise of people searching for her coin. "The whole battle in fact was… quite impressive." She hesitated. "But you seemed so focused and… distant. Like you were far away. You didn't even notice your injuries, Fenris. Is… everything all right?"
"It is how I fight, Hawke." He looked away and shrugged, not wanting to think about it. "Without focus and control, battles would… go poorly."
Her eyes searched his turned face for a moment, then she shrugged. "You don't usua... but I suppose I can't argue with your results. I'm glad you weren't so distant that you didn't see me lose my weapons. Thank you for tossing me my dagger, by the way. Even though I never did find it afterward." She looked thoughtful for a moment, then smirked. "Hmm, I suppose I'll just have to go weapon shopping. Oh well."
He didn't really know what she was talking about, but he gave a weak smile. She hesitated again, then she blushed, touching her shoulder. "And thanks… for helping with my arm. Even though it hurt like bloody blazes."
Fenris frowned up at her, having to search for the memory of her injured shoulder.
All I remember clearly is… her looking up at me, frightened and in pain. And wondering how to get her back to Kirkwall like that, with how tired and pale she looked. His frown deepened as he dug down, recollection still muddy.
I remember now. I… I must have fallen back on instinct. I've seen how painful pushing a shoulder back into its socket can be — I can't imagine hurting her like that, not even to help. And yet I did, but I can barely remember.
He froze, feeling suddenly panicked.
It's just like when I was with Danarius. All reaction and instinct, with no thought for the consequences. When I carried him onto that crowded ship in Seheron, despite his broken arm and screaming for me to stay. I got back off after threatening the first mate… all for him, even though I knew I would likely die.
He felt a sudden queasy feeling in his stomach, like a vast blackness had opened up beneath his feet to swallow him and he was falling.
No. No no no. NO! I'm not enslaved anymore! I merely shut her out, since she is a distraction. This was different, wasn't it? It must be different.
The thought did not comfort him however, and he still felt dazed.
Have I not run far enough? Have I not spilled enough blood to drown out Danarius's influence? Am I really just one slip away from becoming a mindless slave again? How many must I kill, who must I kill, to drive out the last of this festering rot inside me? When I next confront him, will I just willingly submit, relieved to see him just like Hawke's mabari is to see her? No... I cannot believe that. No.
Hawke saw his stricken expression, and her eyes lowered. "I'm sorry about... my language. I know I swore a blue streak at you, though you were just trying to help. Please, I meant nothing by it, honestly."
Fenris looked up slowly. He stared at her, blankly, as if meeting her for the first time.
She worried her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment, and her blush deepened. "I don't want either the Blight or the Void to take you. You obviously did know what you were doing. My dirty mouth, however, did not."
He actually laughed then. He was caught so completely off guard by the sweet absurdity of her words against the torrent of hateful thoughts in is mind. He clutched his stomach as the deep chuckle pulled uncomfortably at sore muscles. Her interpretation of his expression surprised him utterly, and for once, he welcomed her distracting him from his brooding.
"You'd be surprised, Hawke," he said, shaking his head. "It is true, you curse almost as well as Isabela, and she goes to great pains to point out her prowess with all thing… dirty. But I probably have you both beat. You just do not know it, because I prefer Tevinter swear words. They sound… more refined."
Her eyes sparkled as she looked down at him. "Refined curse words? You are a study in contrasts, Fenris." She giggled then, and he graced her with a rare smile.
"Hmm. I'll take that as a compliment."
Hawke nodded, laughing, "As it was intended. So… you forgive me for my earlier coarseness, then?"
"I have already forgotten it." He gave a wry smile at his own irony. "Besides," he added dryly, "if I had the slightest qualms about your language, my ears would have fallen off weeks ago."
Her gaze traced along his long, elven ears. "Yes," she said, matching his serious tone, "I suppose with ears like that, you can probably hear even the curse words I don't utter." Then she smiled coyly, and laughed again.
'Ears like that'? Ears like what, exactly? Elf ears? Knife ears?
He stiffened, smile fading instantly, stunned as if she had reached down and slapped him. All he could think about were the infinite times he'd been called 'knife-ear' — by strangers, by travelers, by innkeepers, townsfolk, and, of course, Danarius and the other magisters. Hadriana in particular had relished it, and would coo it into his ear like a lover's pet name while she groped and pinched him.
His earlier flood of hatred crashed back in on him savagely, utterly drowning the momentary amusement and tenderness he'd felt. Fenris's body went rigid as he fought down rage, a hot one this time, not the calming, icy one that he usually used to harden himself against such prejudices. And he suddenly remembered all the other mocking remarks she'd made, too.
My nose. My voice. Rebuffing my advice. Dismissing me for my height and flexibility. And now this.
I knew it. For all her teasing, I am just some pitiable elf, just some knife-ear to her. Sooner or later, it always comes out. Humans are all alike. This is why I never let my guard down.
Without another word, Fenris turned away, deafly stalking towards Hightown as Hawke called after him, utterly bewildered.
"But darling, you just came home! You've barely had a chance to wash and eat. If you won't sleep, at least sit down for a spell. You're going to do yourself a harm, rushing about like this. It's not healthy." Leandra petted an excited Ruff, who was standing and wagging his tail at Hawke.
Hawke kept pacing, combing at her damp hair. "What I do for a living isn't healthy, Mother. I'm not that tired. Besides, Ruff clearly needs a walk, and I need to purchase new daggers before the shops all close. I'm fine, really."
"You're going to go see Fenris, aren't you," Bethany said, emerging from the back room, smelling of soap. She, too, was brushing out her wet hair. "I thought you said you were going to try to make it a week this time before arguing again? You should have known mentioning his ears would be a sore topic."
"I didn't say anything derogatory! It was meant to be a compliment on his keen hearing, of all the ironic things!" Hawke said shrilly, thrusting her comb high into the air.
Leandra frowned. "Fenris? That elf friend of yours? The tall one, with the…" She made an inarticulate gesture, swirling a finger at her chin and throat.
"With the markings? Yes, what of them?" Hawke said defiantly.
Leandra sighed, not challenging her eldest daughter. "You know I have nothing against elves, love. Being married to an apostate and raising another leaves very little room for prejudice." Her face went thoughtful for a moment. "He's quite tall and strong for an elf, isn't he? Unusual hair, too. Still, he seemed polite enough when you brought him around for breakfast, however long ago that was. A little quiet and moody, perhaps, but… nice."
Bethany giggled behind the back of her hand. "You should see him once you get to know him better, Mother."
Hawke pursed her lips, and Leandra frowned at her youngest daughter. "Oh? Am I missing something?" She looked back and forth between her children, but neither of them spoke. "You girls never tell me what you're about these days…" She shifted in her chair, brushing dog hair off her hands and skirt as Ruff began to circle Hawke impatiently.
Hawke sighed, glancing down at her dog. "It's nothing, Mother. You're not missing out on anything. Besides, you have enough moody people to worry about with Gamlen. And let's not forget your upcoming meeting with the viscount. I already told you how I met him, yesterday, after saving his son. Doesn't that make you happy?"
Her mother's face lit up with an excited glow. "Oh, Marian," she said, clasping her hands together. "I just know it'll all work out now. We'll be back in the old estate, just the fo… three of us." Her voice faded, and she looked down then, eyes starting to shimmer. "I just wish Carv… but no. We must focus on the here and now, and let Andraste guide our departed to the Maker's side."
Bethany's arm slowly paused mid-stroke, brush pulling her hair awkwardly out to one side. She, too, looked down.
Hawke's mouth flattened, but she remained quiet. "All right, all right, that's enough," she finally said after a few moments. "I've got quite enough brooding to deal with, without you all starting in on it, too."
She moved over to Bethany and gently pulled the brush free from her sister's thick, black hair, then gave her a jostling, sideways hug. "Everything is going to be great, yes? We're all healthy, happy, and together, right? Full bellies, clothes on our backs, roof over our heads? That's what matters."
Leandra stood and joined them, hugging both girls at once. "Of course, my darlings. I'm so very proud of you both. Your father would have been so pleased to see what wonderful young ladies you've become. As long as we're together, everything will be fine, no matter whether we get the estate or not."
Bethany gave a small laugh. "But things would be a whole lot finer, dining on roast every night, dressed in Orlesian silks, with a big, soft bed for each of us to sleep in… in our own rooms." Her voice was wistful as she glanced to the small room the three of them shared.
Hawke smirked when her sister looked back. "Tell me about it. You snore. I can't sleep a wink some nights, it's no wonder I'm always exhausted."
"I do not snore!" Bethany cried indignantly, crossing her arms as Hawke moved to the front door, Ruff at her heels. "You do, though!"
"I never claimed to be very ladylike," Hawke called dismissively over her shoulder as she stepped out onto the landing. "Off I go again, no rest for the weary and all that. Be back soon!"
Her mother and sister called their goodbyes as she left with her mabari, heading for Hightown.
A timid knock at the front door awoke Fenris from a fitful sleep sometime around dusk. Anyone else probably would not have heard it, across a mansion and under a thick layer blankets. But, despite having rested only a few hours after an entire day and night on his feet, Fenris came awake fully. Before the second knock had even ended, he'd quickly slipped on one of his silk shirts and a clean pair of pants. He grumpily picked up his sword and stalked to the door.
One guess as to who this may be, he thought sourly, but I can never be too careful. Danarius's hunters are always coming up with new tricks… they've never tried just knocking before, after all.
A more insistent rapping started as he approached the front door. Gripping his sword, he flung the door open, looking to catch the visitor off-guard as they pounded on it. He'd expected to see Hawke, or maybe a few incredibly foolish bounty hunters. But he was surprised to see an elf lad hop backwards off his doorstep instead.
"Maker! You scared me, messere," the youth said, voice cracking.
Fenris looked down at him, estimating the elven lad to be about twelve. He was tall for his age, gangly and awkward, but he looked hearty — especially for an elf.
I wonder if I looked like this when I was that young? Who knows how old I really am, for that matter. But I know I was well past this… awkward age by the time I received my markings.
Just look at him — perhaps it is a small blessing, not having memories of being so… ungainly.
He gave the lad a flat stare. "You have the wrong manor, boy. Go away."
The boy looked up at him, shaking his head. "No messere, no mistaking you. The lady, uh, Mistress Hawke, said I'd know ya when I'd seen ya." His eyes went wide, and he swallowed audibly when Fenris crossed his arms and glowered down, waiting for an explanation. "N-now I see what she meant."
Fenris's lip curled. "So, she sent you here to mock me instead of coming herself. I suppose I'll give her credit for originality." He felt his heart clench, inwardly cursing himself for a blind fool.
"No!" the youth squeaked, waving his hands emphatically. "No mockery, mister, ah, messere. Beggin' your pardon, messere, but she said you'd be 'a tall, hand… some elf, all in black…" he closed his eyes as he stiffly repeated her words, "… with wind-swept hair the color… of… of … of moonlight. There's no... mistaking him anywhere, in all of Thedas, trust me,' she said."
'Wind-swept hair the color of moonlight'? Now I know the woman is having a laugh at my expense…
When the lad opened his eyes again, he looked up at Fenris's face, gaze darting to and from the lyrium markings at his chin and throat. He swallowed again, protruding adam's apple bobbing as he timidly focused back on Fenris's narrowed eyes. "I'm just a weaponsmith's apprentice, out makin' deliveries." His youthful voice cracked again as he hastily added, "Messere."
The lad reached over to pick up a huge, cloth-wrapped parcel that he'd leaned against the wall next to the door. It was taller than he was by half. His reedy arms quavered as he lifted it, and small, boyish muscles bulged as he presented it to Fenris. "Uh, the lady sends it with her compliments and... asks your pardon for the... mis... misunderstanding earlier today," he recited, closing his eyes again he tried to remember the full message. His voice strained along with his muscles under the weight of the parcel.
"I see," Fenris said flatly, putting aside his greatsword and taking the tall bundle from the lad.
This isn't heavy. Has Hawke put this boy up to some kind of… practical joke? To think, I got out of bed for this charade. Curse that woman and the day I met her.
As he untied the bundle suspiciously, the cloth fell away to reveal a massive two-handed weapon, broad and blunt along one edge and sharp on the other, where it hooked savagely at the tip. It had a wicked, pointed pommel, and three wooden grips that allowed the wielder to hold it in several different ways. It was longer even than Fenris's tall greatsword and looked absolutely menacing compared to the plain, dark blade that he usually wielded. It was unlike any sword Fenris had ever seen.
He shot the boy a puzzled look. "Hawke picked this out? She sent this?"
The lad shifted from one foot to the other, hands clasped behind his back. "Yes, messere. My master did not forge it himself, but he had previously purchased it from the lady some weeks ago. She said she had no use of it at the time, but now she uh... 'knows someone with… the strength, fortitude and… umm… f-finesse such a… magnificent blade requires. Be sure to tell him, just like that.' Her words, messere."
Fenris snorted before he could stop himself. Strength, fortitude and finesse? Such blatant flattery. So, she acknowledges her slights to me, at least.
"I see," was all he said again, looking critically at the weapon.
Hmm. There's very little wrong with it, at any rate. The edge seems to have gone off it, but they'd hardly keep it sharpened just to sit on a shelf. I'd prefer to take care of that myself anyway.
Balance is good, for it looking strange the way it does. And it will certainly leave an impression… mentally and physically. My pommel strike will be absolutely devastating now, to say nothing of my spinning attack. Yes, with a few practice sessions, I'll be used to it in no time.
"Does it have a name?" he asked, still running his eyes over the blade as he turned it effortlessly in his hands, testing the weight of it.
The apprentice didn't even bat an eye, familiar as he was with warriors' inclination to name their weapons. "I recall that she called it 'Hayder's Razor' when she first brought it in, messere. She said today she was tempted to rename it 'Fenris's Razor,' but didn't want to jinx it. For a lady, she seemed to know how it's bad luck to fiddle with these things, messere."
Fenris raised an eyebrow.
Then the youth's eyes went wide again a moment before he squeezed them shut, reciting another message. "But I am to tell you that... 'the name is not a slight against elves not growing beards, or anything like that. Maker, but even giving him a gift is fr... fraught with peril.'" He opened his eyes and blushed. "Uh... you probably weren't meant to hear that last bit."
Fenris tried not to roll his eyes. "Hmmm." He reached over to grab some of Danarius's coin off the small stack he'd kept by the door for the grocer's delivery boy, ever since selling off the magister's belongings.
He tossed a coin to the lad, who caught it deftly and smiled when he saw the color of silver. "Many thanks, messere! Oh, there's also a letter, messere," the boy said quickly, pulling out a folded piece of paper as he tucked away the coin. He held it out to Fenris, who just stared at it.
Fenris hastily turned his head, setting his new sword aside. He casually waved a hand, then crossed his arms again. "Just read it to me," he said, feigning indifference.
The boy looked down, ashamed. "I... I can't, messere. My parents… they've been with the Maker for years 'n years. So I never learnt. Been too busy with my 'prenticeship... That's why I memorize everything. Sorry, messere."
Fenris glared at him as he snatched the letter away. "That's no excuse, boy. Doesn't your Chantry teach such things, so everyone can read the words of Andraste? Or the smith, so you can run a shop of your own someday? Surely you must have a little free time. You're not constantly on the run, are you? Fasta vass, the way this city treats its poor..."
The boy's shame deepened, and he shrank visibly as Fenris berated him. "Of course, messere. You're right, messere."
"And stop calling me 'messere,'" he growled. "Do I look like someone of any importance to you?"
The lad's mouth worked soundlessly, unable to come up with a polite answer to the question.
Fenris clenched his jaw, then reached over to grab a handful of coins off the stack. He gestured severely for the boy to hold out his hand, then dropped the coins into his palm.
"There. Use that to hire a tutor for yourself, and your siblings, if you've got any. Make a donation at the Chantry if they'll teach you." The lad blinked up at him, confused. "Or spend it on whores and ale for all I care," he continued angrily, "just so long as you have her or the barkeep show you how to write your letters and your name. Just... do something useful with yourself. Get an education, boy."
The lad stood awkwardly, looking down again at the money. "Yes, mes... uh, yes. Thank you! A thousand times, thank you! I will do as you say, just so!" He shifted, doing a strange sort of dance as he juggled coins while trying to open his small coin pouch. "Do you wish me to take a message to the lady, messe... uh, to Mistress Hawke, that is?"
Fenris didn't even look at the useless note, working his jaw muscles in frustration for a moment. "No," he finally said. "I will just have to go see her personally in the morning." Then he slammed the door in the boy's face.
As he turned away from the door, he gave his old sword, Lethendralis, a glance.
Perhaps I should have the lad take it away, have it melted down for slag. He's not yet gone. I still hear him out there… clinking and jingling.
Fenris scowled a bit, then thought almost fondly of all the times he'd used his sword, save one. At how far it had carried him over the past three years, since being given to him by the Fog Warriors. How he'd almost lost it several times, most recently while crossing the Minater River, spending a frantic day searching for it before he found it, the strap fortuitously hooked on a fallen tree limb some miles downstream.
No. I should keep it as a reminder of my freedom, lest I forget myself as I did when I first… used it.
He stared rigidly at it, trying to keep from flinching as finally the only memory of using the blade at Danarius's behest loomed in his mind. It was also his first memory of wielding it. He ran his eyes along at Lethendralis's blade somberly, knowing no matter how often he cleaned it, oiled it, sharpened it, or bathed it in the blood of slavers, it would never cleanse away the Fog Warriors' blood, or undo what he'd done.
Having it melted down would not fix things, nor honor the fallen either.
After a quiet moment, he looked away, shaking his head to clear his thoughts, before he regarded his new sword.
Besides, I've never had a spare weapon before. I wonder how much Hawke spent on it. Doubtless she haggled the weaponsmith down to near the price he'd originally offered her for it. Probably barely cost her a thing. How... frugal. He pressed his lips together.
Still, two whole swords. He snorted derisively to himself. Would you look at me, I'm practically living in the lap of luxury now, like some fat magister. So many changes in so little time. Meeting Hawke has surely been… something. I just don't know what right now.
Feeling suddenly agitated and tired, Fenris hastily gathered up the weapons and carried them, along with the letter, back to his room.
He leaned his old sword up against his bed, planning to keep it on hand whenever he slept. The new sword he carried over to the table, where he set it down to tend to it with a whetstone later. He sat then in his usual chair, turning Hawke's letter over in his hands, eying it sourly.
I might not be able to read it, but it is definitely her script — I've watched her write in her journal often enough, that the slants and curves of her hand are… familiar, if unintelligible.
A single short word was written on the outside of the letter. He squinted at it.
I suppose that says 'Fenris,' not that it does me any good. For all I know, I'm holding it upside down.
Reluctantly he opened it, in case there was anything else inside.
No. Just more incomprehensible, undecipherable lines and curves. Damn that fool woman. And that fool boy for being illiterate.
He gritted his teeth, casting his eyes blindly over the note.
Dear Fenris,
I'm sorry if you took my teasing the wrong way. It never occurred to me until you'd already gone that mentioning your ears might seem offensive.
I thought we had moved past these things, and were back to being joking, laughing friends, or whatever — but I understand that is no excuse. Please believe me when I say I never meant any insult. I truly have nothing against elves, or you. On the contrary, I admire you greatly.
This is all very awkward to write, especially with the smith and his apprentice both watching me. I hope the lad remembers to tell you everything; I let my tongue get carried away a bit. I would come myself, but I am dead on my feet and likely to put my foot in my mouth. So forgive the boy if he says anything particularly thoughtless, and just attribute it to me. I just couldn't sleep, so I went out to buy new daggers, then decided to get you something, too, to apologize.
I'm rambling, so I will close now, with the hope that you will enjoy your new sword. It is so big and unwieldy that the smith has not been able to sell it in the weeks since I sold it to him, but I know you have the skill it takes to really tear the place up with it. I fear the smith has ripped me off, refusing to let the thing go for anything but double what he paid me for it, despite no one showing interest in it except me. But it is worth it, I think. You are -wor- welcome to it.
I look forward to seeing you use it soon, and I hope you will come to The Hanged Man tomorrow to meet up with me and Varric. Don't make me come get you. (That was a joke. Oh forget it, sarcasm is so difficult to pull off in written form.)
Yours,
~ M. Hawke
P.S. I actually rather like your ears. (That was not sarcasm, nor a joke, just to be clear. So please do not test your new blade out on me. (Also not a joke.))
After staring at it for a minute and gleaning absolutely no information from it, Fenris chucked it aside, muttering curses under his breath. Then he stood and shed his clothing, before getting back into bed. He hauled the covers up over himself and tried to go back to sleep.
It is obviously some kind of apology, if she sent a gift. And that boy, with all those messages to tell me. What did he call it, a 'misunderstanding'?
The only misunderstanding is that she thinks she can buy my pride for the price of a sword. A cheap sword.
No, I do not accept her apology, whatever it may say. Probably something like, 'You weren't meant to find out I'm prejudiced against elves,' or, 'As far as elves go, you're not so bad.' I don't know why I'm even surprised. She would be neither the first nor the last to mock me. And yet, I thought she... no.
It doesn't matter. No doubt this is somehow all my fault. Again. Venhedis. Fasta vass.
That woman. Sending some fool child here with that thing. An elf boy at that. Was that supposed to be some kind of gesture of good-will? Did she think I'd feel better, being awoken by some scrawny, illiterate, weak, little… elf? That we'd enjoy chatting about having long ears, and being an oppressed race? Ridiculous.
Forget it. I'll sort it out tomorrow.
I should be able to sleep, as tired as I am. Damn that weasely Chantry sister, and that… sick templar. They have no idea what they are doing, goading the Qunari, of all people, into open war. If they'd seen the destruction I have on Seheron, they would weep tears of blood and beg the Maker that the Arishok completes his task with all haste.
I should have just slain them both in the foundry district. Would have saved us a night plus a day's worth of trouble. Not to mention any trouble yet to come.
Well, at least it is over with. For now.
Hawke. Throwing the money away to those… wretches. Probably they will go right out and spend it on ale. No doubt The Hanged Man is packed tonight. Varric will have quite the audience to tell the tale of how we saved the viscount's son. Though I suppose he'll make most of the coin back in free drinks, at least…
Hawke. She'll be the death of us all. Maybe it's better that I don't understand her. At least I know my own mind.
Though he was weary, Fenris tossed and turned in this fashion for a good hour, thoughts still churning at what was in Hawke's letter, what he could say to her tomorrow to keep her from suspecting, and wondering when and how Sister Petrice and Ser Varnell would next turn up.
When he finally fell asleep again, his dreams were dark and troubling. In them, in battles filled with running, fire, blood, and death, he fought endlessly — sometimes with, sometimes against Hawke, facing nameless, faceless enemies that wanted to enslave him again.
Too often, they won.