A/N: I'm so sorry, my dears. Due to a veritable cesspool of conditions (staffing issues at work, overtime, financial difficulties on my end) I haven't had any time to even take a "mental health" day, much less sit down and write and fantasize over Fenris…
I know this chapter is long overdue, and I'm sorry. I hope it's worth the wait.
Chapter Twenty-Five: The Pain of Memory
"You called him… what?"
Varric was chuckling, unable to help himself. Hawke had brought everyone round to the Hanged Man for drinks, though Varric suspected it was in part to force everyone to accept that Anders had been right—for once—and they all had been fools to doubt him. Still, the five of them told a good story, and he quickly found himself carried away.
"Well," Hrodwynn had the decency to allow a faint tint of pink to blemish her cheeks, "He has all that, I don't know, curly messy bit on the top of his head," her quick fingers flickered over the top of her own scalp in emphasis, "Kind of hard to ignore. And I couldn't remember his name, other than it started with a 'C,' but at least I remembered he was a Captain."
Varric roared with more laughter, slapping the table with his palm. "Oh, Maker, but I've got to remember that one. 'Captain Curly'…" He slowed down to a chuckle, fighting to keep the tears from his eyes, as he asked, "Then what happened? I imagine Hawke and Anders didn't take it well, seeing the two of you brought out in chains."
"I was down by the ferry," Anders quickly reminded everyone, his tone of voice a bit desperate and rushed. So far he'd managed to keep anyone, especially Hrodwynn, from finding out about his sortie into the Gallows' Courtyard and subsequent eavesdropping. He didn't want to think about what she would say if she found out about the risk he had taken.
Or what Garret would say, for that matter.
Hawke's eyes narrowed a little at Anders' forceful statement, but he took up his narrative once more. "Right. It was Sebastian and I in the courtyard, talking with the Knight-Captain. All three of us were quite surprised when Hrodwynn and Fenris were brought out to us under guard, but I think the Captain was the most upset. He was starting to give those two soldiers quite a dressing down, when Hrodwynn defused the situation. She started to laugh, a bit staged…"
She stuck her tongue out at him, but it was mostly humorous—only a little bit spiteful. Honest.
"…and picked the locks on her cuffs in under five seconds."
"Two!" she argued, feeling slighted by Hawke's diminishing of her talents, and the way he brushed aside her taunt.
"Who's telling this story?" he reminded her, but her sullen pout wouldn't leave her lips. He could sense Anders shifting in his seat, about to do or say something in her favor. And Varric's indulgent chortle did nothing to help his side of things. Knowing he was outnumbered, he gave in a bit gracelessly, "Oh, very well, in under two seconds. Happy?" he ended with a little hum. Seeing Hrodwynn smile and ease back, he knew he could take up his narrative once more. "Cool as a summer breeze, she handed the chains over to the Captain, stating, 'Here you go. One pair of slightly used shackles, just like new.'"
Varric gave up and swiped a finger at his eyes. "Andraste's tits! What I wouldn't give to have seen the look on his face."
Hawke nodded agreement, giving Fenris a sly glance as he added, "It was nothing compared to when Fenris invoked his lyrium and slipped right out of his cuffs, letting them fall to the cobblestones with a clatter that was hard to ignore. Hrodwynn scooped them up, as if they were a handkerchief someone had dropped, and handed them back to Cullen, still fully closed."
"And what did he say?" Varric pressed, eager for the rest of the tale.
Hawke leaned back in his seat, a little theatrically, but Hrodwynn wasn't the only one who like to put on airs. He buffed the back of his nails on the front of his robes, managing to sound quite pleased with himself as he answered, "He professed admiration for the eclectic group of friends I collected. I told him it was my little hobby, you know, like how some people collect spoons or thimbles or the like. I simply collect people."
Varric felt like he was going to piss himself. The audacity of the man! The bullocks! His cheeks burned from all the laughing he'd been doing, there was a stitch in his side that made him wonder if he'd cracked a rib, and a tear had managed to escape his notice to dampen the side of his face. "You… you… Maker's breath, Hawke… fuck…"
Aveline cleared her throat and adjusted her posture, drawing attention to herself. "Then he just… what… let all of you go?" she asked, since Varric was unable to speak coherently.
"It wasn't as if he could keep us there," Hawke shrugged. "Oh, I'm sure the thought crossed his mind, since we were involved in the murder, er, death of one of his templars. But he had his hands full already, what with two insubordinate soldiers in need of discipline. And then there was the investigation he was going to have to conduct into Ser Alrik's illegal actions. No, he chose not to make an issue of us, or the manner of Ser Alrik's death, and I chose to leave before any one of us gave him a reason to change his mind." He tilted around Anders so he could clearly see the person sitting on the other side.
"Don't look at me," Hrodwynn protested, leaning back to try to get out of his sight, holding up her hands, her bright green eyes wide and innocent. "I behaved myself!"
"Calling him Captain Curly and picking the locks of your shackles is not behaving yourself," Hawke countered.
"You're the one who threatened him," she fired back, "And doubted his word."
"Please, both of you, don't start, for my sake, please?" Anders pleaded. From his position between them, he put a hand up to either side, in front of each of their faces, as if he could physically block the sounds from their mouths. He had a brief twinge of sympathy for how she must feel every time he and Fenris went at each other, and it was all he could do to keep himself from looking at the elf sitting on the far side of her. Instead he forced himself to stare at the surface of the table, a nice and safe view. "What's important is that Ser Alrik was stopped. Permanently. No more mages will unjustly be made tranquil against their will."
Hrodwynn closed her mouth and stopped baiting Hawke, deciding she couldn't argue with that. Though it appeared Fenris might, his hatred of mages so deeply ingrained it was an immutable part of his nature. She could feel him next to her, taking a deep breath, sitting up slightly taller as he prepared to launch himself into an argument against Anders. Though she had no idea what in Anders' statement he could have found fault with, she elbowed him—not harshly, but not gently, either.
Miraculously, he also closed his mouth and held his tongue. It seemed, for this evening—this one single evening—everyone was willing to call a truce. Or at least the possibility and potential was there.
"You're right, Blondie," Varric finally found his voice, also sensing the fragile ceasefire of verbal hostilities and taking as much advantage from it as he could. "Hawke's had yet another of his strange and death-defying adventures, did a good deed for the downtrodden, and," he leaned forward and gave a quick wink to Hawke, "Undoubtedly has lined his pockets a little, too. Which reminds me; who's up for a game of Wicked Grace?"
"The real reason Varric's glad for your latest adventure," Isabela hummed, but she was already pulling out her purse and plopping it on the table, "He wants some of your booty for himself."
"Why, Isabela, I'd never consider it," Varric denied, already shuffling the cards, "At least, not where Anders could catch us."
Isabela rolled her eyes, "That's not what I… oh, never mind!"
Most everyone at the table was laughing, seeing as how Isabela got trapped by one of her own jokes for once.
"Oh, that's something dirty again," Merril, who was smiling though not laughing, leaned across the table to ask Hrodwynn, "What was it, exactly?"
Hrodwynn had leaned forward to hear Merril, and to answer, but before she could say anything, the loud and sharp slapping of a palm against the tabletop made her look up in surprise. Sebastian was sitting near the far corner, at an angle to her. He had been quietly staring at her through Hawke's whole narrative, but when she leaned forwards, when her short hair flopped down to cover a side of her face, he had been startled. "You are familiar to me, dear lady," he all but exclaimed. "Not you, personally, but a cousin of yours, perhaps? Or your mother? An aunt?"
A cold chill swept over her, like a trickle of ice water running down her spine beneath her tunic. Merril and her question forgotten, Hrodwynn leaned back to fix the Brother with a hard stare. "What are you talking about?" she demanded, more than a little cross. She liked the way the evening was going so far, and was looking forward to a hand or two of Wicked Grace, and then maybe who knows—once she and Fenris got home that night. But every time Sebastian called her a lady… For some reason, it set her teeth on edge. The warm feeling of camaraderie, the afterglow of an adrenaline rush, the humor of the verbal battle between Varric and Isabela—all of that was gone now in the face of his persistent pestering.
"I've seen that before," he gestured, sweeping up and down her whole form. "Back in Starkhaven."
"Doubt it. I've lived in Kirkwall for as long as I can remember," she answered, honestly, if a little misleadingly, through her still clenched teeth.
"Yes, yes, I know that," he waved her words aside, ignorant of the sore topic he was treading over with his steel-plated boots. "But surely you have a mother. Or other feminine relatives. And the way you posed just now, with your hair looking a little longer, I'm sure I've seen that before. Perhaps at Court. Do you have a relation—a female relation—who's a peer?"
There it was again, that insistence that he knew her, or knew of her, or had some undiscovered clue to her past, a past that she had only just begun to come to terms with knowing that she would never know it. The coldness she felt a moment before was replaced by heat. A wave of anger, unlike anything she'd ever felt before, swelled up inside her, boiling like hot water. She wouldn't have been surprised if, at that moment, someone told her there was steam coming from her ears. "I've heard enough of this," she muttered, standing up and pushing herself away from the table. Then she rounded on Sebastian, so suddenly and so fiercely, that it made him instinctively flinch away. "I am no lady! I never have been. I never will be. And I have no family! No relations—female or otherwise! I am Hrodwynn of Kirkwall. Nothing more!" Her hands pointed and slashed in emphasis, striking the air with a killer's intent.
After her words, after her movements, there was an unnatural stillness from the others at the table. She didn't take the time to notice, too caught up in fighting back the pain and the false hopes his words had almost created within her. He was a prince, after all, and the only legitimate heir of an entire city-state, now that the rest of his family had been killed. So it was reasonably feasible… entirely possible… all but assured… that he might actually recognize her as belonging to some other nobleman's family…
She needed air.
She needed to move.
She needed to get out of there!
Unaware of her self, she raced out of the Hanged Man and into the evening.
"You bastard," Anders hissed, struggling to stand, "Don't you ever leave off?"
Surprisingly, it was Fenris' heavy and immovable hand on his shoulder, and not Hawke's insistent clutching at his sleeve, that made Anders sit back down. Fenris was already on his feet, calm and cold as the lyrium seared bone-deep into his flesh. Once he made sure that Anders would remain sitting, he turned to the still startled Starkhaven prince.
Sebastian stuttered, cowed beneath the force of his dead stare. "Honestly, Fenris, I had no intention of offending her. Ever. I… I thought she'd be flattered… at first… my calling her a lady… a show of respect… maybe a little flirtatious… but then… just now…" he swallowed, gathering his courage, and made himself squarely face the silently smoldering elf. "She IS familiar to me; I cannot—will not—deny it. She must have familial ties to some noble family…"
"She may have, once, but it doesn't matter now," he cut over Sebastian's words like his greatsword cut through flesh. "Hrodwynn has amnesia; something you can never empathize with. She is unaware of her past, of anything before her arrival here in Kirkwall, some eight or so years ago. Her memory is gone, and because of that, she has no family, no ties to any other city. Wherever she may have come from, Kirkwall is now her home. And she's fought long and hard to make a life for herself here, a good life, a life she can live." He loomed threateningly over the Brother, "And I will protect her life with my dying breath. Understood."
It wasn't a question; it was a command. Sebastian swallowed yet again and nodded, but Fenris wasn't fooled. He could see, he could see in those merry blue eyes that Sebastian wasn't going to leave this alone. He couldn't. It simply wasn't in his nature.
But, hopefully, he had made enough of an impression to calm the Brother down for a few weeks at least.
"Excuse me," Fenris nodded to the table in general, and left to follow after Hrodwynn. Before he reached the door he could hear, barely discernible over the sounds of the tavern—the off-key music, the drunks, the activities taking place upstairs—but Varric was smoothly and almost successfully easing past the awkward moment and dealing out the first hand.
It was a chilly, cloudy night in Kirkwall. Chilly in Fenris' opinion, at any rate. Tevinter was further north than the Free Marches, and had a much warmer climate; he'd never seen snow until he came this far south and to the mountains. Yet he knew there were colder regions even further south, with even taller mountains, and places where the snow never melted—as impossible as it was to envision that!
So, maybe, just maybe, Kirkwall wasn't quite so chilly after all.
He would be glad, however, to get home and inside and stand before the hearth in his room. He rubbed a hand along his arm, feeling the gooseflesh pebble his skin, and hastened his steps.
He hadn't been able to find Hrodwynn, something that had left him feeling more than a little disquiet. Though it was a bit early yet for the cutthroats and rapists to be out, in her current state of mind, he wasn't sure if she would have enough sense to make her way home, or if she'd end up back in Darktown and Anders' clinic out of some long-buried force of habit.
Or, Maker forbid, somewhere else entirely, somewhere lost, somewhere she might not be able to find her way back from.
She was almost as touchy about her amnesia as he was about his; a fact he reluctantly allowed. And the way Sebastian kept calling her lady, the way it irritated her, and her strong reaction to Sebastian's suggestion that he might know her family, a noble family… Fenris wasn't sure what would make her more upset; finding out she wasn't of noble birth after all of Sebastian's assurances, or finding out she was but remaining unable to remember it for herself.
He could well imagine her pain, her angst, her struggle against false hope—and her inability to prevent said false hope from finding purchase within her soul. The despair she must feel, the impotence, the anger…
And she had raced from the tavern, without him, without telling anyone where she was going, probably without knowing herself what she was doing. In her frame of mind, she could be anywhere, about to do anything, and he was not there to stop her, to help her, to love her.
He reached the door of his mansion and stopped dead in his tracks. The door was ajar, not by much, but enough to alert him to the presence of someone within. Daring to hope himself, sending a quick prayer to the Maker for a miracle, he reached out and pushed the door open with his fingertips.
It was dark inside, dark and quiet, and very much as he and Hrodwynn had left it the day before. He craned his neck around the wooden portal, but everything appeared as it should be. There was a chest in the corner of the foyer, the lid ajar as they had left it, a few of Hrodwynn's throwing knives lying unmolested and in plain view. Stepping inside he spied their cats, Cassia and Felinus, sitting on a table near a window, Cassia calmly cleaning her face, Felinus standing guard over her. He turned and fixed Fenris with a stare as he came into view, but assured that Fenris was allowed in his home, Felinus turned back to wait for Cassia to finish cleaning herself so they could go and catch another mouse or two.
Well, Fenris thought to himself, if they were unconcerned, then he could be, too. At least as far as an unwanted intruder went. But if it hadn't been an enemy who left the door open, then it had to be Hrodwynn who awaited him within the dusty and disused manor, hadn't it? Her, or some other friend. "Any clue would be helpful, and very much appreciated," he spoke softly to the pair of cats.
This time, Cassia stopped her licking to stare. Fenris sighed, reached into one of his pouches, and took out a rabbit haunch. It was the last bit of food rations leftover from the adventure involving Ser Alrik, a bit cold now, but he wasn't going to be eating it. "A bribe, then. Or an exchange, if you prefer. This bit of meat, for telling me who it is waiting for me upstairs."
Cassia lifted her triangular pink little nose and smelled the tasty morsel. Cats were intelligent creatures. They understood far more than they let on, and only concerned themselves about important matters—not the trivial stuff that people liked to worry about. Fenris should very well know who it was who had stumbled in here and staggered blindly up the stairs, and he could just as easily, perhaps far more easily, go upstairs and find out for himself. But if he was willing to feed them for information he was too lazy to learn himself, well, then… Agreeing to his terms, she let out a meow of consent.
Then she swatted Felinus across the snout, Not hard, and not with her claws certainly, but enough to get his attention and convey what she wished for him to do. Felinus gave her a sulky look, but did as she commanded. In the graceful and fluid motion of all cats, like a little river of fur, he jumped down from the table and wound his way through a maze of furniture until he reached the base of the stairs. He paced back and forth a few times, gave Fenris a mewl, then promptly sat in a very unconcerned manner and scrubbed a paw across his face.
Fenris knelt down in front of Hrodwynn's cat. "So, I take it you're telling me that it is, in fact, Hrodwynn upstairs. Otherwise you wouldn't be so blasé. Am I correct?" he gave a small laugh at himself, not sure if it came from the relief of finding her safe and sound, or over his talking to a cat as if it could clearly understand him. He was saved from considering an answer by Cassia coming up and rubbing herself against his thigh. "You're right, it's time I held up my end of the bargain, isn't it. Here you go." He set the haunch on the floor between the two cats, and left them to their easy meal.
His motions as fluid as the cats', he stood and started up the stairs, his bare feet silent on the wooden steps, his body habitually avoiding any of the boards that creaked. His hand reached out as he neared the top, his fingertips brushing the finial atop the railing, only enough of a touch to orient himself in the semi-darkness and allow him to steer unerringly down the hallway towards his bedchamber.
Again the door was cracked, but this time he could see light coming from within. Flickering light, soft and muted, warm and welcoming. His heart pounding, though not from exertion, he reached the portal and pushed it open to reveal…
Hrodwynn was sitting on the couch before the hearth, her knees bent, the heels of her feet braced on front edge of the surface, and her arms wrapped tightly around her legs. She had removed her boots and belts and anything else hard and unyielding, even untucking her shirt to let the dark red fabric pool and puddle on the cushions around her hips. She looked so small sitting there, so tightly curled up, so vulnerable, so like a young child. Her face was in profile, chin atop one of her knees, her eyes gazing unseeingly at the flames in the hearth, her cheeks still damp from earlier tears, though now it appeared she may have grown bored with crying. Fenris chastised himself, thinking of all the time he'd wasted looking for her elsewhere, when he should have been here, when he should have helped her weather the storm of emotions, when he should have held her and absorbed her tears.
Efficiently and quietly, with minimal movement so as not to disturb her, Fenris slipped out of his own belts and buckles, setting aside his weapons and armor until he wore nothing more than his vest-like tunic and leggings. But he didn't move towards her. Though his arms ached to feel her, though his chest throbbed with love, though his legs twitched with the denied steps—he remained standing a few paces from her.
He was at a loss, even more than she, over what he should do.
He knew, he understood, what it was like, what she was experiencing, the impotence and futility over her missing past. Unfortunately, that empathy gave him no insight over what his next action should be. Even after all the common ground they shared, they were also opposites in many ways. Where she had stormed out of the Hanged Man in a full fury, swept along by waves of emotion, he was not so overt himself. He preferred to keep his pain inside, close to the vest, where only he could see it, he could feel it, he could know of it. But not everyone had his self-control, had his training, had his aversion to allowing people into his personal life.
Especially Hrodwynn. She needed assurance. Companionship. Love. Understanding. Validation. Things he had no idea how to give. He could fight against demons and darkspawn and dragons to save her, but not depression. He was ill equipped and lacked experience when it came to personal interactions. And in his indecision, in his hesitation, in his ignorance, all he could do was stand there and breathe…
"Hrodwynn?"
A fresh tear quickly formed and dropped from the corner of one eye, and she answered in a voice as small and fragile as she looked, "'lo, Fenris." She didn't move, either. She didn't rise up to greet him. She didn't turn to look at him. Instead she left him adrift, standing off to her side, while she stared into the flickering flames.
Normally, she wouldn't want anyone to see her cry. She had left the Hanged Man before the others could see how deeply Sebastian had hurt her. But here, in this chamber, where they had shared so much, where he had finally allowed another—Hrodwynn alone—a glimpse into the dark corners of his soul. Here she knew it would be safe to cry, to allow all the emotions to surface and run their course. Because of this pain they shared, this frustration, this dearth.
This vacuum called amnesia.
"It… hurts," she started, brokenly, her words all but swallowed by her pain, "It… really hurts… actually, physically hurts… not knowing… wanting to so badly… I can't… there's nothing… there…"
All too intimately he knew that feeling, that pain, that unending suffering, that relentless torture. His own past was a mystery, a darkened mirror, shattered bits of memory flashing in the corner of his eye. Yet he didn't know how he should respond, what he should say, what he should do. All he could think of was to stand there and sigh into the semi-dark room, "I know."
"I've tried to move on," she continued, beginning to feel the catharsis of talking about her pain, "I really have… to accept… that I'll never… never know… to leave it… leave it all… every bit of it… behind me…"
The false hope, the childish belief, the vain dreams, the delusional self-lies. There was another flicker of sympathetic vibrations as a hint of memory tickled the back of his mind, and was quickly squelched by his iron will. He had to focus, now, focus on Hrodwynn and her forgotten past and her pain. "I know," his hand clenched into a fist and he had to press it against his thigh to quell the shaking.
"But he… I… he won't… I've tried,", she paused to scrub the back of her hand against her cheek, "I've tried… to get him… him to… stop…"
"I know you have," he agreed, his voice almost a coo, gentle and soothing, as his legs swayed, almost buckling, his need to hold her was so great, his insecurity keeping him in check.
"He won't… I can't make… make him leave off!"
Fenris saw an opening and took it. "I'll handle Sebastian," he vowed, his voice sounding terrible with dreadful threat and confidence in his ability to fulfill it. "In fact, he won't speak to you about this again. Ever. He knows what will happen should he try. I've taken care of it for you."
Her head snapped up, her long-buried pain over her forgotten past drowned out by the fresher pain of her sharply wounded pride. In a flash she was on her feet, fists clenched at her sides, eyes flashing with green lightning, lifting her chin to stare at him accusingly, "I can fight my own battles!"
There it was, that fire, that spark, that he loved, that he missed, that he needed to set his own life aflame. Another shattered shard of memory flashed into his thoughts, but he shoved it away with a pant and a twitch. He couldn't let himself get distracted right now. Hrodwynn needed him too much.
"Don't I know it," he placated her, or tried to, without sounding too condescending. Hesitantly he began to approach her. "Your tongue and wit are as sharp as your knives. I should know; I've been on the receiving end of your ire for years, and for good reason." He reached her, at long last, and put his hands chastely on her shoulders, holding her gaze as he continued, "But I love you, and I won't let anyone hurt the woman I love and get away with it. Sebastian will leave this whole idea—leave you—alone now; you have my word on it. He swallowed, staring into her green eyes bright with tears, and vowed, "Amatus."
No one else knew these pet names they had for each other, these quiet utterances that were deeply personal, deeply private, gentle whispers that told each other they were still loved, still needed, still there. And that together, no matter what happened, no matter what may come, together they would survive it. In one simple action, with one small breath, he unknowingly and without understanding did the one thing that would make everything alright.
Her eyes softened, her brows curved, her head tilted, her lips parted as she acknowledged, "Fen."
The word fell from her lips to land at his feet. From there it entered him, rising up along his bones, filling his body with warmth, from his feet to his knees, to his hips, to his guts, to his chest, to his shoulders, to his head. He had never known this side of love. Yes, he had obsessed over her, ran the gauntlet from wondering what she was doing to worrying about her getting into trouble without him being there to protect her. And he had fought for her, bled for her, risked his life for her. He had even—finally—made love to her, exploring her body, awakening her desires, touching her emotionally and physically, from without and within.
But nothing had prepared him for this, this bottomless depth of warm strength, this quiet assurance, this unconditional acceptance—both he of her, and she of him.
Maker, what he wouldn't do for this woman.
What he wouldn't do for them…
This time he shook off the dim reflection with a small sound, something akin to a painful sigh, or an anguished murmur. A cool hand with small, quick fingers stroked his cheek, bringing his eyes back into focus. "Fenris?"
"Amatus." he immediately he responded, unwilling to give her any time to wonder over his odd actions. He took her hand in his, holding it in place, entwining their fingers; he couldn't bring them any closer together without phasing. He shifted his face around, pressing his lips into her palm, determined to distract her, and himself, from both his troubles and hers.
After their first, and only, night together, they hadn't had another chance to explore the fine art of making love. They'd either been inconvenienced by one of Hawke's 'little' jobs, or by the chaperones inherent to such jobs, or by Hrodwynn's own natural cycle. Tonight was the first night in almost two weeks that an opportunity had presented itself. If he could move her past her pain.
She seemed willing, perhaps feeling the need as much as he, her fingers squeezing his as he continued to kiss her palm. After all, she'd only ever done this once before, and that experience had ended awkwardly. Tonight, he vowed, he would do things right. They would do things right. Tonight, he would divert them from their shared pain. Tonight they would willingly give up their forgotten pasts. Tonight would be only for…
"…Leto…?"
"…Fen…" Hrodwynn hummed, having closed her eyes to enjoy the sensation of his warm lips across her cool skin. She didn't see the crinkling at the corners of his eyes. She didn't see the way his lips pulled back in a grimace. She didn't see his hand begin to tremble slightly.
But she felt it, all of it, from her fingertips to her palm to her wrist. A tiny furrow formed between her brows as he opened her eyes to look at him. "What…?"
"Shh…" he silenced her quickly, eager to hide his symptoms and resume these fragile beginnings of making love. And he could do it, too. He could deny himself, his self—desires and needs and feelings and pain. He had done so quite often, all the time in fact, while he'd been a slave for Danarius. It wouldn't be all that hard, to resume that state of mind, to set aside his own necessities for another. Especially for a woman he cared about…
He headed it off before it could gain a foothold this time, whatever 'it' was that was plaguing his mind. He let go of Hrodwynn's hand to wrap his arms around her, to meld her body against his. His fingers stroked her spine through the silky fabric of her tunic, cool and soft like her skin. He felt her shudder, watched as her head lolled back, exposing the tender flesh of her neck, a vein throbbing with her quickening pulse.
He pounced on it, like his namesake.
Hrodwynn gasped, amazed that after everything that had happened that day, the battles and dangers and embarrassment and emotional pain, that she could feel so needy, so willing, so wanton—and so quickly. Yes, she could admit to herself that her experience was limited, that she really had no way of knowing if this was normal or unusual… but, really, she asked herself, did it matter? If she wanted him…
If he wanted her…
If they—finally—had this opportunity…
She felt his lips worm their way beneath the collar of her tunic, his long fingers wrap around her ass and lift with almost bruising strength, the bulge in his leggings line up with the heat spilling out from her as her legs sought purchase around his waist. Blessed Andraste, but this felt good. Right. Natural. Like coming home, coming to a place where you know you are safe, secure, belonging.
Loved.
He raised her above him, even higher, and mouthed her breast through the fabric of her tunic. She gasped, her heart beginning to race, and scrambled to keep her purchase while trying not to drag herself out of reach. He staggered a few steps, thrown a little off balance by her furtive movements. Clumsily he slammed into a wall at an angle, abrading the back of his knuckles and bruising the side of her hip, but he shuffled and shifted their bodies around until her back was braced against it.
She had given a grunt, not because she was hurt, but from the force of their impact whooshing the air from her lungs. Her head spinning, she took ahold of his tunic, desperate to remove it. The fabric was too strong to rip or tear, but her quick fingers found a few of the toggles and began loosening them. Frustrated with the slow progress, however, she started tugging on it, peeling it off like a second skin, pulling it up towards his armpits. He paused, panting, feeling his pores explode in sweat—Hrodwynn wasn't the only one desperate for a release—and broke off his mouthing to allow her to finish pulling the Spirit Hide up and over his head.
The last time, the only time, they'd lain together, she hadn't paid his markings any attention. She was one of the few who had never drawn attention to the lyrium twisting and marring his flesh. And he loved her for that. Tonight was no different. Her hands roamed over his skin, either ignorant or discourteous of the lyrium. Rather she searched for those places she remembered from before, how he'd suck in a breath when her palm brushed across a nipple. How he'd twitch and then hold very still when her fingers filled the furrows between his ribs, as if he was extremely ticklish and trying to hide it.
How he would involuntarily buck into her when she explored lower, between the lanes of lyrium that outlined the V-cut of muscles and drew one's attention downward and central. Her thumbs pressed there, kneading into him, needing him.
Again he had to pull off his torture of her body through the fabric to gasp, "Amatus!"
"Fen…" Her voice was breathy, lost within an unfathomable ocean of emotions. Yet her actions spoke louder than any words. Her fingers left off their torment and instead gripped his shoulders, bracing and holding herself between him and the wall while she angled her hips.
"Fasta vass," he panted, feeling his head pound, his blood race, his body become slick with sweat. He needed this just as much as she, but it was hard, so hard, almost too hard… The mental concentration required to keep the shattered shards at bay… to ignore what was wrong and focus on what was right… to try to force his body to, um, rise up to the occasion…
It was no good, however, not with the two of them pressed up against the wall, rough and feral and desperate. Stifling the growl of frustration within his chest, he tried for a change of scene. He grabbed her ass once more and spun them around, easily carrying her weight despite them being nearly the same size, his long-fibered muscles surprisingly stronger than they appeared. He dumped their entangled bodies onto the bed, dragging them across the mattress until they reached the middle. Then he raised himself on his arms and loomed over her, staring down at her in the soft firelight…
…the hair spread out around the face was red, but too dark a red. And the eyes should be a gentler green, not so bright, but just as wet with tears. And her skin was far too pale, not the swarthiness of someone who liked to play outside in the courtyard…
"Fen?" she queried, sensing without being able to see, to even be sure, but on some deeper level, instinctively knowing that something was wrong.
Her voice brought him back, but he couldn't answer, couldn't allow himself to admit defeat, to admit to his pain when her's was so great, to admit to his shortcomings when she needed him most. But neither could he continue this way, feeling and denying, passionate and cold, knowing while not wanting to remember. It was obvious to him now: he couldn't be with her and be WITH her, he couldn't love her and make love to her.
He couldn't let himself feel, lest it open up the door to his past and taint their lovemaking with his pain.
Whatever damage it may cause him, whatever the scars, whatever the cost, he knew what he had to do. Without a fight, without even a whimper, he shut out his own desires and passion and emotion. Mechanically, roughly, without any feelings, without any tenderness or care, with only physical need to prompt him, he grasped at the waist of her leggings and started to tug them around and off her hips.
"Fen?" she repeated, a little stronger this time.
He forced his mouth against hers, kissing her without that undercurrent of tenderness, without any mutual passion, merely going through the motions, as he fought to remove her leggings. He'd gotten them just far enough out of the way, binding her thighs together and making her lose her grip around his waist. But she was open to him, open and vulnerable and ready. Unfortunately, he was not ready.
She tore her mouth from his grasp. "Fen!" she demanded. She was starting to understand that something was wrong, especially when the inevitable did not happen.
He answered with a growl of frustration. He would NOT let this happen, not tonight, not after everything they'd been through together, not after all he'd fought for… her love, her trust.
Her… freedom…?
"Leto?" a voice called to him, not through his ears, but through his memories. Memories he didn't have. Of a life he didn't remember. Shared with a woman he didn't recognize.
…the human was twice his size, and had him in a choke hold, but if he craned his neck he could see her, some of the slaves had been allowed to watch, and her bright red hair was hard to miss…
"Leto?" the voice called again, and more of that memory he didn't remember came to light.
…hitting the human in the balls had only pissed off the other slave, who had thrown him to the ground and bent his arm so far back his shoulder was dislocated, his cheek broken open and bleeding on the flagstones, his spine about to be snapped…
"Fenris?" a different voice called, but he could no longer hear it, his mind lost.
…he couldn't give up, his mother and sister meant too much, it didn't matter what sinister plans their master had for whoever volunteered, he would not surrender…
"Leto!" the young woman cried, the guards dragging her and their mother away, and Danarius' hand on his shoulder turning him around.
…he'd given everything, worked hard to become one of their master's favorites, and in winning that boon, it wouldn't matter what happened to him, so long as his mother and sister were free…
"Come, Fenris, my little wolf."
…the pain, the pain was unending, the lyrium a blue-white heat, a liquid fire, tearing through his veins, slicing into his flesh, melding with his very being, leaving him throbbing and sore, and with every movement—no matter how slight—rubbing his muscles and bones against the lyrium and bringing the searing pain back to life…
"…come…"
…it was easier, it was so much easier, to forget, to let it go, to allow the pain of the ritual to recede into the abyss, taking the rest of his memories with it…
"…come on… Fenris… come back to me…"
…
He was panting, out of breath, as if he had been running for miles through the jungles of Seheron. He was sweating, too, and for the first moment, he found himself wondering why he couldn't hear the drone of insects. That humming, buzzing, infernal noise had never ceased, not even at night, all those months he was in Seheron. Why didn't he hear it now?
Cool hands touched his cheek then swept the bangs off of his brow. Inadvertently they found and brushed over the three dots of lyrium on his forehead, and his eyes crinkled in reflexive pain.
"Fenris, please, don't do this to me. Come on, my love, wake up. Wake up."
He did so, with a startled gasp. Though his eyes had been open the whole time, he hadn't seen the person hovering in the center of his vision, the heart-shaped face, the Agreggio Pavali lips and darker red hair, the bright eyes so alive and vibrant.
It wasn't the face he had been expecting to see… was it?
"Fenris?" Hrodwynn asked, timidly. She'd pulled her hand back when he'd gasped, and with the strange way he was staring at her, she wasn't sure if she should hold him, or run.
His hand reached out and grasped her wrist, almost painfully, his eyebrows curving as he fought to remember her name.
She didn't move, she couldn't, frozen not in fear of him, but in fear of doing something harmful to him. She didn't know what had just happened, didn't understand it, but she knew she had somehow caused it.
The hair… the hair was… wrong… red… too dark…
"…no…" he moaned, letting go of her wrist, rolling away from her, pushing himself onto his hands and knees. He was on the floor in the middle of the room, the fire flickering merrily behind him. Slowly memory came back to him, but it wasn't the memory he wanted, the memory he'd been having a few moments ago. Instead it was the memory of Hrodwynn, emotionally vulnerable, sexually desirable, wanton and needy and messy and rough and…
And…
"Fenris?"
He was panting again, feeling disconnected, lost, as if he were watching himself in some sort of play, acting on the stage while he also sat in the audience. For a moment the two visions superimposed over each other, he the player and the spectator, and he couldn't tell which one was the real him.
Her cool, light, quick fingers touched his shoulder again, mindful of the lyrium, gentle and soothing, conveying all her love and worry and care in that simple gesture.
"I… no…" he moaned, unable to lift his eyes to hers, but far too easily lifting his arm to brush away her touch, "I can't…"
"Can't what?" she pressed. "Can't have sex with me? Can't love me? Can't look at me? What?"
Ebony eyebrows curved even further, as green orbs dulled with pain and self-denial lifted upwards. She was kneeling before him, her leggings off and lying somewhere forgotten, the pale skin of her legs reminding him of cream. Her tunic was hanging from her shoulders, soft and shimmering in the firelight, barely long enough to cover her hips. And one of her hands was reaching out to him, palm upwards, offering to help.
"I'm sorry," he shook his head, trying to push himself to his feet, "I… I can't…"
"Oh, no, not again," she sprang to her feet before him, anticipating the run. She barely kept ahead of him as he started for the door, she running backwards, her one hand still out though now held as if to stop him. "You are NOT leaving. Not again. Something is wrong, Fenris. Something upset you just now, deeply, and I want to know what it is!"
He shook his head, too ashamed to give it voice, dropped his face and half turned away.
"Please, Fen," she breathed—she begged. "I hurt you just now, somehow, in these past few moments. And I don't know what it is that I did." Her words stopped suddenly, her own pain tinting the sounds. She stared, hard, at his profile, and though he wouldn't turn back to her, at least he didn't finish turning away. "I don't want to hurt you," she continued, finding her voice. "I may have wanted to, once, when I thought you hated me, but I don't any longer. I… I love you, Fen." She stepped towards him, taking his head in her hands, forcing him to face her. "I. Love. You. And I don't want to hurt you, but I am. So, please, Fen, talk to me. Tell me what I did or said that caused this to happen. Please. I don't want to do this to you anymore."
Oh, Merciful Maker, Fenris prayed, what a mess. She professed her love, her pain, her not wanting to hurt him. But telling her—admitting to her—would hurt him.
And not telling her, trying to live with a lie, would hurt them both.
"Did… did you have another one of those memory episodes? Did it come back again?" her voice was gentle against his ears.
"No… not exactly… I mean, yes… but it wasn't… I don't know…"
She felt a brief shudder of relief, not that he had told her anything of import, but at least he was trying to communicate. "I needed to ask because, well, what happened tonight, just now, I mean, we were, erm, engaged in a specific activity. And we had just finished the last time you acted like this. And two times in a row is a little too much of a coincidence." She swallowed, hating the idea, the concept, that somehow being with her broke through his amnesia. But in a painful way. In a way that left him broken and bleeding and…
His hands took hold of her wrists, not to pull her hands away from his face, but to keep her in contact with him. He closed his eyes, too, and pressed his forehead against hers. "I know but… it wasn't the sex… it was… something else… something wrong, somehow… I can't explain…"
She swallowed, coldness gripping her heart, "You mean," she licked her lips, wanting to understand but also afraid of the answer, "That us being together, in love, having sex, that's it's wrong somehow?"
He shook his head, rolling his forehead across hers, "I… Maker, I hope not!" He finally pulled back and looked her in the eyes. "There's nothing I want more in this world, than to love, and be loved, by you. I feel it so strongly… I would do anything… give anything… I love you so much…! But I… I can't…"
His words overflowed with pain to spill into her own heart, but the fog was beginning to clear. "I… I think I might have an idea." She watched the wan flicker of hope fill his eyes, lending a bit of life to the green orbs before it faded. "All this tonight," the pads of her thumbs stroked his skin, soothingly, tenderly, "And the other night, our lovemaking, how deeply you love me, how much you would do for me, the lengths you would go for me. That feeling, that love… that much love, it triggered something in you, something from your past, from the part you can't remember." She stood before him, fearless, the idea becoming more clear as she talked, working it through with her words. "Something about loving me, so deeply, so selflessly, it causes these episodes. That's what happened, am I right?"
"I…" he gave his head a little shake, but firmly kept her hands in place, "I… don't know…"
"I think I do," she didn't smile, but neither was her face neutral. It was open, encouraging, hopeful and determined. "Fenris, you were a slave. You belonged to Danarius. But Hadriana, when she mentioned your sister, she said your sister was a servant, not a slave. Your sister is free. What does that tell you? Is it common in Tevinter for one member of a family to be free while another is not? Especially if they're elven?"
"It's… uncommon," he allowed, "But possible. One can sell oneself into slavery to pay off a debt, or to provide for the rest of their family…"
"Maybe that was it," she eagerly seized on the option. "Maybe you hadn't always been a slave to Danarius, but sold yourself into his service to provide for your sister, because you loved her so much, you would do anything for her." She batted her bright green eyes at him, "Just as you love me so much, you would do anything for me. It's that love, this love, our love, that's reminding you of your past, of what you might have done for your sister."
"I… but that would mean…" He looked at her with the face of a child, of someone questioning who needed answers, and she did seem to have them. "What would that mean? Exactly?"
"I'm not sure," she continued, shrugging her shoulders, "I'm not sure at all what any of this means, if I'm close or way off the mark. But I do know, if there's something about our being… together… you know, that way… if it's hurting you, somehow, then…" she paused to lick her lips, knowing her next words were going to cause her pain—but not saying them would cause her, both of them, even more pain, "Then we won't do it."
"What?" his eyes blinked, but whether shocked or outraged or relieved she couldn't tell, not from the dull green curtain that hung across them. He gripped her hands even tighter, not that she had been pulling away, but her words sounded as if she would, "You want to… break up?"
"Fuck, no!" she stated, quite clearly she thought, and was rewarded to see relief flicker cross his face. "But maybe we shouldn't, well, you know, push matters. We can still live together, and be together, we just can't, um, go too far."
"I…" Maker, that would be a relief, to not feel the pressure to pleasure her, but… "We've only, really, done it the once, I would think you'd want, well, to try it some more…"
She gave a growl this time, one of frustration, and yanked her hands out of his grasp to shove at his shoulders. "What's that phrase of yours? Vishante kaffas? Yes, that's it." She shoved at him again, making him stumble back a step. "Vishante kaffas, Fenris," she shoved again, "If I wanted to have sex, I'd go down the street to the Blooming Rose and pay for it!
"But that's not what I want," her hands changed from shoving him to gripping him, pulling him closer. "I want you. I want our love. I want it to be open and free and because we—both of us—want it from each other. And if you can't give that to me right now, it's alright. I'd rather wait for years than force you to have sex with me; that's too much like rape, like what Danarius did to you. And I won't do that to you. We'll go so far, do as much, as you're comfortable with. The first sign that you're having trouble, we'll stop.
"And as for this amnesia of yours," she forced herself to continue, forced herself to speak with more confidence than she could muster, "Even though it's coming between us right now, it won't last. It's wearing thin. It's starting to break down. And once it does, once you get your memory back, then we will be free of it and can be together!"
He'd stayed silent before the force of her tirade, and in the brunt of her hope, he dared, "And just how do we get my memory back?"
She relaxed, sensing she may have finally gotten through that thick skull of his, "Easy. We just have to find your sister."
He blinked. "Come again?"
"Your sister," she repeated. "These episodes started after the mention of her, and occur every time you remember how deeply you love her, so undoubtedly this mess has something to do with her. At any rate, it's got to jog a few memories loose, if we find her and see her again, right? So, we focus on tracking down Varania, find her, meet her, get your memory back, and then we can move on with our lives."
"That easily?" he asked, skeptically.
"Well, not exactly," she had the decency to blush.
"Didn't think so," he sighed, feeling the disappointment.
"We can't go to Tevinter, or at least you can't, or you'd be arrested as a runaway slave. You have to admit, you're kind of unique. One look at you, and anyone who knows anything will know you're Danarius' runaway slave. No, we can't go to Varania, so we'll have to bring her to us. And you know what that means." She paused to look at him, but he only gave his head a little shake, prompting her to finish, "We're going to have to learn how to read and write."
He swallowed, thinking of the daunting task before them, "Kaffas…"
"Yeah, well, it wasn't a perfect plan…" she admitted. They both stood silent for a moment, chewing over their shared obstacle.
"I know," he snapped his fingers. "Hawke gave me that book written by Shartan, thinking I would find some relevance within it. When he discovered I couldn't read, he did offer to teach me."
She made a face, "I'd rather slit my own wrists, than ask him for help. How about Anders; he's been wanting to teach me for years."
Fenris' lip curled into a snarl, "I feel the same about him, as you do about Hawke."
She sighed, giving her lip a brief nip, "Well, there is one other person we could ask…"