Thank you all for your patience sticking with this story - and many thanks to Oleander's One for betaing!
Lucas led the others over to where Ser Emeric stood watching them. "I wondered how long it would take you to come see me," Emeric said without preamble.
"I've been a bit distracted."
"Qunari tend to do that," Anders put in.
"So I've heard. Meanwhile, other women have been abducted."
"Yes, the guard captain told me you're still chasing disappearing acts. Are you sure they haven't just left the city?" Lucas asked.
Emeric scowled. "That's not funny. I need your help urgently. My investigations into the disappearances of Ninette and Mharen and several other women have led me to a Hightown noble named Gascard duPuis."
"DuPuis? There's a name you couldn't make up if you tried."
"It's Orlesian."
"Well, that explains it."
Emeric's lifted eyebrow said he was still not amused. "When my investigations led me to duPuis, I contacted the city guard. They raided his mansion, but nothing was found, and I was reprimanded and forced to apologize. Meredith has forbidden me from continuing my investigation."
"Then why am I here?"
"Because she never told me I couldn't ask for outside help."
"That's me," Lucas said. "Everyone's last resort."
"I am desperate for your assistance, Serah Hawke. Laugh at me if you must, but help me while you do it."
"Very well. Tell me what you know about Gascard duPuis."
"He knew two of the murdered women and made inquiries about the others—I can't imagine that's a coincidence."
Lucas nodded. "It bears investigating, at least."
"Thank you." Emeric's face brightened. "Having heard nothing but ridicule for years now, it is encouraging to be treated with some gravity."
"How is it that you became the lead investigator in this matter?" Sebastian asked.
"I knew Mharen, and where the other Templars imagined just another escaped mage, I knew she wouldn't have run. After that, when I discovered other women missing …" Emeric shook his head. "I couldn't sit by and do nothing. The rest of my order, on the other hand, believes this a matter for the city guard—"
"Naturally," Anders muttered.
Emeric continued, "And the city guard seems to think it's not their problem, either."
Lucas sighed. Another matter caught in the tug of war between Knight-Commander Meredith and Viscount Dumar. How many lives could be saved if the two of them could only learn to work together? "And I'm supposed to be the outside help," he said. Too late he realized he had spoken the last thought aloud.
Narrowing his eyes, Emeric said, "What if one of the women who was killed was someone you loved? If Gascard duPuis is guilty, he must be stopped!"
Isabela's face was the first one to come to mind when Emeric asked his question. Lucas put that aside to wait for another time, and turned to glance at the actual woman, who had been remarkably quiet during the whole exchange. Her face was set and hard, and her eyes when they met his left no doubt as to her opinion.
Sebastian spoke it for her. "This is a worthy cause. If we can help, we should."
"I can't make any promises," Lucas said.
"Just find out what duPuis is hiding. If he is innocent, find evidence to prove me wrong, and I'll not bother you again."
Lucas nodded curtly, and he led the others away.
"You weren't very optimistic," Sebastian remarked as they walked away.
"Should I have made promises I don't know that I can keep? What if this duPuis runs before we can investigate him? What if we can find no proof of either guilt or innocence? I'm no miracle worker, Sebastian. Andraste was that, and look what happened to her."
"Do not compare yourself to Andraste!" Sebastian said, shocked.
"I'm not. That's just the point."
Sebastian shook his head, muttering something under his breath. Lucas was partly sorry he had shocked his friend, but partly not. Sebastian couldn't go around thinking everyone was holy and selfless and respectful—not if he was going to live in Kirkwall.
Anders and Sebastian both made rather awkward excuses to disappear shortly after the ferry docked, leaving Lucas and Isabela to walk together. His steps turned toward Hightown.
"Tired from all that talking?" she asked, grinning up at him.
"It's surprisingly harder work than fighting."
"No surprise there. Most things are harder than fighting."
"You're not much of a talker, are you, Isabela?"
"Can't say that I am. Better uses for a mouth any day."
Lucas chuckled. "You could have that written up and printed on cards as your motto."
"What about you, Hawke? You feel the need to talk, talk, talk right about now?"
"How could you tell?"
"Because we've been sleeping together for a while and you're not the kind of guy who can do that forever without slapping a name on it."
He nodded, appreciating her directness. "I take it you don't feel the need for any slapping?"
Isabela laughed throatily, causing heads to turn in her direction. She walked on confident in the attention, enjoying it. "Slapping in the right context can be entertaining. But when it comes to putting names on things … that's rarely entertaining. It usually just makes people unhappy when other people can't live up to what they think the name means they should do."
Frowning, Lucas tried to parse his way through the sentence. "You think I'll have expectations."
"Mm-hm. I know you will."
He waited for her to elaborate or comment on his presupposed expectations, but she continued walking, not looking at him. "So … um … how do you feel about that?" She turned her head slightly, raising an eyebrow, and he sighed. "You think we should break things off."
"Got it in one, skipper."
"What happened to my being a tiger in the sack?"
Isabela chuckled. "Well, you are that, and you promise to get better with practice, but it's not worth all the whines and the wherefores."
"I do not whine," he said, affronted, "and I certainly do not wherefore."
"Maybe not now. But you will. They always do."
"How do you know? You break things off long before this stage with most men."
"That's true. And women, for that matter. I just know—I know you, Hawke. You're not the tumbling type."
"Is there any way I can change your mind?" He hadn't expected this. He'd been going along on a bright sunny day, and out of nowhere there was a lightning storm striking in his most vulnerable place—his heart. It surprised him how unhappy he was about her decision, but he supposed it shouldn't have. He had grown to feel more and more toward her recently as they spent more time together, and to be more eager to be around her. He supposed he should have known she would have become uncomfortable with the progress, but he'd been busy enjoying himself, not to mention dealing with everyone in Kirkwall's little issues, and hadn't been prepared for this.
"Ah, Hawke," she said, looking as though she knew exactly what was going through his mind. "I'll miss you."
"Wait, are you leaving entirely? Did you get a ship?" he asked, alarmed.
"No. Just … getting bored of this."
No Isabela at his side? No Isabela appearing like a vision from the darkness to stab their enemies with her daggers? No Isabela making lewd comments and laughing that deep, beautiful laugh of hers?
Lucas searched frantically for some enticement to keep her as part of the team. "At least … at least stay through tonight. I'm going after this Gascard—you never know what you might pick up in his house," he said, knowing Isabela's piratical love of plunder. "And before that Varric and I are going to Bartrand's house." He caught Isabela's hand in his. He knew he didn't want to face down the man he saw as his sister's killer without her with him; the reasons for that were something he could worry about later. "Come help me with that. For Bethany. She didn't deserve what he did to her."
Isabela's hand closed around his fingers. "Yeah. Bastard has it coming all right." She had always been fond of Bethany. Then she pulled her hand away, and something in her seemed to close off. "Fine. I'll meet you at the DuPuis house later tonight."
He watched her disappear into the crowds, feeling suddenly very alone.
That feeling didn't alter as he came into his house, finding his mother just preparing to go out. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes shining, and she looked younger than he remembered her seeming in quite some time.
"Where are you off to looking so nice?" he asked, bending down to kiss her cheek.
"Oh, just meeting a friend for dinner, darling. I didn't expect you home so early, or I might have suggested …" She trailed off, biting her lip. "But perhaps not yet."
Ah, Lucas thought. So it was that kind of friend. "Well, have a lovely evening, Mother."
She gave him another smile and hurried out. Lucas twitched aside a curtain, watching her as she crossed the courtyard. He couldn't see any sign of anyone following her, and made a mental note to ask Varric if he still had men keeping an eye on her … or if that was only in Lowtown. She deserved to meet someone nice, he thought, turning away from the window and resolutely keeping his thoughts from wandering in Isabela's direction.
In his effort to distract himself, he turned to his gear, gathering up everything he would need for both of the night's missions, forgetting all about his mother and her date. He had all his things together when the sun was still high in the sky; too early to go break into Gaspard duPuis' mansion or to go looking for Bartrand. Staying home, alone with his thoughts, wasn't an exciting option … and he might have gone to the Hanged Man, but he didn't want to run into Isabela, not right now.
He shouldered his gear, leaving the house without bothering to tell Bodahn where he was going. A brisk walk took him across Hightown to the crumbling mansion where Fenris lived, and he let himself in, taking pleasure in the crunch of debris under his boots as he crossed the foyer.
"Hawke?" The familiar voice echoed through the empty mansion. "Is that you?"
"Who else?"
"Perhaps I have nightly visitors you are unaware of." Fenris's voice held a touch of his usual dry humor.
"In heavy armor?"
There was a silence as Lucas made his way up the stairs. "It was just a suggestion."
"Would you like to have nightly visitors?" Lucas asked, pausing in the doorway. Fenris was just … Fenris. He had never really thought of him having emotions, or needing a lover. More and more, Lucas was coming to think maybe he hadn't looked closely enough at any of his friends, or before them his family, and that they all held depths he was unaware of.
Fenris laughed bitterly, draining the glass in his hand to the dregs. "Whatever type of visitor would come here is probably not the type I would welcome."
"You're still waiting for Danarius."
"I am. I shall be, until he comes. Which he will," Fenris said fiercely, his green eyes meeting Lucas's as though Lucas might have challenged the statement. "This gap in years is puzzling, but as soon as I relax—" He swallowed visibly. "There he will be."
There was nothing to be said to that. Even if Fenris was wrong, which Lucas didn't believe he was, there was no convincing him otherwise. They looked at each other quietly for a moment, before Fenris reached over the side of his chair and picked up a bottle.
"It's the last bottle of the Agreggio," he said. "I've been saving it for a special occasion."
"And Thursday qualifies?" Lucas raised his eyebrows.
"Ah, not just any Thursday. This Thursday." At Lucas's puzzled frown, Fenris nodded. "It's the anniversary of my escape." He smiled, but without humor. "Astia valla femundis." Before Lucas could ask what that was supposed to mean, Fenris gestured with the bottle to the other chair. "Care to hear the story?"
The sound of the wine pouring into the proffered glass was loud in the quiet room. Lucas took the chair and the glass, cautiously saying, "I thought you avoided talking about this."
"Not on special occasions." That bitter smile was still on Fenris's face as he stared down into his own now refilled glass.
"In that case, then, yes. I'd like that." Lucas had always wondered how Fenris managed to escape someone as powerful and motivated to hold on to him as Danarius.
There was silence for a long moment, and Lucas promised himself that if Fenris wasn't ready to speak, he wouldn't ask. At last, the elf took a fortifying swallow of the wine, clearing his throat before he spoke. "No doubt you are familiar with the endless battles the Imperium and the Qunari have fought over Seheron."
Lucas nodded. It was a history lesson he hadn't paid much attention to at the time, but he'd brushed up on everything he could about the Qunari in recent years.
Fenris went on, "I was on Seheron with Danarius during a Qunari attack. He found a ship that was leaving for the mainland, but there was only room for one aboard—not all his power could manage to convince the captain to take me on." He flexed his arm, watching the play of the firelight along the lyrium. "I imagine the forbidding nature of my appearance, which Danarius had cultivated, worked against him in this instance. The captain did not seem eager to have someone who looked like me aboard his ship." He snorted a short laugh. "I was left behind; I barely escaped the city with my life."
"I'm surprised Danarius didn't stay behind with you, in that case."
"He was given no choice." This time there was a genuine, if grim, mirth in his laugh. "The look on his face as the ship drew away from the docks was priceless." He drank deeply, savoring the memory.
"So you escaped the city. What next?"
"I was found by a group of rebels—they were called Fog Warriors. Bands of them roam the jungles around Seheron. They took me in, and I stayed with them for some time. Until—Until Danarius found me." His fist clenched.
"And he took you back."
"In a manner of speaking, yes. He ordered me to go with him." Fenris's face twisted. "I had grown fond of the rebels—their way of life was beyond my experience. They answered to no master, and when Danarius came, they refused to let him take me. He …" He took a deep swallow of the wine, and went on, his voice thickening. "He ordered me to kill them. So I did. I killed them all."
The abject misery in Fenris's voice said more than his words how the incident had affected him, and Lucas wanted to reach out and touch his friend, reassure him, but he knew how Fenris would react to anything that felt like the barest hint of pity, so he kept silent and still, waiting as Fenris got hold of himself.
"I was with them only a few months," Fenris said softly, almost as if he were talking to himself. "But in that brief time, I felt as if I truly lived. They were bold. Strong. Free with their affections. I was in awe of them, and I owed them everything. And I turned on them even so."
"Once a slave, always a slave?" Lucas asked.
Fenris nodded. "It felt inevitable. My master had returned, and this … this fantasy life was over. When I looked down at their bodies, I felt—" He stopped, his voice shaking. "I couldn't—" Visibly fighting tears, he said, "I ran. And never looked back."
"Didn't Danarius stop you?"
"The rebels had wounded him." Fenris's voice was so low Lucas had to lean toward him to hear properly. "He sent soldiers to capture me. They failed." The tone of his voice made it clear that they failed by dying at his hand; Lucas could picture his friend taking them all on, his body glowing with power. "It was weeks before Danarius was able to mount the hunt in earnest, and by then I was long gone."
"But you didn't stay in Seheron. You could have found another band of Fog Warriors, become a rebel."
Fenris gave him a withering look. "And when I told them what I had done to the first group to take me in, what would they have done then? No. At any rate, I felt unworthy. Also, I did not know at that time if I could truly escape Danarius—if I had joined another band and he had found me again …" He made a gesture of helplessness.
"I see."
Taking another fortifying gulp of the wine, Fenris savored it for a moment, the torment in his face easing for a moment as he looked thoughtfully at the fire. "I had no idea what escape meant; not then. The idea that I had a choice as to where I could go and what I could do never entered my mind. My only thought was to get as far from Danarius as I could—I stowed aboard a ship for the mainland, and moved south as soon as it docked. Chased by my former master every step of the way."
"I have to wonder why you didn't try to escape sooner." The ferocity of Fenris's independence was so far from Lucas's conception of what a slave must be like that it was hard for him to imagine the elf ever acting a subservient part.
"You have not been a slave," Fenris pointed out. "A slave does not dream of freedom; he thinks only of his master's wishes and what the next hour will bring. It did not occur to me that I could be anything else until I had a taste of it; really, not until I met you."
Lucas had never considered himself a paragon of freedom, but he supposed compared to Fenris's past he was. "You hear stories of slaves rebelling all the time," he said. "They did in Kirkwall. Why do they do that if they think of nothing but their masters' will?"
"Perhaps I overgeneralize from my own experience. I knew nothing other than the life of a slave." Fenris paused, looking down at his arms. "You see … the ritual that gave me these markings also stripped me of my memory, whether as an integral part of the ritual or merely a fortunate happenstance, I have never known. Danarius certainly enjoyed reminding me of my loss whenever an opportune moment arose." He held out his arms toward Lucas. "Whatever I was before these may as well have never been. Perhaps … perhaps if I had known who I was all the time, I may have felt differently about escaping. As it is, I still feel that I struggle every day with the question of who I am. Who I was, that identity is lost to me for all time. But who I am to become? That answer eludes me."
"Me, too. I know who my mother thinks I should be, who Aveline thinks I should be, who my father wanted me to be, who the Viscount expects me to be, who the Arishok thinks I should be … but who I want to be? A total mystery." Lucas drank deeply from his own glass, which he had almost forgotten he was holding.
"Then I am in august company." Fenris leaned forward, looking Lucas in the eye. "I have never spoken about this to anyone. Never wanted. Perhaps this is what it means to have a friend."
Lucas smiled. He thought about how many people he spent time with, and how few were truly his friends. Fenris asked for nothing, and offered companionship on the brightest days, the darkest nights, and in the midst of the bloodiest battles. "Yes," he said. "Perhaps it is."
Fenris lifted his glass. "To you, Hawke. May I fight at your side for years to come."
With a chuckle, Lucas said, "Perish the thought. Let's say instead, 'may we share wine together for years to come.' Some day, it would be nice to stop fighting."
"Yes. Wouldn't it, though." They drank deeply.
