For anyone who might be curious, Fenris's backstory, "Challenger", referenced in this chapter, can be found on my profile. For the purposes of this story, Alistair and the Warden are from my Fate series (with a slightly tweaked timeline). None of those are necessary to read in order to follow this chapter, however.
Fenris swung his feet to the floor and walked across the room to the washstand. The cloth on the left was slightly damp and hung askew—Evelyn had already dressed and gone downstairs, it seemed. He took the cloth on the right, his cloth, wet it, and began giving himself a sponge bath. Six months ago, his most optimistic fantasies would have fallen short of this level of easy domesticity. It still felt strange, the idea that a woman as beautiful and intelligent and capable as Evelyn could be happy being with him.
After he brushed his teeth, he hung his toothbrush up on pegs provided for it. He, Fenris, kept a toothbrush in the Champion of Kirkwall's bedroom. Fenris was bemused by his own happiness. He had never considered such a thing a true possibility until suddenly, there it was in his lap. Literally. He smiled, remembering last night. She had been greedy and demanding and utterly magnificent; he was the luckiest of lucky men.
The evidence of their passion was strewn all over the room. Neither of them had been particularly interested in folding their clothes once they'd taken them off. After years of living in squalor, Fenris had discovered he had a bit of a neat streak, especially in Hawke's home. He bent, picking up their clothes, putting his own on, sorting most of hers into the laundry. Her pajamas lay on the floor at the foot of the bed; no point leaving those out, he thought, feeling himself stir with anticipation. He certainly had no intention of her wearing them to bed tonight. Picking them up, he folded them and opened the drawer she kept them in.
As he placed the clothing in the drawer, something crackled. He shifted things aside, wondering if something had been in the pocket of her pajama top that he should remove. His fingers brushed against a piece of paper, and he drew it out, glancing at it to see if it was something necessary.
Fenris took a step back, staring at the letter he held. He knew that writing, the over-careful, slightly wobbly printing. Why did Hawke have a letter from his sister in her pajama drawer?
Shoving the drawer closed with his foot, he sat down on the bed, unfolding the letter.
Serah Hawke,
I do not know your relationship to Leto, but I think it is my duty to warn you about him. Leto has a long history of dallying with women and left a trail of broken hearts behind him when he chose to abandon his family and enter Magister Danarius's competition. One in particular, a young woman named Meria, entrusted him with her maidenhead. He immediately forgot all about her in his position as high and mighty bodyguard to the Magister, as he forgot everyone who had helped to place him there. But Meria has not forgotten him. When I informed her that Leto is now a runaway who murdered his master and won his 'freedom', she begged that I would write and remind him of what they once meant to each other. She says that she still loves him.
As Leto made it plain that he never wants to hear from me again, I write to you instead, and I add my caution to you, as I have cautioned her, that Leto is first and foremost interested in himself, and has no interest in others beyond what they can do for him. Take care, Serah.
Your humble servant,
Varania Satria
He reread the letter, his hands trembling. Was this what his family had thought of him? The family he had dreamed of and longed for all those years thought of him as an arrogant and self-centered heart-breaker? And had he left women behind who pined for him? Meria … He closed his eyes and reached into the darkness at the back of his mind. Occasionally, now, he could grasp and hold onto a glimpse of his past, but here there was just a flash of curly blonde hair. Nothing more. He was disappointed—surely, if the woman cared enough about him to still be interested after all this time, shouldn't he be able to remember her?
And what of Hawke? Why had she kept this from him, hidden it away where he would be unlikely to see it? By the date at the top, the letter must have arrived in Kirkwall several days ago, and Hawke had clearly read it. More than once, to judge from the creases in the paper. Did she believe this of him? Did she despise him for what he had done in his past? For what purpose had she concealed this information?
He felt a sinking feeling, a lack of trust where a moment ago his trust had been endless, and he found himself profoundly disappointed in Hawke for having hidden this from him.
The doorknob turned, and he hastily crumpled the letter, shoving it into the pouch at his belt.
"Rise and shine!" she said cheerily, poking her head in the door. "Oh. You're awake. I was hoping you'd still be asleep and I'd get to wake you up." She grinned at him.
"No doubt you were," he said. "I am sorry to have exceeded your expectations."
She frowned. "Not exceeded, exactly," she said. "It just would have been more fun my way. At any rate, I think it's better you're up. We'd have been late for our appointment otherwise, and it's best not to keep the King waiting."
Of course. They were expected to meet with the King of Ferelden today. The King who, by all accounts, was handsome, charming, and, oh yes, a hero of the Blight. "By all means, let us avoid inconveniencing the King," he said, his tone of voice saying the exact opposite.
"Maybe you should let me do the talking. Or Varric. You don't seem at your best today," Hawke said. He could feel her eyes on him as he brushed past her without a kiss or a touch, and he squared his shoulders, too annoyed and upset to care.
Varric joined them for a quick breakfast, the dwarf's eyes darting between the two of them. Fenris smarted under the scrutiny. Who did Varric think he was, always watching everyone, passing judgment on other people when he had no life of his own? Fenris's irritation mounted under the easy banter between Hawke and her friend. They were to meet Aveline at the Keep, so Fenris walked behind the others, listening to their ongoing conversation.
As they walked up the steps toward the keep, Varric volunteered to be Hawke's mabari, since no self-respecting Fereldan would greet her king without one. Hawke smiled at her friend and said, "I love you, Varric." The dwarf hemmed and hawed and would have blushed were he capable of such a thing, and Fenris felt a stab of bitterness and jealousy that was nearly a physical pain. She never said those words to him. Sometimes she would use them casually—"Much as I love you," or "Love you though I do"—but she had never looked at him the way she looked at the dwarf and said "I love you, Fenris." He admitted, he had never said them to her, but he couldn't. Every time he imagined doing so, he remembered Danarius forcing the confession from him. Pushing that word past his closed throat seemed like a physical impossibility. But Hawke had no such shaming memory to stop her, and yet still she didn't say it.
It was beneath him to doubt her. He knew it was, in some dimly heard rational part of his mind. But darkness was closing in on him, darkness that was almost welcoming in its familiarity, and he hadn't the strength of will to fight it. Not today. Not with his sister's hateful words burning against his hip.
He followed the others up the steps of the Keep to where Aveline waited, the normally stoic Guard Captain fidgeting with her scarf, polishing bits of her already-shining armor, tapping her foot impatiently as she watched them climbing the steps. "Hurry up! He's the King of Ferelden, he has more important things to do than wait for the two of you. Three of you," she amended, seeing Fenris several steps behind the others. "Sorry, Fenris, didn't see you there."
Of course she hadn't. Fenris scowled.
Aveline met his scowl with her own, putting her face very close to his. "Listen here. I don't know what burr is stuck under your hide today and I don't care. I have waited almost ten years to meet the King of Ferelden, and if you ruin this for me I am marching right into the Seneschal's office and telling him you're squatting in a Hightown mansion and have been for years. Am I clear?"
"Perfectly." He schooled his features into the mask he used to wear in Danarius's presence. "Better?" Fenris was all the more irritated that she seemed unaware that he was deliberately acting like a slave.
There was a whispered conversation between Aveline and Hawke as they proceeded up the stairs that Fenris could hear perfectly clearly—"What's his problem?" "I don't know; he's been like this since he woke up." "Something you didn't do last night?" "Shut up or I'll sic Isabela on you." "Say no more."
They reached the upper-floor apartment King Alistair was staying in during his visit to Kirkwall, and Aveline announced herself to the guardsman standing at attention outside.
"Yes, ser, Captain Aveline." Donnic grinned at his wife. "It's a good thing you announced yourself; I might have had trouble recognizing you."
"Don't be facetious, Guardsman. It's unseemly."
"Yes, Captain." He went inside, announcing their arrival.
A broadly Fereldan voice called out, "Please, Donnic, show them in."
Fenris followed the others, standing near the door and hoping to be dismissed as a simple servant. Usually he would have taken offense at such a thing, but today it was preferable to enduring the scrutiny of this strange king.
As if to make Fenris's day even worse, the King was big. Very big. Tall, blond, and good-looking in an exceedingly masculine way. In other words, very much Hawke's usual physical type. Fenris had spent years despairing of his own lean frame and comparative shortness after watching the kind of men who took Hawke's eye. He remembered that the King of Ferelden was currently unmarried. Engaged, yes, to marry the Hero of Ferelden, but engaged, even to a woman he had apparently loved for a decade, wasn't the same as married. Fenris crossed his arms, feeling the scowl etch itself on his features afresh.
The King came forward, looking completely unregal in a pair of breeches and a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. "Let me guess, the Champion of Kirkwall."
"I am Evelyn Hawke, Your Majesty." She went down on one knee before him, Aveline next to her.
"Please, call me Alistair," he said, reaching out his hands and gesturing for the women to get up. "After all, if I understand correctly, you and I could have met in Lothering under far different circumstances." He grinned at Aveline. "You must be Guard Captain Aveline. Donnic has told me about you in many glowing terms while he's been escorting me around the city. I see he didn't exaggerate. Nor did the stories about you, Serah Hawke."
"Evelyn, please." She smiled up at the king.
Evelyn? Just like that? None of them called her by her given name. That was Fenris's special privilege, something he hugged close to himself, and here she was just giving it away to this big oaf?
'Call me Alistair' looked past Hawke to her companions. "You have to be Varric. A pleasure. And you must be Fenris."
"Yes. Apparently I must." Reluctantly, he took the proffered hand, shaking it as briefly as he could. "You are most well informed."
The grin widened, if anything, completely undimmed by Fenris's abruptness. "Nathaniel. He's a sourpuss, but somehow Thora can get him talking." His face softened as he mentioned the Hero, and Fenris felt a sudden kinship with the man. It would have been nice to have liked this boyish king, he thought, and felt an additional, and completely irrational, stab of resentment that he couldn't. Alistair looked at Hawke. "Apparently you're … acquainted with an old friend of hers."
"Yes. She has reason to be concerned," Hawke said.
"That bad?" The grin fell away from his face. "Please, come sit down. This gets into the topic I wanted to discuss with you." He led them to his seating area. "Knight Commander Meredith is displeased that I won't ship Fereldan citizens back to her just because she claims they're apostates." He sighed. "I can't buck the Chantry, but I won't have my people imprisoned in Kirkwall."
"With all due respect, Your Ma—uh, Alistair," Aveline said, "most of the Fereldans in Kirkwall would look on imprisonment as a step up."
He winced. "I know it. I wish I had been able to bring them home a long time ago. Now I think many of our best and brightest here in Kirkwall don't want to return." His gaze swept over Hawke and Aveline with regret, and Fenris bristled anew.
Hawke smiled, letting the comment pass. "I think Alistair's right, though. It's Knight-Commander Meredith and the mage situation that should concern us."
"What can the nobility of Kirkwall do about putting a new Viscount on the throne here? I am surprised that Meredith's rule has been tolerated here this long." Alistair leaned forward.
"She's too smart to bite the nobles," Varric said. "If it doesn't itch, they won't feel the need to scratch it."
Fenris kept his jaw firmly clenched, knowing all too well that his particular views on mages, Fereldan or otherwise, would not be appreciated in this setting. He heard footsteps coming up the stairs toward the guest apartment, and then a whispered conversation from the hallway. Moving closer to the door, he recognized the voices as those of Donnic and Hubert, who co-owned the Bone Pit mines with Hawke. Hubert had complained about the mines several times over the years, but this was the first time he had voluntarily come searching for Hawke. Usually, he preferred to send her a message and let her come to him. Fenris glanced over his shoulder at the others, who were deep in conversation, and quietly let himself out of the apartment. "Is something amiss?"
Hubert's nose wrinkled with disdain at being asked to converse with an elf. Fenris waited deliberately for the other man to speak. At last, Hubert threw his hands up in the air. "It is that accursed mine again! A cart rolled in bearing the bodies of dead miners. The only one alive was the horse who pulled the cart. All the mages in Kirkwall, and none of them can speak to a horse!"
"And this was enough to send you here to disturb Serah Hawke in an audience with the King of Ferelden?" The censure was plain in Donnic's voice.
"Someone said they saw …" Hubert looked around at the nearly empty hallway, then leaned forward, lowering his voice. "A dragon!"
Donnic looked to Fenris, who said, "Dragons have infested those mines for years. Very small dragons."
"Not this one! This is a huge dragon, enormous!" Hubert's voice was rising.
A high dragon, if such a thing truly haunted the Bone Pit, was a serious problem for the city. "Hawke will want to know about this," Fenris said.
"The King may be interested, as well, since most of the workers are Fereldan refugees," Donnic pointed out.
The two of them went inside the suite, Hubert on their heels. "Hawke," Fenris said, cutting through the conversation.
Seeing Hubert, she stood up. "Excuse me, Alistair. This is my business partner, Hubert."
"Oh, pardon me," Hubert said, more flustered than Fenris had ever seen him. "Your Majesty."
"Serah." Alistair had gotten to his feet as well, and nodded to acknowledge Hubert's bow.
"I'm a little busy," Hawke said.
"Hawke, you must come. The Bone Pit—"
"Again?"
"What in the Maker's name is the Bone Pit?" Alistair asked.
"It's a mine."
"Formerly worked by slaves, whose bones were left there to rot. Hence the name," Fenris put in.
Hawke said, "Currently, we employ mostly Fereldan refugees."
"If by employ, you mean pay half as much for twice the work you'd get out of a Kirkwaller," Aveline said.
Without looking at Hubert, Hawke said, "I try to mitigate some of that, but …" She winced.
"I see. Maybe I'll come with you, then, see the conditions my former countrymen are working in for myself." The easy friendliness was gone, replaced by a harder, admittedly more regal, look.
"But Your Majesty, you cannot!" Hubert gasped. "They tell me a dragon has been seen in the area."
"A dragon?" The King's eyes brightened, while Hawke and Aveline looked dismayed.
"Your Majesty—Alistair—you mustn't accompany us," Aveline said. "We can't be responsible for the King of Ferelden's safety if there's really a dragon."
"You won't be responsible," he said. "And it can't hurt to look. We'll come back for reinforcements if we find anything. Besides, I've fought dragons before. Have any of you?"
"Only small ones," Hawke said. "I met a dragon once."
"Met a dragon? You wouldn't by any chance mean Flemeth, would you?"
"Yes. Do you know her?"
A strange mixture of emotions crossed his face. "You could say so."
"I hate to break up this discussion of mutual friends," Varric said, "but Bianca's getting hungry for some dragon meat." He patted the crossbow lovingly. "If you're coming with us, I might suggest something more flame-resistant." He nodded at Alistair's comfortable clothes.
"Right. On it." The King disappeared into his bedroom, from which the sounds of armor hastily being donned immediately issued forth. While Varric inspected Bianca, and Aveline and Donnic argued in whispers over whether they could allow the King to go along and whether Donnic should accompany them, too, Hawke moved closer to Fenris.
"Are you all right?"
"Do I seem 'all right'?"
"No. But I can't figure out what's happened since last night."
"This is certainly not the time for me to enlighten you." He pushed past her. Perhaps she didn't deserve it, but he could still feel that letter weighing down his belt pouch, still feel the sting that came from her concealment of it. Whatever her purpose had been in hiding a piece of his past from him, he had it now, and the part of his mind that wasn't angry with Evelyn pored over the faint image of Meria uncontrollably. The dimly recalled face had laughing blue eyes now, and a turned-up little nose to go with the curly blonde hair. He wanted to be able to visualize her, wanted to know how this woman had made him feel. Had he truly cared for her?
"Ready." The King appeared, fully armored, looking every inch the warrior. It was easy to believe he had fought an Archdemon and lived. Fenris was suddenly very curious what the Hero of Ferelden must be like. His experience with dwarves was mostly limited to Varric—he wondered if this Aeducan woman was similar. He couldn't quite picture Varric facing down an Archdemon, but he was certain that if Hawke asked him to, the dwarf would make the attempt.
"Your Majesty, I must protest. Surely you have guards, retainers—it seems unsafe to have you wandering about Kirkwall like this," Aveline said.
"Like what? Accompanied by the Guard Captain and the Champion of Kirkwall?" Alistair laughed. "A King who hides behind large retinues of armed men doesn't get to see much of the real world. It's too easy to lose touch that way."
Aveline looked as though she was about to argue with Alistair, but it seemed obvious it would be wasted breath. With a resigned sigh, but a sparkle in her eyes at the thought of seeing a dragon, she signaled her husband to join them. Hubert, as always, let the rest of them go face the potential danger and headed toward his shop in the Hightown market.
Aveline and Donnic led the way. Varric and Hawke flanked Alistair, and Fenris followed behind.
"Evelyn, you have to tell me how you met Flemeth," the King said, moving easily in his armor.
"Are you sure you want me to tell it? Varric's version is much more interesting."
"I can imagine that. Let's try yours first and then see how his stacks up."
"All right, but only if you tell me how you met her, as well."
"Deal."
Hawke launched into the story, carrying on a merry conversation with the big, handsome King of Ferelden. They made a good-looking pair, laughing and chatting like old friends, Fenris thought gloomily.
No one was laughing when they reached the Bone Pit, however. Bodies—or parts of bodies—were strewn everywhere, as though a giant child had thrown her dolls around in a tantrum. And above it all, the heavy beat of wings and the booming blast of the dragon's roar.
The dragon wheeled above them, crying out in derision. Fenris could feel the heat of its breath and the wind from its wings. It flew down into the quarry.
"That's the best place to fight it," Hawke said. "We can't wait for reinforcements. Varric, can Bianca shoot that far?" She motioned to the edge of the cliff surrounding the quarry, clearly hoping to keep the unarmored dwarf out of the line of fire.
"She's not quite up to that, I think, Hawke. Don't worry about me—I know when to stay back. Flames aren't good for this fabric." He brushed imaginary dust off the lapel of his coat.
"Let's move, then, before the dragon does." Hawke stopped in midstride, looking at Alistair. "I'm sorry, Your Majesty, would you rather ...?"
"No, no, I'm used to following women in battle. I wish Thora were here—it'd be interesting to see the two of you fight side-by-side." The look he gave Hawke was admiring, and Fenris found his fists clenching of their own volition. He looked forward to working out some of this aggression on the dragon.
Hawke led the way, sliding her blade from its scabbard. "We need to cripple it, first, before we can try to kill it. Wings, legs. Varric, eyes, if you can." There were nods and murmurs of assent, and Hawke ran forward toward the dragon, which had landed on an open section of sand. The air was full of flame, heated by the great gouts of fire that flew from the dragon's open mouth.
Fenris dodged a fireball and followed Hawke, circling around behind the dragon as Donnic, Aveline, and Alistair attacked from the front, shields held up to protect themselves, however inadequately, from the dragon's flaming breath. The giant wings beat the air. Aveline was blown back by the rush of wind the wing sent forth. She limped slightly as she got to her feet and returned to the fray.
Quarrels shot through the air, several of them sticking in the dragon's snout, irritating it enough to slow the buffeting motions of its wings. Fenris and Hawke took the chance to get closer to the wings, slashing at them. Hawke managed to make a giant tear through the membranes.
The dragon screamed in rage and pain, turning its head to blast Hawke with its breath. She ducked, rolling under the wing, which flapped at her, much of its mighty power gone. The three swordsmen in front shouted, attacking the dragon's chest and legs, to draw its attention back to them. It screamed, lashing out with a clawed front leg. Donnic threw himself in front of Alistair. The claw caught him a glancing blow along the side, knocking him to the ground. The King helped Donnic up, both of them advancing together. Fenris felt the lyrium leap to life along his skin and an idea struck him. He dropped his sword to the ground, climbing onto the dragon's tail. The spikes in his gauntlets helped him maintain his grip as he worked his way up toward the dragon's back.
Fenris gripped with his knees, grateful for the flexibility of his unusual armor, hitching himself up bit by bit, focusing on clinging to the smooth black hide and on moving that next little bit further up.
The dragon seemed to realize something was amiss, and it craned its neck, sharp teeth nipping along its own skin looking for the irritant on its back. Fenris shrank away from the gleaming teeth, revolted by the dragon's foul breath. There was a way yet to go, and he had little idea how the fighters on the ground were doing. The dragon twisted back, shrieking, its torn wing hanging uselessly. Above its cries, he could hear Hawke calling his name, but he couldn't distinguish the rest of her words, or her tone.
He was on the neck now. There was no chance it could reach him with its teeth, but he could easily be sent flying by the jerky movements of the head if he lost his grip. The good wing moved restlessly, trying to brush him off. He held his grip with determination. Dimly he heard the shouts of those fighting on the ground, and a crossbow bolt embedded itself in the dragon's neck just above where he clung. He grasped it, using it to pull himself up even further. Just a few more movements until he could reach his objective.
The dragon's screams of anger and pain vibrated under his hands as he drew closer to its head. He took a deep breath, taking a better grip with his legs as the dragon flung its head about. Adrenaline pumped through his body, exhilarating him. Life-or-death though the moment was, there was a thrill in feeling such a powerful creature beneath him, helpless to defend itself from his powers. Fenris felt the cool blue energy of the lyrium all along his skin. Visualizing the dragon's brain, he thrust his hand through its skull, reaching for the lumpy grey mass. He closed his hand around the brain and yanked, pulling it through and holding it aloft with a cry of triumph.
The head fell to the ground, and Fenris rode it down, leaping off as it landed.
Aveline sat heavily down on the sand, breathing hard. Donnic bent over her, casting a grin at Fenris. "Show-off."
Alistair came up from his side, wiping his sweaty face with a cloth. "Impressive."
A quick glance accompanied by a muttered "thanks" served to let him know that none of the injuries were serious; Aveline seemed to have twisted an ankle and Donnic had a fair-size burn, but both were already applying health poultices to their wounds. Varric came up from the back, looking unruffled.
"Had to make it look easy, didn't you, elf?"
"We cannot all get by merely on an overabundance of chest hair," Fenris said, pushing past the dwarf and looking for Evelyn. Her sword lay near the remnants of a stone wall; Fenris rounded the corner and found her leaning against what had once been the interior of a building. Her head was tilted back, her eyes closed. "Hawke?"
"You!" She opened her eyes. "You damned stubborn elf! I said cripple it, not nearly kill yourself with some kind of macho heroics!"
Her anger fueled the emotions pumping through him, adding to the exhilaration of killing the dragon. He felt a surge of adrenaline that expunged any remnants of rational thought. Without a word, he pinned her against the wall, his lips finding hers with crushing force.
Evelyn gave a squeak of surprise before her mouth opened for him, her teeth closing on his lower lip until he tasted blood. Her strong hands gripped his hips.
He tore his mouth away from hers, pushing her head to the side and biting her neck, hard enough to mark her. His hips twisted from side to side, rubbing himself against her through the thick padded pants she wore.
"Maker, yes!" She wrapped a leg around his thighs, pulling him closer.
Fenris needed no further encouragement. He reached between them, yanking down the pants and her smallclothes with them, his fingers pressing into her. They sank inside easily, her body already wet and ready for him. He thrust with his fingers, not taking the time to be gentle. She moaned, moving with him.
Evelyn pulled his leggings down, freeing him, and Fenris replaced his fingers with his length. They bucked urgently against each other, excitement surging through them, their breath coming hard and fast. He caught her chin with one hand, bringing her mouth to his and kissing her savagely, his tongue thrusting in time with the frenzied rhythm of their bodies.
He felt her clench around him, and his hips jerked against her, the tension leaving him. He leaned his head against her shoulder, feeling her arms around him, her fingers stroking his sweaty hair.
She said, "When I saw you up there, riding that dragon, I thought—I was afraid—"
The momentary respite from his anger was over; he felt it boiling in his veins all over again. Fenris pushed himself away from her, righting his leggings. "You did not trust me. Again."
"Again? When did I ever not trust you?" Her blue eyes, so soft a moment ago, hardened with hurt and confusion. She hastily pulled her clothes back into position.
Fenris reached into the pouch at his hip and withdrew the letter, shaking it at her. "Were you ever going to inform me about this piece of correspondence? My sister writes to you with information about my past and you keep it hidden from me?"
Her skin turned pale. "It isn't that I didn't trust you. I just—"
"What did you 'just'? Do you simply not care for me enough to consider that I might wish to be told of this?" Some part of him was cringing at his own hateful and unreasonable words, shocked that he was deliberately causing the pain he saw in her eyes. He drew his indignation and his own hurt close around him, hiding in it, telling himself that she deserved it.
"Not care for you enough? Fenris, I lo—I care for you very deeply."
But he caught the half-said word, and he pounced on it. "Not enough to avow it, apparently. You are free enough with that word with Varric, even with Aveline, but not with me. It seems I am nothing more than a dalliance to you."
Her hand came out of nowhere, cracking across his cheek and slamming his head painfully to the side. She spoke in the cold, measured tones she only used when she was very, very angry. "Did it never occur to you to ask? I don't say that word to you because I don't want you to feel uncomfortable about saying it back to me. I know what Danarius did must make that difficult for you." She pushed past him, shoving him out of her way. At the edge of the ruined wall, she turned to look at him. "For your information, I've never been in love before, never said that word to a man and meant … everything I feel for you. I wanted to be able to say it to you knowing you were ready to say it back. But since you seem so willing to believe the worst, I'll tell you. I love you, Fenris. I love you more than I knew it was possible to love someone. And I trust you absolutely. But it seems clear that you don't trust me, or you'd have said something about that letter this morning instead of assuming the worst about me and stewing about it all day."
Shame filled him; he had, indeed, immediately assumed the worst. He shrank back into himself, feeling small and petty. And out of that feeling, he spoke, nastily. "But we were going to be late to meet your precious King Alistair."
Her lips thinned, her eyes hard and cold. "I would, of course, gladly have been as late as necessary, had you asked me to, since the topic is important. But you didn't, and now I have other things to do." She turned her back on him, walking away, and a moment later he could hear her too-brittle laughter at some witticism of the King's.
He stayed where he was until they had all left, only then slinking out from behind the fragment of wall. Men were already coming down the path toward the quarry, beginning the work of dismembering the dragon. Fenris hoped Hawke would get her fair share of the dragon's skin and bone, but he assumed she and Hubert would work something out between them. He couldn't bring himself to be overly concerned—too much of his mind was taken up with wondering what she would say when he saw her again, how he would apologize, if he would apologize. The letter still troubled him.
His thoughts came to a sudden halt as he turned a bend in the path and found Donnic sitting on a rock. The guardsman stood up when he saw Fenris. "There you are."
"You were waiting for me?"
"Aveline told me to stay here until you came by. She said not to bring you home until your head is out of your arse."
"Charming."
"My bride does have a way with words." Donnic beamed.
Fenris grunted, passing the other man and stalking up the path toward Kirkwall.
Donnic fell into step beside him. "Something's bothering you today. We've all noticed it."
"Clever of you."
"You might as well start talking. If I get back to Kirkwall and you aren't ready to apologize to Hawke, Aveline won't speak to me for a week. It's also possible I might be able to help."
The sincerity in Donnic's voice was tempting, but it was difficult to speak, even with someone he thought of as a friend. "I … found a letter. From my sister, hidden in Hawke's drawer."
"Ah. What was the letter about?"
"Me. And the women I apparently dallied with before … before the ritual."
"Why would your sister have written Hawke about that?"
"Because she—" Fenris stopped. Why would Varania have written such a letter to a woman he had admitted to having feelings for? It hadn't occurred to him to wonder.
"Do you think your sister might have wanted to drive a wedge between you and Hawke, and possibly manage to entice you back to Tevinter?"
That was the thing about Donnic. He spoke little, and when he did it was slow and stolid, but it all masked a very intelligent brain. "Possibly so," Fenris admitted. "But it does not excuse the fact that Hawke hid the letter from me."
"I would not presume to speak for the Champion, and I advise you to ask her yourself, but I will tell you this. Much as I love Aveline, and I am confident that she loves me in return, I find it difficult to think of her married to another man. I worry that I will never measure up to her first husband. Worse, I worry that Aveline thinks I will never measure up. She doesn't, but that doesn't prevent the thought."
Fenris caught his breath. Could it be that Evelyn was jealous? But how could a woman like Evelyn possibly be jealous of women whose faces he could not even remember? It was a foolish notion. "Thank you for your advice," he said, trying to keep the skepticism out of his voice.
"But you don't see how it applies to you. Very well." Donnic squared his shoulders. They walked in silence until they reached the gates of the city. "Diamondback on Tuesday?"
Gladly, Fenris grasped at the gesture of forgiveness. "That would be pleasant."
"See you then." Donnic walked off in the direction of the Viscount's Keep; Fenris turned toward Hightown Estates. He thought longingly of his study, the cases of wine in his cellar, the familiar darkness he could sink into if he were alone. And then he changed direction, toward Hawke's estate.
Not wanting any of her servants to see him, he scaled the wall into the garden, taking a seat on her garden bench and waiting, a cacophony of thoughts moving through his mind, unable to focus on any of them.
And then it came to him, the vision of a girl with blonde, curly hair, her mouth open in the throes of pleasure. Meria. He remembered, as well, the intoxicating flutter of his heart as he moved within her, a feeling he had never experienced before that moment. He rode the waves of remembered sensation, the sweetness of first love that he was feeling again for the first time.
"Fenris." Hawke's voice brought him back to the present, sending a warmth through him. It was nothing like the emotion Meria had brought out in him; it was far deeper, more heady than the finest wine, but comfortable. Safe. Sure.
For the first time today his thoughts were free of the bitter spitefulness that had taken him over this morning, and he trembled in the aftermath of the day's emotions. He stood up.
"I need to explain," she said. "About the letter. It isn't that I didn't trust you. I was afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"Of what might happen if you read it."
"What did you think would occur?"
"I don't know." She shook her head. "Your memories … they terrify me."
"Do you fear that somehow I am not who you think I am?"
"No. I know who you are. But you don't know who you were. More importantly, you don't know who you cared for, who mattered to you. I'm afraid there's someone in your past …" She stopped talking and he could hear her gasp for breath.
"You do not trust me."
"I do! But in the last decade, I've lost my father, my country, my brother, my sister, and my mother, all to situations none of us could control. I trusted them, too, yet they were still taken away from me. And I don't know what I would do if I lost you, too. So I hid the letter, hoping I could keep it from you so that you wouldn't be tempted to go back to Tevinter and find out if … if that woman truly has a claim on your heart."
"Why did you not destroy it?"
"I couldn't. I knew, all along, that I should show it to you. I was hoping to work up the courage." She turned away from him. "You have every right to be angry."
Fenris closed the distance between them, grasping her upper arms and pulling her back against his chest. "I am not angry. Not any longer. It never occurred to me that you would be threatened by my past. The only reason I could imagine was that you believed the things Varania said of me." He turned her around, looking into her eyes in the deepening twilight. "I have no desire to return to Tevinter. Yes, I would like to have my memories back. But no woman has a hold on me stronger than yours. None ever shall or ever could. And I have no intention of going anywhere without you."
With a little cry of relief she came into his arms, burying her face against his shoulder. Fenris held her close. "I am sorry, too. I leapt to conclusions, made assumptions, and never gave you the chance to explain yourself, even in my mind."
"Do you remember this woman?"
"Meria? I do remember her. I thought I cared for her at the time, but I realize that I did not know what it was to love someone. Not until now."
Evelyn gasped, her arms tightening around him, and only then was he aware of what he had said. A glow of happiness suffused him—it was a victory over Danarius and everything the magister had stood for.
"What about your sister?" Evelyn asked. "Will you respond to her letter? Do you want to know all the things she can tell you?"
He moved her gently away from him, taking the letter from his belt pouch and deliberately ripping it in two. "My sister has nothing to tell me that I cannot recover for myself someday. With your assistance."
"Gladly." She yawned. "Let's go to bed, start fresh tomorrow."
"An excellent idea." Fenris felt one of those rare, unstoppable smiles tug at the corners of his mouth. He kept his arm around her waist as they walked into the house. "Did your King Alistair enjoy himself today?"
"Hugely. Apparently kings don't get to do a lot of fighting. He was very impressed with you, invited us both to his wedding."
"In Ferelden? That cold and miserable country that I am told smells of dog?"
"Hey!" She poked him in the side, and he chuckled. "I'll have you know it's only cold and miserable eight months out of the year."
"Oh, yes, that is very reassuring."
Evelyn laughed, leaning her head against his shoulder, and they went into her room and closed the door.