A/N: Thank you to AnnaLucia, beta extraordinaire. And Judy, I'm glad you're enjoying the work!
I'm a classically trained soprano, so music and its meaning play a big part in my creative process. Music is the universal language, and brings life and connection to any story. You will find links to songs at the end of many chapters to help bring a living experience to the story. Also thought I'd share some of my playlists that I listen to while writing 'The Songstress and the Swordsman,' and explain a bit about the songs. Also thought I'd share one of my playlists that I listen to while writing 'The Songstress and the Swordsman,' and explain a bit about the songs. (Enter these links into your browser without the spaces, for the link to work. You may also need to add '. com ' and a forward slash if it's not there. Sometimes FFN deletes that out of the link)
Here is the Spotify Link: www. open. spotify. com (slash) playlist (slash) 0W6mUNumHki5OQ3qduG4P5
I'll include Youtube links in the chapter notes, for convenience. :)
I am excited to announce that 'Songstress' has won Opera Volunteers International's 2021 Project of Special Merit Award for classical music and opera advocacy! It was also featured in ScreenRant's article, '10 Amazing Works Of Dragon Age Fan-Fiction On AO3.'
ScreenRant Article link: www. screenrant. com (slash) fic-recs-best-dragon-age-fanfiction-ao3
Fenris wished he never came to Varric's card game at the Hanged Man, that night.
He promised Varric he would, but his brands had been utterly unbearable all week—no pain tinctures he took seemed to help. As an elf of good stature and strength, he could shrug off pain; he'd spent thirteen years with this filigree carved into him. The brands usually throbbed and burned every day, but this day they raged like a sun under his skin. He should've stayed home, but Fenris of Kirkwall was a man of his word.
Fenris sighed into his cup of vinegar parading around as cheap wine. The Hanged Man was a loud tavern, even here in Varric's quarters. Whining flutes and droning bagpipes were just out of tune enough to set his teeth on edge. He barely paid attention to the conversation around him. Like every other time he attended Varric's card games, he found himself being swindled out of his weekly food budget. Damned cheaters. Bread again, that week. Bread, and Marian Hawke sucking the Abomination's face off across the table.
A candle burned in Fenris's gut. She was doing it just to spite him, he was convinced of it. Marian's steely blue eye flicked to him whenever the two came up for air, searching for his reaction. He did not deign her with one. Three years after their relationship had died, and she still found pleasure in taunting him with the man Fenris called the Abomination.
Marian hated when he called Anders 'Abomination.' It wasn't his name for him, but that was the term for a possessed mage. He used his magic to heal the sick and poor, but Anders was still, in Fenris's eyes, the Abomination. A ridiculously tall, wiry man who needed a good scrubbing and an exorcism. Or the executioner; Fenris wasn't picky. Anders put them all in danger with his misguided political activism and his 'mages' rights' movement: Fenris of Kirkwall, formerly of Minrathous, called things as he saw them, and no amount of free healing services could make Anders more palatable to his taste.
Marian was still kissing that despicable man.
The stone chair Fenris sat in did not help his disposition. He had once again forgotten to bring his cushion. When could he go home without seeming rude? Staying for forty-five minutes was polite enough, wasn't it? Fenris made his goodbyes and slipped out the door.
Hence how he found himself cornered by four slavers on his way home.
Fenris kept his back to the whitewashed wall of a storefront. He fell into a defensive stance, longsword at the ready. His assailants were heavily armored, with the tell-tale helmets he'd grown to despise over the years—Tevinter slavers. They preyed on the unsuspecting, the invisible: elves, the poor. In Fenris's case, they were his master's lackeys, sent to recapture him. He parried a sword and struck under a man's arm, puncturing his lung. A slaver attacked from above, over his shoulder, and Fenris scrambled to counter. His blade shook under the impact. He dodged from another attack and struck under the man's ribs. Strike, parry, flank. The third one fell, and the fourth soon afterwards. Fenris gulped in air, leaning on his blade. The usual 'post-combat' pains set in; he prepared himself for the painful walk home when he heard a groan behind him.
"Show yourself," he cried, blade up. He scanned the alleyway, eyes searching for the source. There wasn't anyone he could see, but a slaver could easily hide behind a stack of crates. Fenris cautiously made his way further down the alley, gripping the sweat-soaked hilt of his sword.
A dark shape was sprawled on the cobblestones. Fenris narrowed his eyes at it. A sleeping beggar, perhaps? What beggar could ever sleep through that fight? He tapped the shape with the flat of his blade and jumped back with a gasp. A woman rolled onto her back, unconscious. He leaned in. She was of slight build, with delicate features not usually found here in the slums of Kirkwall. Her high cheekbones gave her an almost aristocratic air. She certainly wasn't an elf, with her rounded ears. Fenris knew he was just shy of six feet tall, and this girl looked as though she'd reach his nose, so her being a dwarf was out, but that wasn't what surprised him. It was her clothes… the black leggings and tunic, her kohl-rimmed eyes, the myriad of bangles she wore. So unlike the riot of colors Kirkwallers wore. She almost looked like a fellow countryman, a fellow Tevinter. Olive-skinned like him, black-brown hair. The dark puddle spreading under her head startled him from his staring. Whoever this woman was, she was quite beautiful and needed medical attention quickly.
He heaved a sigh. Home was too far of a walk, and all the nearby apothecaries were closed for the night. He couldn't leave her here to bleed out on the stones. The only man that could help was—Fenris's mouth soured as he bundled the girl in his arms and hurried down the alley towards the Hanged Man.
He kicked the tavern's front door open, shuffling in. Several patrons sober enough to stand ushered him in, clearing a path. The barmaid ran upstairs to Varric's rooms, no doubt to alert his friends. Fenris nearly dropped the girl twice on the way there.
"What in the Void happened?" The Abomination confronted him at the door, demanding answers as the others cleared the stone table. They stretched the girl out for examination.
"Slavers," Fenris replied, breathing heavily. He fished around in his belt pouch and took a swig of pain tincture. "Four against one. Ambush." He leaned against the wall, catching his breath. "I-I found her in the alley."
The others mostly ignored him, watching the Abomination examine the girl. Fenris's body throbbed with his heartbeat. Conversation was the last thing on his mind.
"Ye did well bringing her here," a voice said next to him. "Ye're a good man, Fenris."
He didn't need to look to know it was Sebastian; Fenris would know that rolling accent anywhere. He gave his friend a side glance and scoffed. "It looked like she needed help immediately."
"Aye, but many would've kept walking." Sebastian crossed his arms across his broad chest, leaning against the wall. "Ye might be a sellsword, but ye've got yer honor… unlike our host," he whispered.
Fenris's mouth twitched. Varric was, on paper, an upstanding member of the Dwarven Merchant Guild, but his exact profession escaped definition. Shady businessman, spy, mercenary, part-owner of a Rivaini beet farm. It was no secret Sebastian disliked him.
The Abomination, meanwhile, wiped his hands on his robes and sighed. "She broke her wrist and twisted her ankle," he said, disinfecting the cut on her arm with some whiskey. "And there's a nasty gash on her head. Seems she fell." Fenris wasn't surprised. If she'd worn those foolhardy heels while running from slavers, no wonder she'd fallen. But what sort of girl would do that?
'A fool,' the voice in his head replied. 'A pretty fool.' Fenris put some distance between him and the table, for the brands' sake. Even if he was a healer, the Abomination's magic and the energy it radiated felt like holding his hand in burning, biting cold fire.
"Varric," Marian called from the corner, "ye need to see this." The girl's lurid pink satchel was tossed to the side, forgotten. "Never in me life have I seen such things." A pocketbook, embossed with whiskers and a cat nose, with strange rectangles inside. "What is this? Bone? Horn? Have ye ever seen such a thing?"
Fenris leaned in. The white rectangle bore runes none had ever seen, with a black stripe on the back of it. "Her portrait. I've never seen one so small," he said. Startlingly lifelike, it was. They stared in astonishment. Whoever painted it was incredibly skilled.
"What is this," Varric asked.
The girl stirred on the table. The Abomination pulled his chair closer. "You're awake. Good," he said, "I'm Anders. What's y—" The girl shrieked and rolled off the table. "You're safe! You're alright."
She scrambled away on all fours, whimpering from the pain. "Trekné," she screamed, "Ya eben el sharmouta, trekné." She shot into the corner, arms wrapped around herself, eyes never off Anders. Fenris knew that look, had seen it many a time in Tevinter. Unbridled terror. The expression a slave had after a beating, before the hopelessness set in.
Anders threw his hands up in exasperation. "Maker's Breath, what are we to do with her? She's a wild animal."
Fenris bit his lip, shifting his weight. Sometimes, moving helped with the pain. Sometimes. "You remind her of someone. Someone she fears greatly."
"Adiuava," the girl said. Fenris froze. The girl wasn't staring at the Abomination, now; she'd fixed her gaze on Fenris. "Quaeso."
"What's she saying?" Sebastian asked, jostling his shoulder. "Fenris?"
"She's asking for help, I think," he heard himself say. Her thick accent obscured her Tevene, if he could even call it that. A dialect, perhaps? Fenris unbuckled his gauntlets and handed them to Sebastian, who nearly cut himself on the bladed fingertips.
Fenris crossed the room to her. "You are safe, they are dead," he said in Tevene. Low, in as kind a voice he could muster. "Who are you?" The girl's shoulders tensed, but she did not bolt.
"I am Rana." She gripped her arms to stop the shaking. He steeled himself from the burn and patted her hand.
"Do not fear them. They are friends." He used short sentences, to help her understand. "I am Fenris. You are a slave?" Her eyes went wide.
He reassured her. "I was one, too." He pointed to himself. "You are safe. Do you have coin? How do you come here?"
"I," her eyes filled, "I do not know. I-I," she pantomimed falling and hitting her head. He stared at her, stomach clenching. Should he believe her? Her injuries supported her claim, but she could easily lie to gain his trust.
"What did she say?" Varric asked.
Fenris startled. "S-She must be a runaway. No money, doesn't remember how she got here."
'What if Danarius sent her?' The voice in his head asked. He pushed it away. His old master could have sent her. Danarius had been trying to recapture him for the past eight, ten years, with no success. Perhaps this was his latest tactic…
Fenris sighed. "She'll be captured if we let her go, she's in no condition to keep running."
"So. Who'll take her?" The Abomination asked. They stared at him. "Can't keep her here. Our house is out, too."
Fenris's eyes went wide when they all turned to him. "Well, I don't know what to do with her!"
Sebastian smiled. "Ye did fine, when ye calmed her. Just fine. We dinnae have anyone else. Just for the night. Ye can do that, aye?" Fenris shot his friend a 'please shut up' glare.
He bit his lip and looked to the girl. What was she? What if Danarius did send her? His brands tingled; his palms itched. He wanted to run from the room and never look back, but he couldn't. H-He couldn't just do that—they were all staring at him again, this time at his brands flickering in reaction to his nervousness.
Fenris sighed. "One night. I'll go tell her." His common sense beat on his skull, begged him not to do it, but he couldn't renege. Fenris of Kirkwall was a man of his word, after all.
The walk home from the tavern with Sebastian, Marian, and the Abomination was slow. They had fashioned a crutch of sorts for Rana, but her limping slowed their pace considerably. Fenris fell into his usual—scan shadows, check corners, listen. Keep an eye on his companions at all times. Marian and the Abomination had gone ahead, as they were wont to do, whispering and giggling. It made his stomach churn. Marian waved from her vestibule before locking her door. Much to his dismay, part of his courage went with her. Fenris and his new shadow stopped at the Chantry's side door to drop off Sebastian.
"I'll see you tomorrow," Fenris said. 'If she doesn't drug me and sell me to slavers, first,' he added silently. He prayed to the Maker that she wasn't a mage, ready to cast a spell the moment he was alone with her.
"First thing tomorrow, after morning prayer, we'll find a place for her. I promise." The door shut, and left him alone with the girl.
He stuffed down the panic clawing its way up his ribcage. "Come, this way." The abandoned mansion he called home was on the end of the row, next to the alley. It hid behind its curtain of ivy, unassuming; the perfect hiding place for a fugitive slave. Rana tried her best to thank him on the way, to remark on his 'good,' as she called it. It didn't belay the heady mix of dread, attraction, and vigilance he was soaking in.
"You are good. I give you thanks." He fiddled around with the finicky lock.
"Thank you. 'I give you thanks.' Thank you." He stole a glance. She cocked her head, moonlight dancing pearlescent on her skin.
"Ah! Thank you." He lit the taper he kept by the door and led her to the well, or tried to. She kept stopping and staring at the atrium.
"Mhmm." It was dilapidated, with missing floor tiles and holes in the cavernous ceiling, but still impressive. He felt slightly embarrassed it was in such disrepair, but, as he reminded himself at the well, his expertise ended at longswords and weapons. The only hammer he knew to wield was a warhammer.
Fenris retrieved the washbasins and a housecoat for Rana to wear, anxiety stalking him on the fringes of his mind. He didn't trust this girl, couldn't, no matter how alluring she might look in nothing but his red housecoat. He pushed the attraction that visual dredged up aside, scrubbing his teeth with a renewed ferocity as he formulated a plan. Until he knew for certain she wasn't connected to Danarius in any way, he had to stay alert. She may have been injured and seemingly harmless, but one false move would send him back to Minrathous in chains...
Venhedis, she'd caught him staring.
He whirled around, wincing as he splashed his face at the basin. He knew he wouldn't get much sleep, even if he wanted to. The brands were absolute agony from the fight in the alley, even his sleepshirt bothered him, but he couldn't let it interfere; maintaining control and not alerting her to his motives were paramount. He shook out his bed roll and laid it out beside his bed, his face intentionally blank. Rana stared at him in disbelief.
"What?" He asked.
"Y-You sleep here?" She clutched the housecoat to her chest. "Yi, you sleep here?"
"To make us safe." He slid his spare longsword next to his bed roll. "See? Safe." 'From you and your tricks,' he added silently.
Whether or not she believed him was yet to be seen, but she didn't run. The Chantry bells rang four times, he heaved a sigh. He waited until she climbed into his bed, and blew out the taper, hand creeping to the hilt of his sword in the darkness.
Even if he and the others sent her on her way come the morning, that girl would know where Fenris lived. She could send slavers to capture him, days, months, weeks later—his palms sweated, his stomach churned. What a fool he'd been to let the others convince him into taking this girl in…
Fenris of Kirkwall, formerly of Minrathous, was many things, but he absolutely regretted being a man of his word that night. He wondered what the next few days would bring.
Translations:
Trekné: leave me alone
Eben el sharmouta: son of a b*tch
Ya: word used in Arabic to address someone, like 'O' ('O Fenris,' for example)
Yi: a versatile expression of shock or surprise
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This chapter has gone through a LOT. It's seen life as Rana's point of view, Fenris's point of view. First person, third person POV. Written in English, Latin, Lebanese Arabic... to keep things authentic/realistic during the Rana POV draft, I translated all of Hawke and Co.'s dialogue into Old English/Anglo-Saxon, because they were speaking in Common, and Rana didn't understand Common. Also, because I must enjoy complicating my life or something. :)
What was the craziest thing you've researched or done for the sake of writing?
Love, Verdigirl
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Song at the Hanged Man: "Pastime with Good Company," composed 1513 (enter into your browser without the spaces, for the link to work. You may also need to add '. com ' and a forward slash if it's not there. Sometimes FFN deletes that out of the link)
www . youtube. com (slash) watch ? v = BsIbE51kPQs
This piece was written by King Henry VIII when he was 18 or 19, as a gift for his new queen, Catherine of Aragon. It became extremely popular, not only becoming a favorite among the English (heard at fairs and taverns), but it also traveling north to Scotland. It's said to be one of Elizabeth I's favorite songs!
Hundreds of years later, it's still being played, famously covered by rock bands Jethro Tull, Blackmore's Night, Gryphon, Serenity, and more.
