Chapter Twenty-Eight: Our Endless Numbered Days
Rillian's song is the Resident Evil Main Theme by Geek Music
Lambert's song is Claire Maguire: Ain't Nobody (Breakage's Suck It Up mix)
Fenris' song is Foy Vance: Make It Rain
Drakonis 9:34
Rillian was at Weisshaupt, heading for the laboratory. She reached a stone door surrounded by magical barriers. In the centre was a spoked wheel. It looked to her like the entrance to the phylactery chamber at Kinloch Hold. She knew what to do. She raised her right hand – slender, gracile and clawed – and let mana wake the wards. The wheel turned, and the door hissed open.
She was in a rectangular room approximately forty feet by twenty. Pillars of glass were white with frost. Coloured lights extended the length of the chamber – information flowed in the form of runes, the spidery language of magic, and musical notation. Tables were arranged along the far wall, covered with books and instruments that Rillian could not identify.
A familiar dark-haired Elven woman sat at one of the tables. She wore a Circle robe and the insignia of a Grey Warden mage. Her staff crackled with electricity. There was a tall beaker of blood. She must have been searching for evidence of taint. She had drawn an awful lot of blood, though – more than she could possibly have needed. She did not seem surprised.
"Rillian Tabris," she said calmly.
"Fiona! What are you doing here?"
"I work here," Fiona said, puzzled by the question, "The better question would be: what are you doing here? I brought you here. You are dreaming."
"Impossible. I am not a mage."
"Even soporati will sometimes have lucid dreams. Even soporati can remember. You will remember."
It was not lost on Rillian that Fiona had called her soporati – the Tevene word for a non-mage. An Orlesian Elf would not have known this word. Neither would a Grey Warden mage. Who was she talking to?
"When we spoke at Redcliffe I tried to reassure you I had not tried to deny Ferelden the cure. But you were angry because of the actions of First Enchanter Remille and Warden-Commander Bregan. You would not listen to me. Will you listen, now, if I tell you I possess proof a Grey Warden mage succeeded in curing taint after the Fourth Blight? This Grey Warden Mage – Isseya – hid the knowledge because she did not trust Weisshaupt – any more than you do. Hid it so the only person who could find proof would be an Elf and a mage. I have proof - and a location."
She sketched it for Rillian with her slim, wraith hands. Rillian had once seen a map of the Anderfels – had given it to Loghain as a gift – and it came to her memory now.
"That is near the Lattenfluss River."
"It is a place named Red Bride's Grave. It is said to be haunted – but the real ghosts lie buried. If you are seeking proof taint can be cured you should start there."
"Why are you telling me this? Why me – and not the First Warden?"
"For the same reason Isseya kept the knowledge from the First Warden during the Fourth Blight. You are foolish, prideful, and not half as clever as you think you are – but you are faithful. Far more faithful than the Order who recruited you. You truly want to cure the taint – and the First Warden does not. Why should Weishaupt want to cure taint, when taint is the only reason the Order exists – the reason tithes come in from Tevinter to Ferelden?"
Rillian breathed softly, having the intimation of a truth too terrible to be borne – more than she had ever wanted to know. But it made sense, because all organizations were self-perpetuating – more concerned with power than what the power was for.
"You are telling me the Order could cure taint but chooses not to – to ensure they still have a reason to exist?"
Fiona shrugged - an elegant, resigned movement. "I am saying they have little motivation to try – and much to ensure such knowledge stays hidden. I am saying if we understood statistics – the numbers of infection and replication - we would see that, at the end of the Fourth Blight, there should not have been enough Broodmothers to perpetuate the Darkspawn. The creatures had retreated to the Deep Roads and the dwarves had sealed the tunnels of their only remaining cities: Orzammar and Kal-Sharok. Each Broodmother breeds only once – all the life contained within her body born at the same time - and dies soon after. Darkspawn do not come to the surface of their own accord – not without an Archdemon. After the Fourth Blight, four centuries passed. How do you think Darkspawn survived as a species? From whom did they get the women?
Rillian's stomach rolled. She had thought – after Rendon Howe, after the Architect - she had seen the nadir of evil. But, no, she had been an ingenue. Her throat felt like an abandoned mine. Her lips were cracked; she could taste her own blood. She said,
"Grey Warden women are sent to the Deep Roads when they begin their Calling. If they are not lucky enough to die against Darkspawn they will...change. Weissaupt knows this – and sends them anyway."
Fiona nodded. "The men in power are not pleased I have escaped my Calling. They have tried – but I cannot be reinfected. So, I am leaving the Order - returning to the Circles, because things need to change. I do not want to leave without sharing my knowledge – with you, the true inheritor of the Order. The real Order – the one built by people like Brun the Wolf and Freya the Fierce and our own ancestor, Vhena the Wilder Elf."
Rillian recognized the three heroes who had founded the Grey Wardens. Alistair had told her the story, one chilly evening over a campfire during their war. He had heard it from Duncan and Riordan.
Fiona raised her hand in farewell. Rillian woke before their palms could meet.
She was trembling. Fiona's words squirmed, fed like the grubs that live in the hollow stems of the fruit. They ate far from the flower, yet eventually destroyed the vine's ability to nourish. The lovely, forming fruit languished, turned to a slimy, rotten mass before one even knew there was a problem.
Rillian tasted bile. Did Fiona expect her to believe the Order would simply let her leave, with all her knowledge – return to the Circles as if nothing had happened?
Either Fiona was stupid enough to believe the First Warden – was being watched and used for their own long game - or she was a willing participant and assumed Rillian was stupid. What better way to ensure Rillian's trust than to "confess" the Order's crimes, then flatter and appeal to the one she meant to betray?
Red Bride's Grave was not far from the dark fortress of Weisshaupt. How many of the First Warden's minions would be there, watching and waiting for the prey who had escaped them at Ferelden's Landsmeet to return?
Where was the truth? Had Fiona spoken any?
Was the person she had spoken to Fiona – or something that looked like her?
Could she afford to pass up the opportunity to learn of this historic cure?
Clan Lavellan would not accompany her – why should they, when they were home, in Arlathan Forest, awaiting Merrill's return?
They had brought the mirror into the heart of the ruined palace. Rillian had once seen the ruins in her dreams; now she dreamed in the ruins. But she possessed only stolen knowledge: the memories of Urthemiel, The Architect, the Arcane Warrior spirit, the lessons of Morrigan in shapeshifting. She could pass the knowledge to mages – but could not use any of these abilities herself. The only way she could ever walk the Black City in search of a cure would be through an Eluvian.
She gazed at the empty mirror with a heart of stone. Merrill had not returned, and though Keeper Deshanna still referred to the young woman as her First, it was clear she did not expect her to. Deshanna had tried to cast the same spell, to search for Merrill, but, try as she might, all was fruitless. Staring now, into oily depths, Rillian brushed the glass; no result followed. She waited and waited to give the vision time; it would not come. The mirror was blank; nothing lay in its dim old depths but the room behind and her own haggard face. Had the cure ever been there? Or had it all been rotten fruit from the mouldering cells of her brain?
The mirror was dead and all biomedical avenues had failed. Her young friend Lambert Hawke had sent her seeds from a variant of the Swamp Flower. Ser Otto had allowed her to test them on him. They made no difference to the taint. Lambert had also written to Deshanna – his Elven grandmother - asking advice on how to remove his lover's lyrium brands, but once more she could not help. The only possible chance for both of them was in Red Bride's Grave.
The only Wardens she had were Jowan and Ser Otto. Lambert was a friend – his lover Fenris was lethal to darkspawn as well as humans – but their priority would be each other. Who else? Leliana was a Seeker now – her first loyalty to the Chantry. The Ferelden Wardens were pledged to obey Guillaume Caron. Stories of Alistair said he was now a drunk, a regular customer at The Hanged Man in Kirkwall.
During the quest, who would be the confidant she could trust? Who would put her research first, and stand beside her when the inevitable doubts came? Who should she trust the most?
Who should she trust at all?
Lagoons and mudflats sprawled out of Llomerryn into the Venification Sea. The stars were reflected in the water like pearlescent shoals. An almost-full moon hung in the sky and Lambert and Fenris listened to waves crash onto silted sands. The marshes rippled with shadows and light. The ocean was alive, the stars exploding, the soil murmuring with blood flow. They watched waders sweep across the lagoons, drank Purple Rain and whiskey, their stomachs full of spring rhubarb and crab. Fenris had thought he didn't like fish – Danarius had so often sent divers into the Nocen sea for delicacies he had associated it with him – but on Llomerryn he could hardly avoid it and eating barbequed crab with Lambert on shore had become a pleasure. The sour scent of kelp and mud was creamy and verdant.
Gangs of long-tailed tits hung from a snoozing plum tree like lollipops, and Lambert pointed out a pair of blackcaps migrating back from The Anderfels. Fenris did not normally notice details that had no relevance to survival, but the way Lambert saw the world changed the picture. Fenris studied the pure, angular profile and wondered at the power he had to weave the world into different cloth. He followed Lambert's gaze to where the black and chestnut heads of the birds shone in the pale moonlight. Hedgehogs were waking from hibernation, and everywhere were tiny green leaves. Overhead the stars shone like broken glass; hundreds of lights in the shadow.
Lambert said, "Varric, Donnic, Sebastian and Zev will be here soon. I can't wait to see them! And – guess what – Varric's letter said he's bringing two Wardens. One was the companion to the Hero of Ferelden: he doesn't like Commander Caron so spends all his time drinking at The Hanged Man. The other is my brother!"
Lambert seemed about to burst out of his skin with joy. It was a strange turn of events. Knight Commander Meredith had tried to have Varric arrested after the publication of 'Spotlight' and Viscount Nathaniel Howe and a dwarven woman named Bianca (there had to be a story there) had smuggled him out. Sebastian and Donnic were leaving for the same reason – both had backed Varric's version of events, only to find Grand Cleric Elthina held a lot of influence. Surprisingly, they had also been backed by Cullen, who had apparently left the Templar Order in protest and was going through lyrium withdrawal as penance. Fenris had not asked Lambert how he felt about that – he himself would no more forgive Cullen than he would forgive those who had enabled Danarius.
But there was more than that going on: Lambert had received a letter from Rillian Tabris about a proposed journey to Red Bride's Grave – he had told Varric – and Varric had written to Carver in Ferelden using the family code Lambert had taught him. Carver had written back to say he would serve the Hero of Ferelden over his Orlesian commander any day.
"You know," Lambert was saying thoughtfully, "Last August my twenty-first was pretty quiet – The Siren's Call was in Kirkwall so I had to keep my head down. Now: let's plan the party to end all parties!"
Fenris grunted – which Lambert took as assent. He began to plan the occasion in loving detail – his words were sparkling raindrops Fenris was happy to let wash over him. Suddenly, he stopped - looked at Fenris – and the intensity of his gaze demanded full concentration.
"Fen - I've never asked you – in all this time: what day would you like to celebrate your birthday?"
Fenris was silent a long moment, considering. He had all his memories, now, but had never felt the need to tell Lambert: the only one worth recalling was the wooden toy he had been willing to defend to the death – the sweaty, white-knuckled fights that had convinced Danarius to have the child trained to defeat any opponent with any weapon or bare-handed. But now that he did, in fact, know his real birth date Lambert deserved the truth.
"My mother was mated by Danarius to the sire he considered suitable and I was born on the 21st Drakonis 9:10. I think my sire might have been an Elfblooded human, because Danarius was breeding for strength. My mother did not celebrate the birth of her rapist's child but I heard the date from my sister." He decided not to spell out the rest: that he had realized his mother had sold him to Danarius because she had considered Varania her only 'real' child.
Lambert's eyes turned the strange, luminous colour of a night sky caught between storm and moonlight; dark with a towering anger Fenris knew was not directed at him. He put his hands on either side of Fenris' jaw and said fiercely,
"The day you came into the world is the most important day of my life. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. So: I am going to celebrate those twenty-four missed birthdays."
He kissed Fenris, tasting of Purple Rain and cool blue musk and gardenias. Fenris moved his hands to the small of Lambert's back; Lambert smiled anticipation and led Fenris to their cheerful dump on the top floor of Slubberdegullions. Fenris lifted up the colourful tunic, kissed and tweaked his nipples, ran his tongue down the hollows and planes of the washboard stomach. Fenris had sparred with him every day for twelve months; as a result Lambert now had the thighs and biceps of a trained swordsman. Fenris enjoyed Lambert's newfound strength; enjoyed taking him in his mouth, making him sob and scream and beg for more. Yes, he sometimes did remember Danarius – but having been force-fed a series of unpleasant meals did not put him off his banquet of choice.
Lambert seemed to melt and flow with him like water – he pulled Fenris down on top of him, raised knees and ankles before Fenris even realised where this was going. He hesitated, surprised – Lambert hadn't tried to do it like this since his first attempt had woken memories of Alrik. Lambert was studying him with such burning intensity it was as if he might never see him again. Then, satisfied with what he saw, he pulled Fenris into him and they exploded almost simultaneously.
Lambert curled on his side and burrowed down beneath the quilt. Fenris pressed against his back, savouring the play of muscle and bone when he sighed happily. They might have gone to sleep then – but a series of impatient mewls brought Lambert back to himself. He rose, cleaned himself up, then fed his cats. Three of them now.
Two months after Anders' departure, Lambert's black cat, Incognito, had given birth to twins. One was a boy version of her: sooty-black, with bright blue eyes. Lambert had asked Fenris to name him. Fenris had picked 'Incommunicado' because it seemed to fit their situation. The other – a little ginger kitten the image of his father - Lambert had named Pumpkin. They were ten months old, and Lambert doted on them. Fenris professed not to understand - "must be a mage thing" - but had once been annoyed to find himself absently stroking Pumpkin's fur when the kitten jumped on his lap.
While Lambert fussed over the three, Fenris gulped a vial of Apostate's Friend. He didn't need it for the pain – the brands burned, but that was nothing new - but because he could not risk falling asleep beside Lambert, dreaming of Danarius, smelling the mana on his lover and phasing before fully conscious. Hurting Lambert was one of the unthinkable things that must not happen, at any cost.
He sat back down on the bed and Lambert snuggled next to him, putting his head on Fenris' shoulder. He smiled sleepily.
"Your twenty-fourth is going to be amazing. I'll send a bird before they've even left Kirkwall: tell them to come in fancy dress. I'll be my favourite cocktail: a bunch of purple grapes! You should be green grapes, to match your eyes. Beamdog has great taste in music – I'll play your favourites..."
Fenris wondered what in hell he had gotten himself into. But Lambert was in full flow and he was swept along with him – his lover had always had that power. When he sang something sad his audience were sad too; when he sang something happy they found themselves smiling. Fenris shrugged and lay on his back with his hands behind his head, looking up at the cracked ceiling. He was full and pain-free and his body echoed with the afternotes of pleasure. He had found his life's meaning, his worth, his belonging-place. He did not know all he wanted to accomplish; just that he had a partner who would be beside him as he tried. As he would be beside Lambert when he pursued his dreams.
Lambert was still sitting up. He was planning which courses should be served at the beachfront and which at the bar. Fenris clamped his hands on the bottom of Lambert's ribcage – felt the hardness of bone, the vulnerability of flesh, the ridges of scars and the swirl of tattoos - and effortlessly pulled him down on top.
"Hey!" Lambert's pretended anger broke against Fenris' sheer pleasure in him, in his own strength, in the joy of being. Lambert laughed down at him, cupping his face and running one hand through the close-cropped bristles of his hair. It was a new trim. Fenris had had it done by Beamdog, in honour of their friends' visit. Slowly, as he might bring a fruit-laden branch within reach, Fenris lowered Lambert. Lambert's breath hitched. Neither had any thoughts of the party. The moment was the world.
A week later Lambert and Fenris stood at the beach, watching the white-winged ship approach. Isabella's three-masted schooner was light and sleek and full of sail. The sun was at its highest in a cloudless sky. They were talking quietly, of their plans for the future, of their hopes and fears, as only tested partners can.
"In Castellum Tenebris the coast was always dark: there was permanent cloud cover, and Danarius' magic led to constant storms. He told me above the sky was the Abyss, where the emerald Waters of the Fade would sometimes rain down. He said magisters would rule the Black City – that he would be my god after death as he was in life. I believed him." Fenris snorted in rueful laughter.
Lambert squeezed his hand. "Well, if any magister ends up ruling the Black City, I'll fall beside you."
"Likewise, if there's a Maker who hates mages, I'll go down with the ship. But this sea seems different. Do you know what's out there? Freedom: where a man can go in any direction he wants."
"It's beautiful. It reminds me of a picture I once saw: of the Western Approach at night. That openness – like the blue desert - looks like escape."
"Captain Isabella was telling me about a book called De Re Militari. It's Tevene, which I've never learned, but I think I might try. She said there's a description of a naval battle. Of a whole troop of ships slashing through the water, with archers, grappling lines, boarding hooks. It's like the feint and charge of cavalry, only with boats instead of horses. It's an exciting thing." Fenris cut his eyes sideways at Lambert. "You don't see that, do you?"
"Well...not really," Lambert admitted sheepishly, "Think of our poor seasick cats."
They laughed, then, relishing their differences, enjoying their similarities.
The Siren's Call made port at the west side of the island, facing Rialto Bay. There was a southwind chop that day, and it took the vessel almost broadside as it turned east. The three masts whipped side-to-side, clutching at empty air. Isabella's crew skipped across deck, quick as cats, grabbing lines and projections. Their agility brought them to moorings without damage, the balance bar swiveled to vertical and they came to rest with a squeal of wood on wood. A gangplank was lowered and six figures appeared from the low deckhouse at the stern. Fenris's friends Sebastian and Donnic, Varric, and a stocky, dark-haired, beautiful woman who had to be Bianca. The two other men – both humans – he did not recognise, but he knew which had to be Lambert's brother. Carver Hawke looked like a taller, brawnier version of Lambert – with the same bright eyes, open smile, and exuberance. His hand rested on the square slab of his mabari's head.
"Carv!" Lambert was shouting, so excited he jumped up and down. Tears of joy ran down his cheeks unheeded. Lambert had not seen his brother since the day he and their mother left Ferelden. He leapt up and waved. The sand shivered around his ankles and he held onto Fenris's shoulder for balance. Seagulls and great blue herons croaked indignation, whirling around each other in a frenzy of squawks. Carver threw back his head and let loose a cry that rose to a high pitch and ended with an echoing hah!
Fenris couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so excited. He couldn't imagine why he did. In any case, he hurried after Lambert to be a part of it all.
While Lambert and his brother embraced and roughhoused like children – the mabari gambolling around them with joyful barks and being petted by both - Fenris was greeted by Sebastian and Donnic.
"Ye look better than the last time I saw ye, my friend," Sebastian observed. He was not a demonstrative man, but his face was lit by a quiet light; shy and austerely bright. "Ye actually seem happy."
"He won't after he's lost at Diamondback again," Donnic added.
"You two should have seen him the night of the Great Storm in Kirkwall," Varric opined. Everyone turned to listen to him: Varric had always had that power. He regaled them all with the story but never took his eyes from Bianca: the beautiful woman, not the crossbow slung casually across his back. His clothes were expensive, well-tailored, and showed his carefully-groomed chest hair. He might have been back at The Hanged Man, charming his patrons. Carver and the downbeat-looking blond fellow listened with interest. So did Lambert: he knew Fenris had broken into the phylactery chamber for him but had never heard the story.
Carver was grinning when Varric finished. "I bet that cow, Meredith, wasn't happy – wish I'd been a fly on the wall!" He looked at Fenris intently and - for just a moment – Fenris had to fight the urge to look down at his feet. Eye contact with a human was an offence punishable by death in Tevinter and old habits died hard. Fenris despised himself, lifted his chin, and remembered that he was a man. He held the eyes with confidence and introduced himself,
"Fenris Lethandralis," he said firmly, choosing the name on the spot. As a slave his name had been Fenris Danarianus; as a free man he had only one. But he didn't want to meet Lambert's family on those terms.
Lambert beamed at him, and his pleasure lit the morning. He added, "my husband-to-be," wishing to leave his brother in no doubt of what they were to each other. Then his face crumpled, and he looked at Fenris sheepishly, "I mean: if he will have me?"
Fenris laughed – a joyful, rollicking laugh that was so unlike him his friends looked at him in astonishment. "Are you asking him or me? Of course I will."
Carver was looking from one to the other: not displeased, exactly, but...wondering.
"Husbands?" he asked dubiously, "You won't find a priest in Thedas willing to do that. They don't marry Elf-human couples any more than they marry Grey Wardens."
Lambert bristled – looking rather like Incognito when facing a stranger cat. "I'm going to ask our grandmother and she'll marry us in Arlathan Forest. I'll invite you - if you promise to keep your stupid comments to yourself."
Carver was silent a moment – then said gruffly, "I'm happy for you. And: you're bloody lucky to have someone to do it. That's all I'm saying."
Fenris expected to see Lambert blow up – and felt uncomfortable being caught in the midst of a family row – but Lambert's face softened in sudden understanding and he asked quietly,
"Who is she, Carv?"
Carver smiled like someone who has been named the luckiest man in the world. "Minna Dryden. She's Levi Dryden's daughter and she works in the kitchens at Soldier's Peak. She knows all about the famous Grey Warden appetite and her puff pastries have to be tasted to be believed! She's the mother of my son, Lambert. He's one now." Carver's face softened in the same expression Fenris had seen on Lambert's face when he cuddled Incognito.
Lambert was gaping like a landed fish. "You sly dog! You didn't even tell me!" His face hardened with genuine anger. "We're family, Carv. We're the only family each other has left. Why didn't you write?"
"Sparky..." Varric began, but Lambert was too upset for easy mediation.
"Commander Guillaume Caron burned your letter. He reads all our mail – oh don't worry! - if you used our family code your secrets are still safe. He didn't know who sent it – but he doesn't think Wardens should have attachments. He'd even have made me give up Lady – if she weren't almost a Warden herself."
Lambert's face froze in a rush of sudden bleak understanding. "Oh..." he said softly.
Carver nodded. "I thought you died in the Gallows. I only found out the truth when Varric wrote last month. He's smarter than you – knows how to send letters that won't be intercepted."
"Oh, Carver." Lambert looked so sad Fenris patted his arm awkwardly. He didn't know how to give comfort – during the moments Lambert's eyes went unreal and strange with the memory of the Gallows he invited him to spar - but he had seen Lambert do this when reassuring a friend.
Lambert's face crumpled in remorse. "I'm so, so sorry, Carv. All this time..." He hugged his brother fiercely and Carver slapped him awkwardly on the back.
"When Varric wrote, I had to see you: was worried what state those Templar bastards had left you in. But you look just the same as ever: a peacock and a bit of a wuss."
Lambert punched him – which, Carver scoffed, "feels like a fly landing on me" - but then asked, "Can I meet your little boy? Wow - I can't believe it...I'm an uncle! I'm going to spoil my nephew rotten." He giggled – looked at Fenris to share his joy – and suddenly his face shadowed. But Fenris did not feel the slightest trace of envy. He did regret that he would never know his sister and her children – that she believed (probably rightly) that his presence would put them in danger from the sons of Danarius – but he was thrilled for Lambert.
"You'll be an uncle-by-marriage," Lambert told him, "That's how we do things in Ferelden."
Fenris thought it an unlikely role for an assassin and former slave. But he didn't worry about it. His skills as an uncle were unknown – but Lambert would show him what to do. Fenris had learned a lot from Lambert - how to eat with knife and fork, for how long to look into another's eyes – and he was a quick study.
Carver was explaining Guillaume Caron had not let him and Minna get married, "He thinks a wife and son will make me soft. When he found out Minna was pregnant, he fired her and she had to move back in with her father. He told me it couldn't be mine because Wardens are infertile – but the Ferelden Wardens all drunk Avernus' mixture!" He stopped and looked shifty, as if worried he shouldn't be blabbing Warden secrets. But everyone knew Rillian Tabris had already done that – part of the reason Weisshaupt was so angry.
"Guillaume Caron sounds like a right cunt."
"Well, of course he is – he's Orlesian," Carver said matter-of-factly. "So's his brother, the Knight Divine. If they find out you're alive they send a whole army of purple-skirted meatheads after you. You did write in our code, didn't you?"
"I even improved it," Lambert said smugly, "I was trained by a bard."
"Apparently not well enough to send a secret letter."
"Carv: there must be a post you could get away from the Orlesian cunt? The Wardens in Kirkwall are led by a man named Stroud – maybe, if you appealed to Gamlen..."
"That sack of wine?! No. I've got other plans. When I heard Rillian needed Wardens I went AWOL. No one knows where I've gone – even Minna doesn't know the details – me and Alistair are rogue Wardens. I'll beg Rillian to let me take my wife and child to wherever she is."
"I'll help you, Carv," Lambert said at once. "Me and the Hero of Ferelden have a special relationship – or, rather, she said my blood was special. Lambert preened as he related the story of how he had fought beside her against Corypheus. Carver - the actual Grey Warden – looked faintly jealous. Alistair was listening greedily to the story – clearly eager to gobble up every hint of what the Hero of Ferelden had been up to. "Rillian was a hero that day and she said our father had done the Wardens great service. You fought beside her against the Archdemon – she won't let you down."
"Rillian will do anything for anyone," the blond-haired man – who looked like a former fighter who had seen better days – agreed, "At Ostagar she even helped a mabari – have I told you this story?"
Lady gave a happy bark and Carver grinned, "Go on."
While Alistair, Lambert and Carver bonded over stories of Ravenous and Lady – the mabaris who had chosen an Alienage Elf and a Ferelden tenant farmer as worthy of imprinting – the passengers and crew disembarked. Zevran filled Fenris in on what had happened in Kirkwall – how the House of Crows had decided to collect on his debt: he owned them his life, as they had owned him – how Zevran had refused his lover's offer of help and was returning to deal with them. As someone who had only recently gained freedom, Fenris could understand perfectly. The two assassins fell into talking shop.
Isabella and Bianca were bonding over 'girl talk' that involved the management of pirates and criminals, "I never wear my hair loose, because sometimes loose hair gets caught in the lines." Isabella gestured at Brand, "Snatched him bald one morning. If he'd a tougher hide, I'd have run him up the mast. Flown him like a pennant." The rest of the crew enjoyed what was clearly an old, familiar joke.
Isabella went on to explain how the sails were controlled and how, in an emergency, they could be swung clear round, turning the bow of the vessel into the stern. "Handy when we have to make a quick departure. We overstay our welcome, sometimes."
The group of passengers and crewmen moved to the waterfront where Lambert had spent the last week preparing and cooking canapes. Drinks of all kinds – Purple Rain, Nevarran brandy, Fereldan malt whiskey and chocolate Kahlua from Seheron – crab cakes and olives, buttermilk pancakes and smoked fish...salmon and rollmops (Lambert hated rollmops but had provided it for those who had no tastebuds). Hard-boiled eggs and salad and fruits – many imported as the season was early spring – grilled meat on skewers with Antivan spices: cooked on the beach in honour of Zevran. The assassin broke off his discussion on the proper way to break into a Crow prison and sampled them.
"Hmmm...fish chowder...Antivan spices...throw in a corrupt politician and I'll feel right at home! You have outdone yourself, my fair Hawke."
His use of the familiar name set Fenris' teeth slightly on edge – he was not exactly jealous of Zevran, but he knew the Antivan had been Lambert's first. As if sensing his nascent jealousy, Zevran turned to Fenris with a flirtatious smile, "When I saw you killing Templars I thought: there is a man I would not like to cross. Unless...you'd care to discipline me..." his eyebrows were raised in unspoken question. By flirting openly with Fenris, making it clear he wanted the lyrium warrior to take charge, Zevran was removing any hint of rivalry between them. It was a clever and subtle way of drawing warmth and mystery about him like a shroud, changing the picture. Fenris understood it but could never have played that game. He settled for grunting noncommittally. Somewhat to his relief, Isabella placed one jeweled hand on Zevran's arm, and the two were soon feeding each other canapes.
While Lambert caught up with Varric and pressed his friend for stories of his meeting with Bianca, Fenris sought out his two closest friends: Donnic and Sebastian.
"I thought you were going to petition the Viscount for his aid in retaking Starkhaven," Fenris queried.
"He told me he'd be ready te help me this time next year," Sebastian explained. "I'm prepared te wait, but after Donnic and I backed up Varric's book we cannae stay in Kirkwall. We've signed on with Carver and Alistair te help Rillian. I think aiding such a worthy cause must be the Maker's will."
The three of them played cards and ate canapes and savoured the afternoon. Fenris enjoyed the company of his two closest friends: the humans who had made him feel a useful, valued member of a team who could be trusted and relied on. Fighting The Flint Company alongside these two had been a change for the solitary assassin who squatted in Danarius' mansion and lived like a ghost. His lips quirked in a self-deprecating mile as he recalled how afraid he had been - at first – that their friendship could not possibly be genuine. That they responded to his invites and played cards with him because they saw themselves as 'human saviours' and wanted to burnish their halos. Even that had been a step up: as a slave he would only have been relieved two human men didn't want him for the night or to drain his blood. But, as someone trying so hard to be a real person, it would have been a punch to the gut.
He had soon realised Donnic was way too straightforward for such liberal games: he wasn't interested in burnishing his halo, he just wanted to make Kirkwall safer. And Sebastian talked to him about the Maker as a friend and fellow sinner who was struggling with his own questions of faith, not as a preacher. So, bit by bit, he had started to relax and let his guard down. Even on days when the pain was bad – and Fenris had different hierarchies of bad to other, more fortunate, people - he never missed their Friday cards. Never wanted to miss seeing the only two people who saw him as a person who took any bet and sometimes lost through overconfidence – who could drink them both under the table – who liked apples but not fish.
By the time he lost his third consecutive round Carver had sauntered over, punch in hand, and was asking him, "So: how did you meet my brother?"
Lambert, beside him, beamed. "Now there's a tale!"
Fenris was momentarily struck dumb. Surely Lambert was not going to repeat the story of their first meeting to his brother? Lambert was looking at him hopefully, "You remember, don't you?" His feathery, winged eyebrows were raised slightly and his long, sooty black lashes framed amaranthine eyes that darted arrowy beams. Fenris froze, his mind gone curiously blank. All he could remember was the dark mingled smells of blood, pain, sex – as if the air itself were molasses tinged with decay. Danarius had bled one of his young male prostitutes to provide the power to recapture his "little wolf." Fenris had attacked, forced Danarius to flee, and freed Lambert.
"Well," said Lambert brightly, "It happened when Fen and I cleaned out Danarius' estate. We fought demons, abominations and all sorts..."
"I hired him," Fenris said, beginning to catch on, "I had heard of Hawke's reputation, you see. Hawke had spent four months working for the Red Iron – they're a mercenary band led by Captain Meehan – before he got too big to be a follower. He was just striking out on his own as a mercenary, and I knew he was the only man who had a chance of helping me defeat my former master. I couldn't have done it alone. So I hatched what is termed a 'bait and switch' to gain his help...of course, if I'd known then what a good man your brother is, I'd have simply asked him."
"You...thought my brother was the toughest merc in Kirkwall?" Carver asked in disbelief. He raked Lambert up and down. Lambert's thighs and biceps were toned from their sparring, but he still looked more like a lover than a fighter.
"Well," Fenris confided, "these mages, you know: they might seem fragile, but they're hiding a lot of power underneath..."
"Whoa!" Carver put his hands over his eyes. "Too much information!"
Lambert giggled. Fenris found he did not mind presenting him as his 'human saviour' who had helped a poor ex-slave escape Danarius. It was worth it to see that relief and joy on his face. Just as none of the six who had rescued Lambert from the Gallows would ever give full details of what they had found there. In Varric's account of the depravities going on Lambert had 'only' been tortured so he would give in to possession. Varric had given full details of Alrik's 'Tranquil Solution' but avoided telling the world Lambert had been raped by Alrik and Karras. Fenris was the guardian of Lambert's pride just as Lambert was the guardian of his. Whenever Isabella got too personal in her requests for details of his time with Danarius, Lambert determinedly confirmed his terse, sparse statement, "I was his bodyguard."
Suddenly, Carver set down his glass and said, "I'm going to take a dip. Let's see who can swim furthest: a hardarse mercenary or a Grey Warden..." he trotted to the shore, and Lambert hesitated. Fenris knew he was self-conscious about his scars – Lambert had confided he used to swim like a fish but ever since his rescue he disrobed only in the bedroom. Fenris was a powerful swimmer too: when serving Danarius he had frequently swum deep underground, in the alien lands below Castellum Tenebris, black and cold like the night. He would phase and then come up on enemy galleons, ripping the hearts from his master's enemies and resubmerging.
Seeing that Lambert was not going to do it, he decided sometimes what a person needed was a bit of tough love. Quickly – before he had the chance to talk himself out of it – he trotted to the water's edge and ripped off his own clothes. It was the first time in his life he had shown anyone but Lambert just how low his lyrium tattoos went. He looked back at Lambert, who had followed him to the shore. Lambert was staring at him in silence as though he couldn't quite believe it. His slightly tilted eyes were perse like the sea.
There was a time Fenris had feared to show even Lambert the brands: too afraid he would see those eyes rake over his body and take on the glittering hard shine of a collector eyeing an interesting source of power. Now they had been lovers for a year, that fear had faded. Not only had Lambert never seemed to notice the brands, Fenris had noticed he was even careful never to give him a compliment on anything physical. Last night, seeing his eyes grown dark with desire, Fenris had chuckled and said, "Go ahead. You can tell me what's on your mind" and Lambert had grinned, said only, "phwoar!" and jumped his bones.
Carver wasn't shy about comparing tattoos. He showed Fenris the mabari tattooed across his bicep. "I got this one before Ostagar," he bragged.
"Does it give you the ability to reach inside a man and tear out his heart?"
"Noooo...but I can make it bark."
"Please don't."
Fenris met Lambert's eyes in a kind of challenge, man-to-man. If I can show the world my brands you should be able to show your scars...
Lambert grinned, winked, and disrobed in one smooth motion. The noise and colours and exotic spices of the beachfront all melded into a bright jewelled background to the gleaming figure in front of Fenris. His griffon tattoo made Fenris think of a winged angel. Lambert's bare feet wiggled, made silty trails in the pale sand.
Carver was eyeing the tattoo as well. "Are you a Grey Warden, now?" he asked pointedly, as if Lambert were guilty of stolen valour.
"I fought Corypheus," Lambert muttered defensively.
"Humph. We'll get you Joined soon."
"Race you both!" Lambert turned. His back was a marble arch that led to a pair of taut buttocks that flexed as he dived. He was a pale sea-creature, luminous and otherworldly. Fenris gave chase, and the three submerged into the starless sea. The chill water was knives of fire that affected the brands curiously; Fenris was numb, empty, emotionless as a shark. He outpaced Lambert easily – gave him a swift dunking – then carried on, to show Carver once and for all that, whatever a Warden could do, a lyrium warrior could do better.
When that was proven beyond doubt the three headed back to shore. The party moved indoors. Slubberdegelluions - which would forever mean something to Fenris as the place Lambert and Isabella had stood beside him as he defeated Danarius – was an L-shaped room with a long barbecue atop which roasting meat sizzled. Nearby was a pot of hot, brewing mulled wine. The tray was an oval of satin-glowing copper, with tubular jade grips. The chairs and benches had been pulled together so people could socialize in groups. A table laden with snacks had legs carved to resemble leaping salmon. The walls were painted with stylized black-and-white images of the same fish. The chairs were low-slung forms that supported the body on leather webbing and cushions. The air was warm and rich as oil; the candlelight muted everything to a soft glow. Lambert had once described it as like living inside a pearl. Beamdog began to play: Lambert had personally requested the music. Until he met Lambert, Fenris' only experience of music had been the pieces played at Danarius' parties: chill, soulless, pretentious and portentous. Devoid of any emotion and cold as mathematics. These songs were as different to that as night from day.
As the day drew towards evening Lambert insisted they all get into costume. Carver went as his hated Orlesian commander with a ridiculous moustache. Alistair went as the legendary Warden hero Brun the Wolf. Bianca went as a treasure chest and hung gold coins all over herself, clinking and jingling as she moved. Varric could not take his eyes off her. It was hard to tell who he was dressed to resemble; his usual attire was scarcely less colourful. Donnic went as a mabari with pointy ears and a tail. Sebastian went as the legendary archer Robin Hood of Starkhaven, who took from the rich and gave to the poor. Isabella's crew were in varying states of undress: Fenris couldn't tell what they were all meant to be but they were clearly enjoying themselves. Brand was dressed as Shartan and Knife-Eared Jan was the Dread Wolf.
Isabella was Empress Celene. Her spectacular golden dress glimmered and swirled around her like a chandelier. The front was cut so low and tight her breasts formed an arrowhead gap to delights Zevran was keen to sample. Fenris, however, had eyes only for the cheerful, happy, gleaming figure who did not mind making himself look silly. Lambert was wearing his outfit of purple grapes with aplomb. Holding his Purple Rain in one hand, he looked like an explosion in a vineyard. That happiness and good humour drew Fenris like a heliotrope; lit their riotous surroundings like the sun through stained glass windows.
Lambert hurried over and took Fenris in hand. Before long Fenris was dressed to match: in an outfit of green grapes. There was no room for Lethandralis. He looked down at himself in disbelief: at the way the pale green baubles hung stylishly around his muscular frame, leaving his chest free, teasingly caressing his ripped stomach and artfully concealing all that lurked below.
What fresh hell is this? How in the Void did I agree to this?
Lambert was beaming at him, utterly delighted. "The grapes match your eyes."
A sudden and unplanned memory of one of Danarius' chill, soulless banquets intruded. An image popped into his head: burst the occasion like a soap-bubble. He saw himself, standing as Danarius' bodyguard – his "little wolf" - wearing this outfit! A snort of laughter startled him – a moment later he realized it was himself! It shocked him. He had never laughed at one of these memories before. Usually, he felt the noise and colour and life drain from his surroundings like blood from a wound – everything fade to monochrome – a series of disjointed black-and-white stills spinning in a meaningless fog. If he didn't spar straight away and the memories continued, he would soon feel himself start to lose solidity, his own self beginning to bleed away like an inane dream. This was why, whenever Lambert's eyes took on the veiled and unfathomable gaze they had had since Alrik - which, even when looking right at him, seemed to contemplate infinite expanses much further away – Fenris quickly challenged him to spar. It was the only way he had to anchor himself – become solid and real – so he did the same for Lambert.
But today he laughed, and other memories followed – and were transformed. He laughed again – deliberately conjured another memory and put himself in the silly outfit! How Danarius would have hated it! Instinctively, he tensed – half-expecting the black god to strike him down. But...nothing. Danarius might be in the Black City but he most definitely was not its god.
Lambert was looking at him strangely – as though seeing far, far beyond what his eyes showed him – and beaming with a joy that lit the tavern. Fenris could not keep from smiling back.
Lambert faced the crowd, spread his arms wide like a performer and shouted, "The man I love is twenty-four today! Please join me in wishing him a ridiculously awesome birthday!"
Fenris truly thought he'd sink through the floor in pleased embarrassment when everyone clustered around him and pressed drinks into his hands. He had the sudden horrible thought someone would demand a speech – so quickly covered the moment by asking Lambert to dance.
The owner of Slubberdegullions had cleared a large wooden section of floor for dancing and Lambert's guests were soon making full use of it. Fenris allowed his lover to lead him but soon found that (despite his claim to Varric) he wasn't half as good at dancing as fighting. Far safer to just watch Lambert - which he did with enthusiasm. Lambert was graceful, athletic, happily ridiculous in his grapes.
Later Lambert fetched his lute covered with electrical runes and regaled his audience with its wailing, metallic twang. Fenris found himself challenged by Carver and Varric. They wanted to know who could drink the other two under the table. Who would be left standing: the dwarf, the Grey Warden or the Elf? Fenris snickered. Carver clearly thought it a foregone conclusion – Elves were notoriously lightweight. The lyrium brands must be good for something, Fenris reasoned, because no matter how heavily he drunk – and there had been evenings alone in his stolen, filthy mansion when he had drunk until the very air turned to alcohol – he never passed out.
"How much do you want to bet?"
"The same amount I lost at cards."
Fenris sat astride the chair, arms and legs akimbo, trying not to care that his outfit ruined the macho pose. They began with brandy: Nevaran, Antivan, Fereldan and finally Dwarven. Moved onto whiskey from Highever. Beamdog and the Innkeep kept them generously supplied: the house red wasn't nearly as strong as the Tevinter vintages he was used to - Fenris had nearly cleaned out Danarius' cellar by the time he left Kirkwall! At that point, Varric threw in the towel – Fenris suspected he could have gone on but wanted to be able to thank Bianca properly. Carver and Fenris carried on grimly, with the air of two tourney champions. The remaining dancers gathered to watch. Dimly – the words half-drowned through the haze of alcohol – he heard Donnic and Sebastian placing bets.
They were neck and neck for another hour. Finally, Carver brought out the Aqua Magus.
"Warden Oghren swears by this!"
Fenris would rather have died than admitted it played up the lyrium brands. He gestured assent – with a hand that nearly maintained its usual lethal grace – and Carver filled both glasses to the brim.
"Cheers."
The lyrium seared through him – the brands became a hundred mouths that screamed pain – but Fenris considered it worth the price when Carver slumped to the ground.
"Ha! You've made me a fortune, Broody," Varric thanked him, and Fenris rose smoothly to his feet. He concentrated hard on making them track – he had a reputation to maintain.
He and Lambert took the wooden steps up to their cheerful dump on the top floor. Lambert closed the door behind him, then eyed his lover, features crinkled in concern.
"Don't worry – the stuff they make at Soldier's Peak isn't real Aqua Magus," Fenris lied.
Lambert's face brightened. He wriggled like an eel out of his bedraggled costume, which was trailing like wilting vines and crushed grapes. It collapsed on the floor around him like a harvest he was about to press with bare feet. He padded around getting food ready for Incognito, Incommunicado and Pumpkin – no matter how drunk or desirous he was he never failed to look after his cats. When they were happily chewing he found Fenris in the bedroom.
"Are you ready for your birthday presents?"
Fenris had shrugged out of his own costume and lay on the scruffy double bed, arms behind his head. The only thing he wore was the red armband.
Lambert was smiling and humming a tune Fenris recognized as Dalish: joyful, mysterious, verdant. The low-hanging wooden beam served as a pole and not all Madame Lusine's lessons had been forgotten. Lambert gave Fenris a private performance, wearing only shadows, candlelight and tattoos. Fenris was pleased to discover the pain didn't stop his body responding.
Lambert landed as lightly and gracefully as a moth; smiled, knelt, and delivered Fenris' next present.
After the wet explosion of music and colour and feeling Fenris found himself half-dozing. He was vaguely aware of Lambert cleaning things up, vaguely aware of Varric and Bianca next door, but not enough to worry about either.
Lambert plopped onto the bed and rested his head on his shoulder. The brands were knifing agony – the Aqua Magus had been a foolish bit of machismo – but he did not shy from the contact.
"Lambert Lethandralis. It sounds good, doesn't it?"
Even through Fenris' half-dozing state - in which everything seemed filtered through pain and alcohol – he was shocked. That Lambert would choose the name Fenris had granted himself on a whim – the name of his sword – over the name of his own beloved father. It said everything about how seriously Lambert took Fenris pride, his hard-won identity, his nascent self.
"Lambert," he said, voice gone curiously rough, "I can take your name, you know."
Lambert smiled sleepily and shifted to get comfortable. Again, the movement hurt like a bastard, and again Fenris said nothing. A strand of Lambert's blue-black hair tickled his nose. "It's okay – my Dad will live on through my brother and my nephew. He'll never be forgotten. I want to take your name."
"We could both be Hawke-Lethandralis," Fenris suggested.
"Hmmm. Fenris and Lambert Hawke-Lethandralis," Lambert rolled the names experimentally on his tongue, "that sounds good. I can see them announcing us at balls."
Fenris didn't bother asking which society balls Lambert thought they would be welcome at: an apostate mage and his Elven lover. If anyone could make it acceptable one day, it would be Lambert.
"Fenris Hawke Lethandralis," he murmured – his last conscious thought. Peace, love and alcohol spread so far in all directions they carried him away...
...There was silver seed rain in his flesh that germinated and put down roots. He could feel them in the channels of his arteries and veins, working their way towards his heart. The lyrium tree sent shoots that sang through his fingertips, twisted around his spine, sliced his abdomen like an open wound. He was being devoured. He thrashed against the terror of extinction, the loss of his own identity, and the Magister spoke a name he did not know. He had known before. The void eyes pierced him, empty and cold as space.
A thunderous luminescence ripped through his body; his veins were rivers of coruscating pain. Breath was beyond him; snatched by the glittering maelstrom.
There was no-one to help him: only Lambert with his black hair and violet eyes, sitting beside the bed. Somehow, he still knew him, but he seemed to fade pale-faced into distances and pain, gave way to other faces, other voices, that he did not know and could not understand. Lambert held his hand but could not reach him. He belonged to another world where darkness and light changed places. He only existed inside himself, a nameless creature sinking deeper and deeper into a body whose wounds festered and suppurated, or else healed into agonizing lines, as though barbed wire had been threaded through him. He dreamed and screamed and was unable to escape the lyrium sharing his skin.
It was a kind of battle and he was losing the fight, growing weaker as the lyrium grew stronger. His breathing turned shallow, his heartbeat faltered, his flesh turned to dust as the metallic rain crept over him. The lyrium was feeding on his life, squeezing him out – his memories alive somewhere but in locked rooms. The space of his body was not enough for both.
He could not move. There was no direction that was not pain. He knew he was dying and the thought died in the shining darkness.
He woke, numb and empty, and found himself alive. It was a strange experience. He was outside himself, floating near the ceiling and looking down on a body that had once been his. A shining silvery thread still connected him to it. It was dead, he thought. Yet he was alive: his vision, his hearing, his perception more acute than it had been before, as if reality were enhanced. He could see the brilliance of Lambert's eyes, the radiance of his skin, the depth of his love. Every mark and emotion of Lambert's life. He smelled almonds and Purple Rain and flowers. Lambert leaned forward and shook Fenris' shoulder, and through the silvery strand Fenris felt his touch, an irresistible connection drawing him back inside his body. There was a lurch of his heartbeat restarting – a slow, arhythmic earthquake - the feel of his own skin tight as a glove, and a thousand unimportant agonies. He gazed up at Lambert - a man and his emotions – tears in Lambert's eyes and a tender beautiful smile on his face
"Fen," he said softly, "It was just a nightmare."
It was not, Fenris knew. He felt himself filling up with shame as he realized his carelessness had endangered Lambert. Without taking Apostate's Friend to dull his connection to lyrium, he might have dreamed of Danarius, woke to the smell of mana on Lambert's skin, and phased before he thought. He might have reached inside Lambert's chest and...
Never! No matter how drunk, he must never forget to take the potion before sleep. He said, "I could do with some Apostate's Friend" sat up and swung his legs over the bed. Lambert was right there with the vial. After Fenris had drunk, Lambert said,
"Fen - my grandmother wrote to say she didn't know how to remove the brands but the Grey Wardens of Weisshaupt might know more. I'm going to accompany Rillian on her quest. She says the Senior Mage Warden has directed her to a place named Red Bride's Grave – claims it contains proof taint was once cured. If taint can be cured perhaps lyrium can be removed. It's a long shot, I'll admit, but if I go I'm doing something! I can't just sit on the island for the rest of my life."
Fenris said, "It's insanely dangerous. Weisshaupt is going to arrest Rillian and once they have her the Chantry will have you – you heard what Carver said about his boss and the Knight Divine. I'll go with you, of course – but I'd rather defend you here."
Lambert shrugged. "I'll go by Despereaux and try and grow a moustache. No-one will know it's me."
Fenris rolled his eyes. "Well - you'll certainly never die from a blow to the brain. If I can just keep the rest of you alive, I should be able to keep you around forever."
Lambert grinned lasciviously and pushed Fenris back down on the bed.
"I'll give you a reason to keep me around..."
AN: The story of the founding of the Wardens by Brun the Wolf, Freya the Fierce and Vhena the Wilder Elf is from a shared fanon I have with icey cold and Shakespira. It's from our shared fic, The Grey Tales, published on ff dot net under Genespira Cold about 10 years ago.