Chapter FIFTEEN

The next few months passed in a blur. Aria Hawke's notoriety climbed with every deed she accomplished, be it on the sly as the recalcitrant asshole of a magistrate ordered when he'd sent her to bring in an escaped convict, or boldly in the open as she and her crew cleared several mercenary gangs out of Kirkwall. Athenril's missions were easy enough—retrievals from raids the Coterie wrought upon her. Hawke scored points with Varric over smoothly lying to Athenril about her missing goods in one instance, having given them to the Fereldan boy Athenril sent to guard them, after wresting them back from the Coterie. She even scored points with Fenris when she let him handle the elf-child serial killer the magistrate had wanted back alive, who incidentally happened to be the magistrate's son. Hawke didn't care about politics; she'd make her own way, and fuck whoever stood in it or felt the pinch of the heel of her boot on their toes. And then there was that cave full of runaway mages that Hawke had let escape, much to Anders's joy and Fenris's severe displeasure. The templar, Thrask, seemed a decent man though; he hadn't wanted the mages to be brought back to the chains of the Kirkwall Circle of Magi. When even a templar was willing to help them escape, it had to make everyone stop and think about the morality of the Circle.

Aria Hawke had also gained a new addition to her party: The shipless pirate captain, Isabela. She helped her shady fellow rogue with her plights, and Hawke's hope for the betterment of Kirkwall was renewed when she learned Isabela had freed would-be slaves from their pending shackles. If the pirate was capable of seeing that slavery was wrong, there was hope for her black heart yet. Despite her misgivings about the pirate, Aria was becoming quite fond of Isabela's company. The woman was a breath of fresh air, refusing to live by a morally corrupt society's double standards. Isabela was all about freedom; and she said whatever was on her mind without too much candy coating. But beyond that, there was a genuine goodness to her that she tried her damnedest to hide. Aria wasn't fooled, and It was a trait that Aria found maddeningly endearing about the other rogue.

Tensions had eased a bit between Anders and Fenris. Aria had been avoiding both of them, as she was driving everyone relentlessly in the pursuit of coin for the expedition into the Deep Roads. She owned half the mine now, and work was continuing, generating a nice little supplementary cash flow each week. She made treks up to the mine every few days to converse with the miners and protect their progress, much to Hubert's approval.

Aveline accompanied her this day on a foray to the mine, along with Isabela and Anders. In hindsight, perhaps it wasn't the wisest choice for a party, but Hawke secretly loved the verbal sparring that occurred between Aveline and Isabela. The forthright, morally superior former knight hated the brash unapologetic promiscuity of the shipless pirate—and it made for interesting outings. Yes, Aria knew she was a heathen for enjoying this cheap form of entertainment. No, she didn't care.

"So, Isabela, you're a captain?" Aveline huffed as they started up one of several rocky, steep climbs they'd be making that day.

"That's right, Big Girl. What of it?" Isabela slinkily asked.

"I don't remember your name on any registries. Every ship that docks has to declare," Aveline haughtily retorted, the underlying intent to ensnare the pirate in legal binds not hidden.

Isabela's eyes narrowed for a second, then feigned smug innocence as she said, "I never docked and you're no Port Authority."

"And you.." Aveline scoffed, pulling herself up a boulder to scathingly stare down at the dusky pirate, "Are no merchant."

"Ooooh. Scrutiny!" Isabela purred, darting past the Captain up a washed out section of the road.

"If you two can't play nice, I'm going to remove both your tongues," Aria growled. Behind her, Anders chuckled.

Isabela laughed in response and Aveline glared grudgingly at Hawke as she passed under the Captain's perch. They climbed for another hour before they reached the mining camp. Hawke made her rounds, chatting with her Fereldan countrymen. The whole group found a little piece of home in reminiscing about the mud and dogs with other refugees. Aria hadn't realized it, but she'd brought only people familiar with Ferelden on this sortie to the mines.

The party returned to Kirkwall proper early in the evening, a couple hours before sunset. Anders swiftly departed for Darktown, surreptitiously snagging and briefly squeezing Hawke's hand before he left. Isabela and Aveline walked to the Hanged Man together, bantering back and forth like warring guinea hens.

"Well, 'captain'. Can I call you Captain? You can call me Captain," Isabela said as she and the giant Guard-Captain paced away down the stairs from Hightown towards the bazaar in Lowtown.

"I won't be doing that," Aveline tersely replied, her hand on the hilt of her sword.

Isabela sniggered, "Neither will I. Because you're a guard captain. No real authority. Not like on a ship."

They turned the corner past the Antivan's wares and Hawke heard Aveline glibly say, "Well, you would know about having a large number of men under you."

Isabela snidely coughed. "You've been waiting to use that one. Did you practice?"

"Shut up," Aveline quipped.

Aria shook her head and kept several paces behind them, until they disappeared behind the door to the Hanged Man. She felt oddly at peace as she trudged the rest of the way to Gamlen's hovel and was lost to the memories she had of her childhood, smiling to herself as she rounded the corner and started for home. Just before she set a foot on the stairs, a gruff, unintelligent voice sounded behind her.

"Filthy little dog lord."

Hawke turned slowly, her hands instinctively reaching for her daggers. She drew them and flicked her wrists, sending the large knives dancing in her hands as she spoke. "And your quarrel would be?"

He stood with four other men, cheaply armed. "We ain't got quarrel with ol' greasy, yer uncle. He's a Kirkwaller, through and through. But you... Refugees is another matter." He spat at his feet, his greasy head lowered, his dim brown eyes issuing as much a challenge as they were capable.

"You think four men is enough for little ol' me?" Aria chimed, idly flipping the dagger in her right hand into the air and deftly catching it.

One of the men behind the gruff-voiced ringleader snorted and spat. "Keep her alive. I wanna see if she's as good in bed as they says she is in a fight."

Hawke whipped the freshly-caught dagger in her right hand straight at the man's face. It buried itself to the hilt just to the left of his nose. He dropped like a burlap full of flour. The other three men bolted. At first it looked like they were going to attack her, but then they scattered and ran screaming down the alley way from which they must have come. Aria smiled to herself as she retrieved the dagger, then kicked the corpse in the derriere for good measure. Filthy dog lord, indeed.

"Sister, could you please keep the killing outside our neighbourhood?" Bethany's voice sweetly chimed from behind her.

Hawke turned and looked up at where her sister stood at the railing on the sad excuse Gamlen had for a porch. The eldest Hawke slowly and dutifully ascended the steps. Bethany handed her a basket. Aria gave her a questioning look, then opened the little wicker lid.

Inside the basket were a bunch of sweet smelling white and light purple wildflowers. The heads of the flowers were adorned with 7 large petals each. They had a scent such as which calls to mind a cool, silvery moonlit summer night in a garden just after a rainstorm. Next to the enormous bouquet of wildflowers were several little vials of scented oils labeled with exotic names in a foreign tongue, a couple bricks of premium lard, and a couple bunches of dried herbs—lavender, sage, and something Aria had not seen before. Aria looked up at Bethany, dumbfounded.

"What is this?" Aria questioned her sister.

Bethany smiled knowingly. "A gift," she said simply.

"A...gift," Aria repeated, nonplussed.

"Yes silly. All the key components to crafting lovely new soaps and lotions," the mage replied as though her sister should know the trappings required of the trade. Aria did not.

"Are they poisoned?" Aria suspiciously sniffed at the flowers, then poked a brick of lard with one of her daggers.

Bethany quirked a brow. "You have gotten quite paranoid."

Aria closed the basket lid and ushered her little sister inside. Mother was sitting at the table writing on parchment with a beautiful ivory quill. Gamlen was gone, as per his usual this time of the evening. No doubt he was nose deep in cheap bosom. Aria hoped he'd pass out there and not come home.

"If you'll give me an hour, I'll have these transformed for you," Bethany offered, taking the basket from Aria.

"If you insist," Aria chuckled, pecking at the lacings of her chest armor to loosen it. Leandra looked up from the table then and smiled at her eldest.

"'Twould seem you've a lot of suitors as of late," the Hawke matriarch cajoled as Aria sat on the bench across from her.

Aria grunted in response and unlaced her boots. Leandra laughed softly to herself and continued penning. Bethany disappeared into the lavatory. Aria continued removing her armour, sighing heavily once the cool air hit her hot, very tired feet.

"What was that scuffle before you came inside?" Leandra asked once Aria had stripped to her underarmor, which consisted of close-fitting black leather trousers and a padded long-sleeved woven white shirt that laced from just beneath the start of her bosom all the way to the neck.

"Just some disgruntled drunk Kirkwallers," Aria replied.

"I do wish they'd give off it already," Leandra sniped, blowing on the ink to make it dry quicker. "You are just as much a Kirkwaller as they are."

Aria bit her tongue. No, she indeed wasn't a Kirkwaller. Her home was still in Ferelden and she wished she had another life there. But wishing never helped anyone, and the peace she'd found earlier had been cruelly dispelled. She excused herself and went into the bedroom she shared with Bethany. She softly closed the door and clambered onto the top bunk.

What seemed but a moment later, Bethany was gently shaking her awake. Aria groggily sat up, mindful of the proximity of the rough-hewn beams just inches from her head. Too many times, she'd hit her head on the damn things and ducking had become a reflex at this point. Bethany held up a bar of soap and Aria took it.

The scent was unlike anything she'd ever smelled before. It was beautiful, dark, cool, sweet, sad, and hopeful, all in one whiff. "Mmm, that is lovely."

"Isn't it? I must find where he got these flowers. I've never seen them before," Bethany chortled, huffing into her hands as though she were a drug addict.

Aria laughed. "He being whom?"

"I don't know. They were just left on the door step when I got home. I haven't drawn any attention as of late, but you have been calling it in droves. I surmised they were for you and upon discovering the contents of that basket, I knew what they were for."

The elder Hawke laughed again and shook her head. "Are you sure they weren't for you? Someone knew you liked making them. I'll put on some water for a bath."

"I'm certain. Do hurry, I was hoping we could join our friends at the Hanged Man," Bethany bubbled. "You haven't done anything but work this past month and it would do you good to let your hair down. Literally and figuratively."

Aria entered the lavatory and found there was already steaming water in the tub, under a layer of thick, intoxicatingly scented foam. On the overturned bucket that served as a shower ledge, there were two new bottles; one shampoo and one cream rinse. Aria quickly undressed and immersed herself in this well-earned luxury. She begrudgingly hurried with her cleansing and donned her most recently acquired ensemble.

She had selected a light purple peasant blouse with black lacing on the bosom, her favorite pair of black doeskin leggings, and knee-high buff colored boots. Bethany did her hair with the pewter combs the mage had gifted her what seemed like eons ago. In truth, it had been but a few months.

The sisters left the house together and walked the short passage to the Hanged Man. It was unusually busy tonight—the bazaar was packed and there was a long line for drinks at the bar. Corff was smiling ear to ear—a high profit night for him. It appeared the templars had gotten reinforcements. As a result, Bethany ducked out after saying hello to their party members. Aria only found this out when Anders appeared at the door to Varric's room and told her. Not wanting her sister to spend the evening alone, Aria stood.

When Aria made to leave, Fenris strode lithely in, a tray of tankards perched on his shoulder. Varric invited her to participate in Wicked Grace; she declined that offer but accepted the tankard Fenris offered her and took a seat on one of the newly added sofas near the hearth. The room now consisted of Fenris, Anders, Isabela, and Varric playing Wicked Grace, Norah the barmaid sleeping on Varric's bed, and Hawke observing from her perch on the sofa.

"Rivaini, stop looking at my chest. My eyes are up here," Varric said as he dealt the cards.

"But the chest hair..." Isabela crooned, leaning forward to better examine Varric's abundant fur. Aria watched the rogue's eyes dart at Varric's cards. Aria stifled a giggle by drinking deeply from her tankard.

"Do you know how much I suffer under your gaze? I am a person, not an object!" Varric replied, feigning hurt. He moved his cards out of her line of sight, wise to the ruse.

"Uh, Varric?" Isabela snidely asked, giving him the once over with her chamelon-esque hazel eyes.

Varric chuckled. "Just shittin' you."

Fenris shook his head at his hand and sighed almost imperceptibly. Isabela, reading the elf's tells, decided to try and fluster him further.

"I enjoy a man with markings like that," she cajoled, shooting him her most sultry gaze.

Fenris snorted, "You've enjoyed many, I suspect."

Anders, Aria, and Varric both burst out laughing at this.

Unfazed, Isabela continued. "Where I come from, they're called tattoos. Sailors get them all the time."

"Not made of lyrium, I imagine," Fenris tersely replied, his eyes resting on Hawke for a few seconds too long. Aria could feel the blush creep into her cheeks and took another drink. The corner of his mouth twitched up and his eyes seemed to darken. Aria's pulse thrummed a few beats-per-minute faster and she steadied herself with another drink.

"Not a one," Isabela replied, winking at Aria. "And the pictures are different—usually breasts."

Varric and Anders nodded in agreement to the truth of that statement. Merrill appeared at the door then and Varric waved her in.

"I suppose a pair of lyrium breasts tattooed onto my chest would make things better," Fenris dryly stated, watching as Varric started the hand out.

"That's me. I'm a helper," Isabela chirped, playing out a card.

"You're going to help Fenris get lyrium breasts?" Merrill asked, aghast, as she seated herself next to Hawke. She had a tankard in her hand already.

Everyone but Fenris broke into laughter that woke Norah. She simply turned over and put a pillow over her head. Aria was jealous—the wench could literally fall asleep anywhere. It usually took Aria eons to get to sleep.

"Daisy, do you know a spell that could do that?" Varric asked. "I bet you could make a fortune selling lyrium breasts to the nobles."

"Why would anyone want them?" Merrill queried, confused. "The only ones who could tap their potential would be mages. And they're... All prisoners in the Circle."

"We're joking, Daisy," Varric sweetly replied.

"You joke about funny things," Merrill laughed. Then hiccoughed.

"Just how many of those have you had, sweet thing?" Isabela purred at the Dale.

Merrill looked down at the tankard in her hand worriedly. "Three?"

"She's hammered. Leave her alone," Anders good-naturedly chided, playing his card in the hand. It was higher than both Isabela's and Varric's. Isabela snorted and sat back in her chair at his play.

"You're no fun. I bet we would let you watch," Isabela said with a swivel of her hips in the chair.

Fenris laid down a card that beat all three of them. He swept the ante pile into his lap and led with the next card in his hand. It was higher than the previous.

"Power play, huh?" Varric laughed, putting his next card down, and losing again.

"For the love of..." Isabela snarled, throwing down another low card. Anders followed suit, smiling ruefully at Aria. Fenris took the hand again.

Aria watched them play for 3 more tankards, by the end of which, Merrill had curled up at the foot of Varric's bed and was out cold, next to Norah. Hawke was content to just watch and drink tonight. It was nice to just watch for once. To not be involved in the thick of it. To just enjoy the company of her friends-at-arms. Anders made his leave out the back entrance, seen to by Varric shortly after Aria ordered her fourth tankard. The mage warden had dutifully kept his eyes from Aria all night. Norah woke and went downstairs to assist with her tavern closing duties.

Varric put away the cards and joined Hawke on the sofa. Isabela went downstairs to the bar to seek less than savory action with anyone she fancied for the evening. Fenris sat on the other sofa, across from Varric and Hawke.

"So where's your beard, elf?" Varric chimed as they settled themselves.

"Elves don't grow beards," Fenris replied, with just a hint of befuddlement and a dash of sarcasm.

"Huh. I thought maybe you shaved it off in a fit of broody pique," Varric jibed good-naturedly.

Fenris took a sip of his tankard and leveled his gaze on the dwarf. His voice was smooth, deep, and sarcastic as he said, "So you're a funny dwarf."

Aria couldn't help it. She burst with tinkling laughter. It always seemed the other had an even wittier comeback. Most people thought Fenris was dour and bitter. But he was actually—quite funny, once his brand of humour was understood. And now, it was something she enjoyed, this verbal tete a tete between friends.

"Hawke thinks so," Varric smoothly replied, elbowing Aria in the ribs.

Fenris looked at her, his emerald eyes alight with something she could not place, his face suddenly stoic. "Hawke can be a—questionable judge of character."

"Especially when it comes to her taste in men," Varric agreed, and he and Fenris toasted on that.

"Oh piss off," Aria giggled, the alcohol making her giddy. "I haven't had a man in...in..." She hiccoughed. "Damn. I'm a cloistered sister."

Varric roared with laughter at this and Fenris was silent, his gaze growing slightly more intense as Hawke made the admission. It should have made her uncomfortable, the heat in the elf's gaze. But it didn't. It made her feel much more playful, much more... Alive.

"If you're a cloistered sister, I'm the King of Dwarves," Varric laughed.

"Says the dwarf whose lover is a dangerous inanimate object," Hawke threw back. She went to take a drink, but found the tankard was empty. With a look of absolute sorrow, she turned it upside down. When no liquid came out, she set the tankard on the coffee table in front of her. "I think that's nature's way of saying I should probably go home."

Varric stifled first a burp, then a yawn, and nodded. "Yes, it's about that time."

Fenris drained the rest of the mead in his tankard and set it next to Hawke's. "Shall I escort you home?" he asked Aria, standing and offering her his hand.

She took the help and swayed slightly as she stood, leaning for a split second against the warrior elf before quickly recovering her balance. "I wouldn't mind company."

Varric shook his head. "You may have to carry her. She doesn't look all that steady."

"Yes well, with as low as your center of gravity is, I wouldn't expect you to understand how tall people balance works," Aria giggled. She covered her mouth and her tawny eyes grew wide, the words slipping from her mouth before it had a chance to check in with her brain, first.

"Like I said before, Hawke, if all you can jest about is my height, I must be quite alright," Varric replied with a saucy grin. He stood and hugged her before Fenris led her down the stairs and out the doors.

The wind that came off the harbour was light, fresh, and clean. The dark, overcast sky hung heavy with pregnant clouds, whose water would fall soon. Aria was invigorated by the fresh air and did not wish to return home yet, she decided. She wanted to... To go. Run. Be alive and free. Fenris went to turn her toward the street that led to Gamlen's hovel but she resisted.

"No, I don't think I'm quite ready to go back home," she groused as Fenris tugged her arm once more in the direction of home.

"No?" he quietly asked, stopping her so that he could look into her eyes. He had to look down slightly. Heavens he was tall for an elf, she thought for the hundredth time. Tall, muscular, handsome, with lovely eyes and a beautiful deep voice...

"Why do you look at me like that?" Hawke brazenly asked.

"Look at you like...what?" Fenris quizzically countered.

"I don't know. But it makes my insides get warm and—I'm definitely shutting up now. Can we walk through the gardens in Hightown before you take me home? I know Gamlen's there by now and I'm afraid I might kill him if he runs his mouth, as he is guaranteed to do."

He started leading her through the bazaar towards the Hightown steps. He loved it when she was brazen—not in a bawdy, unsavory way, but in an innocent, earnest way. He loved it when she let her guard down around him, let him see the sweet, shy, vulnerable version of herself that very few others got to see. Fenris found himself wishing he'd known her before the Blight. Before he'd been Danarius's slave. Things... Could have been much different. For the both of them. He tightened his hold on her just slightly at the thought.

"You're brooding," Hawke teased, returning the slight pressure on his arm.

"You said you were definitely shutting up now," he replied, looking over at her. A slight smile tugged up one corner of his lips.

"We can't both be broody. It upsets the balance of nature," Hawke candidly replied, giggling.

They reached the top of the steps and sprinkles of rain started to fall, bouncing off the stones and sending tiny puffs of dust into the air in their wake. Slight mist rose from the streets, the cool of the night sucking the last of the day's heat from the stones in the street. Aria breathed deeply, loving the first scents of fresh earth just before a heavy downfall of rain would ensue.

"It's going to rain," Fenris said simply, staring up at the black sky. A few droplets hit his face and slid down his lyrium tattoos on his neck.

Hawke couldn't stop her hand from gently tracing the rivulets along their silvery paths until her fingers encountered the armour at his chest. She realized he'd held his breath and a slight trembling took his arms. The touch had a profound effect on him, though whether it was positive or negative, she couldn't accurately discern.

"Let it rain," she softly replied, looking back up into his wondrous, vibrant green eyes.

"You are...such a strange woman," Fenris said after a moment, his hand covering hers where it had stopped on his chest. He feared she could feel the tumultuous hammering of his heart there, how it raced. He conceded then, if only ever to himself, that he wanted her. He wanted her in ways he didn't think he'd ever truly desire another.

"Thanks, I think," Aria laughed, gently removing her hand. She threw her gaze across the courtyard, which was empty of merchants for the time being. Then she looked back at Fenris, her ocher eyes bright with mischief. "Catch me if you can."

Aria bolted then, as fast as her legs would carry her. She darted across the courtyard, up the steps towards the Hightown mansions, then clambered up the vines that climbed the garden walls. She raced across the top of the wall, feet nimble and sure, just as the rain began to come down in torrents. Fenris ran beside the wall, yelling at her to slow down.

From up here, she could see all of Kirkwall. It was stunning, shining in the night, all the stone wet and looking like it was made from lacquered onyx. Street lamps glittered across the town, little yellow stars twinkling in the night. She stumbled then, nicking a crenelation with her foot, and launched herself off the wall. It felt like she fell for an eternity before she landed safely in Fenris's steely arms.

He was breathing hard, the muscles in his pectorals heaving impressively. She could see the thrum of his pulse in his neck, frenetically throbbing with the heavy thud of his pulse. A fine trembling shook his arms as he held her to him, his eyes alight with an intensity that stole her breath.

"You're shaking," Aria said simply, reaching up to touch his cheek.

"You could have died!" Fenris hoarsely whispered, rainwater falling in silvery rivers off his hair and face, further soaking her already drenched blouse.

"I was trying to learn how to fly. And in the end, I was caught by a most loyal friend," she replied, keenly aware of the heat radiating off him.

He contemplated this silently, no doubt thinking back to Flemeth's words. He turned his head slowly to nudge Aria's palm with his nose. She trembled at the heat of his breath on her fingers, then timidly traced his lips. His breath stuttered and a soft sound, almost a whimper, escaped his throat.

"Aria," he sighed. "We can't do this now, or here."

Just like that the magic she'd experienced the past hour came filtering down around her like ashes falling on a gentle breeze. He gently stood her up, his eyes flitting to her lips every few seconds. Fenris still embraced her once she was fully upright, one arm curved around her waist, the other around her shoulders.

"You're going to be the death of me," Fenris whispered. He touched his lips to her forehead, a display of affectionate respect. He knew he didn't dare seek her lips. He'd come undone, and he wasn't... Wasn't ready.

Aria was speechless. Her drunken senses were in overdrive and her inebriated mind couldn't keep up with the barrage of information, her body fatiguing quickly under the adrenaline dump. She let him lead her home, keeping her tucked close to his body as they walked. Every few minutes, his lyrium brandings flared for a few seconds. It showered her in delicious warmth and she loved to look at him when he did it. He was otherworldly, beautiful, strange. He intrigued her and she could do nothing to hide it.

Fenris watched her run up the steps to the rickety old door on Gamlen's hovel once they reached it. She paused just before opening the door to look back at him. They stood there for a couple moments, having a conversation with just their eyes, wondering what changes this night had brought about between them, if it was real, if it could last. His mouth quirked slightly the way it did when he was tempted to smile. He bowed deeply, then strode off with a wave.

Aria darted inside where it was cool compared to the heat of Fenris's body. She shivered and started to undress.

"Lovers dance in the rain," Gamlen grumbled drunkenly from his stool.

Aria gagged and tugged her shirt back down, settling instead for the moment to wring the water from it by hand. "Lovers?"

"You must be drunk."

"Pot, meet kettle. Kettle, meet pot," Aria snarked, tromping into the bedroom she and Bethany shared.