Uptown, Downtown, All Around Town
by Cryptographic DeLurk
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AN: Written for Fenrill Week for the prompt Hightown, though the result turned out to be more of an ensemble tour of the different strata of Kirkwall. In any case, I enjoyed writing, and thank you for your interest :)
Read & Relax.
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Sleep had gotten more stable and more sound over the years. Fenris still kept odd hours, up at all times of the night and sleeping well past midday – something that made Isabela tease and Aveline censure. And it still took a careful mix of exhaustion and alcohol and meditative calm to put him out. But it was a deeper sleep and more restful than he'd once been accustomed to. He had begun to find the bed and its plush comforter more comfortable than the rug on the floor. And he dreamed of things other than fevered paranoia which once had him waking at every creak of the floorboards or chattering mouse.
Perhaps ironically, he found himself more irritable when he was roused from these depths than he ever had been when Danarius pulled him from lighter sleep with a mere brush of fingers along his neck. Or maybe he had always been angry, just never had leave to feel it so keenly before.
It was hard to be anything else when he'd been woken from lovely oblivion to a magnificent crash from the hall. Fenris startled, the unpleasant reminder that, no matter how it may seem otherwise, he was not safe here, and would never truly be safe until Danarius was dead and six feet underground. He rushed blindly for his leggings, flung over the chair, and peeled them up his legs the best he could. Then he went for his sword. He only allowed himself one deep breath before bursting out the doors of the master bedroom. Best to not overthink. Let instinct carry him the rest of the way.
There was no one on the stairwell, and Fenris leaned over the balcony on the stairs' upper landing to peer down into the hall.
Having identified the source of the disturbance and finding it (relatively) harmless, he leaned his sword against the stair railing and crossed his arms over his chest.
"Are you hurt?" he made himself ask. And when the all too energetic cacophony of flustered apologies echoed about the room, he rolled his eyes. "Stay there," he commanded. He could deal with this once he had a shirt on.
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Merrill remained dutifully next to the site of the crash, rubbing a sore bottom but otherwise unharmed. Of course she was unharmed. Despite looking as if she might be blown over by a strong wind, Fenris always found Merrill somewhere between plucky, hardy, and virulent. Like a cockroach.
"Explain," Fenris demanded.
Merrill toed the pile of shattered crystal, the rusted metal frame, the stubs of a few candles burnt down to the wick.
"Hawke told me to," Merrill said.
"Hawke told you to barge into my house and tear holes in my ceiling?" Fenris pointed angrily between the shattered chandelier, and where the once smooth plaster on the ceiling now left a gaping hole up to the rafters. It would probably leak and everything.
"No, of course not." Merrill said. Her voice was arrogant, like Fenris was the one being foolish. "I was at Hawke's place trying to climb up to swing on the chandelier, but she told me I was being a 'distraction' and that if I was going to make a mess of everyone's Hightown manors, I should do it some place that was already a mess. So she shooed me over to yours." Merrill pouted. "I just didn't realise that your chandelier was so lacking in… integrity."
Fenris glared at the chandelier. It was not really any more out of place shattered about the floor with the dust and broken bottles than it was attached to the ceiling. Its sudden introduction to the floor annoyed him somewhat less than being woken up, and definitely less than having awoken to find his house beset by a blood mage. There were many things wrong with this situation, but Fenris was surprised to find that he was ranking Hawke number one on the list.
It was understood, somewhat, that it was in Merrill's nature to make a mess of things and that she could not be held entirely responsible for herself. It was another thing entirely for Hawke to be shooing her wayward blood mage in Fenris's direction every time she became tired of dealing with Merrill herself.
It set a dangerous precedent. Fenris would not stand for it.
"We're going to see Hawke," Fenris said.
"Oh, is it a visit? Should we bring pie?" Merrill asked.
Fenris ignored her question and simply stalked to the door. He would find Hawke, and make it clear that he was not interested in hosting blood mages or becoming Merrill's babysitter, and be given reassurance nothing like this would ever happen again.
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"I'm terribly sorry, Messer Fenris, but Messere Hawke just took her leave," Bodahn offered.
"Well, where did she go?" Fenris grumbled. Only to have it cut out by Sandal's and Merrill's keening cries.
"Enchantment!"
"Orana!"
"Oh, Mistress Merrill." Orana could be seen in the back. She blushed over the heap of laundry she was carrying.
"So long as we're here, is this a bad time for a music lesson?" Merrill chirped, walking past Bodahn at the threshold and into the main part of the house.
"It is," Fenris snapped.
"Not at all," Orana disagreed. "I was just about to take a break from this anyhow."
Bodahn gestured him inside, and Fenris hastened to catch up with Merrill.
"What are you doing?!" Fenris asked. "I need to talk to Hawke. I need you to be there when I talk to Hawke."
"But why?" Merrill asked. "Do you only talk to her when I'm around? That would be very odd."
Fenris pursed his lips. He supposed it was too much to expect that the three of them could come to a mutual agreement – no blood mages bothering Fenris at unholy hours of the afternoon.
"Oh, I see," Merrill laid a placating hand on Fenris's arm. "We all need someone there for moral support at times. I'll only be visiting with Orana an hour or so, so I can come with you then."
It was very hard to determine if Merrill was being genuine or poking fun at him and, in the time it took to ponder this, Fenris found himself seated in an armchair Orana's bedroom as Merrill tried and failed to be instructed.
Orana was arranging Merrill's fingers across the neck of the lute in chords, again and again, repeating patterns. Every so often she would glance anxiously in Fenris's direction, and look away again. The fear was always palpable in her eyes.
Fenris slouched further in his seat every time she did. He wished, not for the first time, that Hawke had simply sent her away.
He had not known Orana in Tevinter. Visits to Hadriana's estate were highlighted by many things – updates and planning for the war effort against the Qun, political intrigue and threats to Danarius by his fellow Magisters, and of course Fenris's silent desperate efforts to be a good boy for Danarius, so he would not instead be thrown to Hadriana's tender mercies for the evening. The daughter of a mere kitchen slave had been beneath his notice.
He doubted the same could be said the other way round. And he found himself terminally anxious about what Orana knew, and what she had shared. He had worked hard to reinvent himself here in Kirkwall. He did not need shadows of the past lurking about, seeing in him the person that had trailed after Danarius like a dog desperate for treats, seeing in him the animal that held down struggling slaves as Danarius had them cut for blood sacrifice.
Merrill seemed to have gotten some hang of strumming the lute, and Orana nodded at her eagerly. She pulled back with one last tender adjustment to Merrill's hands, and walked backwards to sit on her bed.
Merrill's playing was messy and mournful, but she seemed to have a bizarre confidence as she played through her mistakes. Fenris would have accepted it in stride, if Merrill didn't then open her mouth to sing like a screeching banshee.
She began in Elvish, and somehow managed to turn the liquid, molten quality of the language into a full frontal assault. Fenris glanced at Orana who, even with a smile plastered to her face, could not manage to hide her wince.
Fenris sunk lower into the armchair.
At some point Merrill had switched to the common tongue, and a livelier tune:
…
They threw me out of Nevarra,
Right into the Minanter,
A Marcher plucked me out in Wycome,
Of those carousing Marchers do beware.
I sailed to Ferelden,
Fought a Dog in a fighting ring,
They turned me away at Orzammar,
When I wouldn't kiss the King.
And then I came to Kirkwall,
Chained gem upon the land,
A slaver caught me on the docks,
Sent me back where I'd began.
…
The song was made to loop back around to the start, but Orana interrupted with a little too enthusiastic an applause, so as to save their ears from further torture.
Fenris was occupied with another detail. When Merrill had ceased preening at the applause, he interrupted. "That song doesn't end in Kirkwall. The slave goes east to Lydes, and is caught in Val Royeaux."
"Orana changed it," Merrill said. "We thought this was more topical."
Tasteless was the word Fenris would have used.
"Again?" Merrill asked, as she raised her hand to strum the lute again.
"Oh, um-" Orana leapt from her seat. She brushed a hand apologetically over Merrill's shoulder before gently prying the lute from her hands. "Why don't you listen again?"
Orana handled the instrument with a gentle sway and a firm grip. She sung beautifully, and misplaced no notes. Of course – these were the skills Hadriana had beat into her.
But Fenris listened as the song transformed under Orana's careful affections. Something with a completely different tone, more worldly and sad.
Merrill watched her with a serious face. A Keeper's job was to listen and remember.
It was still tasteless, Fenris thought. But he thought he might understand anyhow.
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"Why do you do it?" Fenris asked.
"Do what?" Merrill asked. She was examining the bottoms of her feet with her face pinched in wary disgust. Hightown streets were cleaner than many, but not that clean.
"You must realise you have no musical talent," Fenris said. Though perhaps he was assuming too much. The witch seemed to have no self awareness about many things.
"Talent is nourished," Merrill said. "But you're right. Even if I never improve, I would still do it."
Fenris regarded her curiously. The market was packed at this hour, many hurrying to make their purchases and head home before the evening. It was slow moving through the crowd, and Fenris could afford to watch her.
"She spends a great deal of time alone in that house," Merrill explained. "Orana, I mean. It does her good to know there is more to the world than simply Hawke and her needs. That there are places and people she can go to, if need be."
"Planning on recruiting her for your tribe on Sundermount?" Fenris said wearily.
"Only if she likes," Merrill replied. "Pol was a flat ear too once, before we took him in… I don't know where Orana would go if something happened to Hawke."
Fenris didn't know himself. He knew Hawke paid Orana, but he had never found an answer for the question Hawke initially posed to him when he objected to her bringing Orana to her estate. What else will she do?
Fenris was saved from thinking about this more when he caught sight of Donnic holding vigil at the corner of the marketplace. Ah, Kirkwall's Guard, with nothing better to do than stand in the marketplace and warn off pickpockets and burglars from the wealthiest of the city's merchants. And yet Fenris liked Donnic. He was a good and honest person, committed to his work and his family.
Fenris waved, and Donnic waved back, and Merrill followed when Fenris trotted up to him.
"Hey there, Fenris, Merrill," Donnic greeted. "What's about?"
"Just out looking for Hawke," Fenris explained. "You haven't seen her, have you?"
"Afraid not."
Fenris nodded. "We heard that she was headed over to the Hanged Man, though it was a while ago. Perhaps Varric or Isabela held her up."
"Well, don't let me stop you," Donnic said. He reached over Fenris's head and flicked the pommel of the greatsword at his back.
Fenris chuckled. They both knew elves were not legally permitted to carry weapons in the city. They also knew that nobody in the guard would be enforcing that rule.
"Are you still on to help out with the warehouse inspections on Tuesday?" Donnic asked.
"Wouldn't miss it," Fenris agreed. "And Wicked Grace on Thursday?"
"Of course." Donnic clasped a hand on his shoulder in a perfunctory sort of way. His eyes glanced about the marketplace. "I'm on duty now. But we'll catch up then."
The hand pulled away and, embarrassingly, Fenris felt himself lean in, chasing the lost contact. He was being a fool, he knew. But when Fenris chanced a glance up, Donnic was looking elsewhere. It seemed he hadn't caught Fenris's mistake.
Merrill said her own goodbyes, and followed Fenris as he dropped down the stairs to Lowtown two at a time.
"He seems in good enough spirits," Merrill ventured. "But a little brusquer than I expected."
Fenris grunted.
"Isabela said you'd gone to bed with Aveline and Donnic," she announced, "but they never act particularly affectionate with you in public."
"She said that, did she?" Fenris said wearily.
He increased his pace descending the stairs. Not that it mattered. Merrill was impossible to run from.
"Well, no," Merrill said. "She said a lot of other things though. That they'd peached your pudding or marked your lyrium or recited your chant or something. It was all very silly, but I think she was just talking about sex."
Fenris gave a non-committal hum. He would have hoped Isabela understood when information was revealed in confidence. But Isabela had always been far too fond of the witch.
"But you'd never know it from how professional they are with you in public." Merrill scratched her chin absently. "They're less professional with one another, and they work together… Do they love you?"
"They love having something novel and exotic to keep their marriage bed fresh," Fenris snorted. He did not like the bitter sound of the things he said. "They don't care for me that way."
"Oh," Merrill pouted. "Well, that's a little sad. And impersonal. Why do you do it?"
Fenris shrugged. "They're good enough friends. They know to be gentle and polite. And I can count on them to set me up with honest clients for mercenary work, whether I agree to entertain them otherwise or not."
"Don't you want someone to love you, though?" Merrill asked. When Fenris didn't answer, she seemed to take this as indicative. "See, it's a little sad."
"You're a little sad," Fenris snipped. He halted at the bottom of the stair, and was all too aware he sounded a petulant child.
"Maybe a little," Merrill agreed.
Merrill had this bad habit of leaving Fenris with nothing to say. He lifted a hand to- he wasn't sure. Push her away? Cuff her on the cheek?
He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. The hair at the nape of her neck was stringy. And she giggled as he pulled her into a headlock and dragged her forward towards the Hanged Man.
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"Sorry, Broody, you just missed her," Varric said. "I think she was off to see her resident boy toy in the sewers."
Fenris grumbled as he toed the red rug in Varric's room. It would be an unpleasant location in which to catch up with Hawke, but it would have to do.
"My thanks," he offered, before turning on his heel.
"Oh, Broody, you're not running off so soon, are you?" Varric had a way of making the very notion sound like insanity. "I was just about to sit down for an early dinner. Why don't the two of you join me? I'll have Norah bring you up a plate and a pint."
Fenris knew that Varric used these invitations as a pretext to mine for story material, and while sometimes he went along with it in his gratitude for Varric's help with personal matters like penning missives or brokering information, he saw little reason to do so today with the witch in tow. He was about to open his mouth to politely decline when Merrill's stomach growled.
"Oh, I am feeling a bit peckish," Merrill admitted. She fanned herself in the warm firelight of Varric's room.
"You can eat after I've put you back with Hawke," Fenris told her.
"Oh, c'mon, Broody. I'll pick up the tab."
Merrill pursed her lips. "Come to think of it- You haven't eaten today either, have you, Fenris?"
"I, uh-" In the time it took Fenris to figure out whether or not to lie about this, Merrill advanced.
"You know, that's terribly unhealthy of you, Fenris," Merrill scolded. "You've been up for four hours now and you still haven't eaten. You really should be eating twice daily at the very least, and more than just wine."
"Yes, think of the havoc you're wrecking on your poor metabolism!" Varric clutched his hand to his chest in a false display of shock. And then clapped his hands for Norah's sake. "It's decided then. You'll stay for dinner and tell me all about how Daisy knows how long you've been up."
Merrill ended up telling most of the story, which began in the alienage somewhere around six in the morning and meandered for what seemed like an eternity through breakfast, strolls in the Hightown gardens, and body shots with Isabela before Fenris even entered the story. And Merrill told most of it leaning over Fenris's lap, since she and Varric had conspired to crowd him in between them at the table and did not have a direct view of each other.
At some point Norah appeared with a tray holding three pints of lager and three heaping plates of food. She set one with a steak and knife and mash in front of Varric. The other two each held a sliced roll filled with grilled meat and cheese, Orlesian fried potatoes, and a bulbous cucumber pickle sliced in quarters. Merrill rubbed her hands together gleefully, and immediately grabbed for the food with her hands. Fenris reached for the pint first, before picking at the potatoes with a fork.
They were actually good. Dammit.
"Oooh, this is much better than the food Isabela usually gets for me here," Merrill talked around a mouthful of cheese.
"Only the best for the both of you," Varric said. "Or me, more like. I arranged for some higher quality ingredients from the merchant's guild and paid Corff a pretty penny to keep them on hold for me and my guests. Rivaini just called me a snob." He snorted. "No taste."
"How did the merchant's guild get a hold of them?" Fenris asked. "The dwarves aren't actually able to grow much produce in their underground cities, are they?"
"It's a wider network than you know," Varric smiled. He'd stabbed his steak and held it up whole on his fork, nibbling at one side of it. "Who wants to waste time talking shop though?"
Fenris did. "Do you trade with Kal Sharok too?" He narrowed his eyes.
"Trying to catch me indirectly trading with the Vints?" Varric asked. "By that logic there's no money that's clean. Haven't you ever heard the saying-? 'Money is like nug shit. Works best if it's spread around.' Or, well, it's something like that anyway."
Fenris used his knife to saw an edge off his sandwich. He took an overlarge bite of meat and pickle.
"Don't pout, Broody. I'm not dealing in any trade you'd fine objectionable. And, well, if I didn't have a way to get messages to Tevinter, it'd be a problem for you and your sister." Varric waved him off. "But forget about that. I want to hear about how you and Daisy are suddenly getting along."
Merrill's mouth popped off the side of her mug and she sighed contentedly. "We spent an hour or so causing a ruckus in Orana's bedroom."
Fenris in the meantime spat out his own drink.
"Oh? Care to share all the details?" Varric asked. "Or should I just make something up?"
.
.
"You know he's going to tell everyone we're an item before the end of the week," Fenris grumbled.
"But we're not really, so does it matter either way?" Merrill asked. "Oh, unless it's a problem for you, Fenris." Merrill put on a tremendous pout. "I suppose if I were you I might not want to be associated with someone as dull as me."
Fenris had to keep from rolling his eyes. The way she wielded self-deprecation like a weapon was grating. "I only meant you invite him to build you into a story when you take him up on his offers."
"But I was hungry," Merrill whined.
Fenris frowned moodily at the ground. He supposed he had been hungry too.
"Anyhow, it's better that he's gossiping about us," Merrill said. "It's better if he's busy thinking about body shots and chandeliers and what 'Daisy' is doing. He doesn't need to know how close Merrill is to repairing the Eluvian. I don't need it ending up in some book and the Chantry trying to swoop it up for themselves."
If what she said was true, he wasn't sure why she was willing to share it with him. "Nobody cares about that stupid mirror but you." Fenris gave a half-hearted sneer.
"They don't so long as it's not working," Merrill chirped. "They'll care a lot once I'm done putting six years of myself into it and it actually does something."
It seemed just as likely to Fenris that if the mirror was doing anything it would probably be opening a portal to the Black City and spewing demons out all over Kirkwall. But that was a problem for another day.
Mostly because there were other problems right in front of them.
He halted in his tracks before she did, and Merrill walked cluelessly into his back.
"Ooph~ Fenris?"
He hushed her swiftly. The placement of white walls and stairs and buildings was uneven in this part of Lowtown, but he recognised where the clunking armour and swish of skirts was coming from, up ahead to the left. The glint of silver and royal purple peeked from around the corner.
What a place to be! And of course here Fenris was, with the crowd already dangerously thin as the Lowtown Market cleared out for the night, caught between the templars and Merrill. Merrill, who looked far too magely to his eyes, with a "walking stick" pinned to her back and everything.
Fenris blinked at her. She seemed entirely unconcerned with their situation. If she even realised there was any situation to begin with, given the way her eyes were tracing the evening sky for clouds. This, apparently, left everything up to Fenris.
It was not the first time Fenris had had to make this decision. And while the streets would have doubtless been safer without a blood mage wandering about, there were some obvious problems to letting Merrill be taken. The first being that she was Hawke and Isabela's friend, and he would never hear the end of it. The rest being that Merrill, as a maleficar, would be unlikely to make it out of such a situation alive. And even if she did, some of the things the templars did were… unconscionable. They were the only thing holding this city together, and one could argue such was a necessary evil. But Fenris did not see any reason why he must personally participate in it, especially when one of his was concerned.
He wrapped an arm around Merrill's waist, leaned into her, and redirected them into the alleyway towards the Alienage, attempting to bypass the templars.
"Oh! This is different," Merrill chuckled. He broke into a brisker pace once they'd snuck out of sight, and let go of Merrill except to drag her by the arm. He stepped swiftly over smashed crates and piles of filth and tried very hard not to think of what exactly he might be stepping in, as he rerouted them in his head. They'd have to double back towards the foundry district to get back on track to Darktown, and he thought of the web of backstreets that could likely get them there.
Their pace slowed as Fenris became more convinced they'd lost the templars. And then Merrill had the audacity to ask, "Why are we off in the alley?" She paused only briefly. "Did you drag me here to 'have your way with me'?"
Fenris halted and spun on her. "What?! No!" He was surrounded by fools, and he tried to channel that anger instead of anything more embarrassing. "What put that thought into your head?"
"Well, Isabela told me that it was something men in this city do. Drag women off into alleys and try to have their way with them," Merrill explained. "She told me if anyone tried it with me, I should kick them in the kneecaps and then shank them and come find her." Merrill tilted her head slightly. "But if it's you, I don't think I'd mind too much."
Merrill looked so unperturbed, Fenris struggled to find much to say. By all accounts he should be repulsed, not standing there like a dullard feeling the blush creep up his face. He cleared his throat.
"You don't think you'd mind having to stab me, or you don't think you'd mind if I, em- That is…" He trailed off nervously.
"Yes," Merrill agreed. "One of those or the other."
Merrill managed to keep a straight face for the duration of about five seconds, before she burst into a fit of giggles. "Oh, your face, Fenris. You should have seen it."
Fenris gritted his teeth as Merrill doubled over laughing at him. "You saw the templars," he said. It was not a question.
"Oh, don't be sour," Merrill coughed between giggles. "It was very sweet and gentlemanly of you, Fenris. Truly."
Fenris took her arm again and walked them over a grate, omitting hot air from the foundry work.
"Yes, I would fit right in at an Orlesian ball," Fenris drawled. And it was satisfying how this transformed Merrill's giggles into a choked wheeze.
.
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Darktown itself was about as active at night as it was at any other time, and while the Darktown Clinic could barely be considered an exception (no rest for the blighted) it did seem different. Patients were checked and healed and brought blankets and cups of water and did nearly all the things they usually did – just muffled under the veil of artificial stillness and quiet.
Anders had apparently mastered the gift of sounding as angry and obnoxious as he always did, just at a few decibels lower.
"You're looking for Hawke? Well, too bad. She's not here any more. Stormed off in who knows what direction." Anders crossed his arms and looked grumpy. "If there's nothing else."
Merrill had adopted a similar quietness, that nonetheless carried all her usual intonations.
"You're not being a very gracious host," she scolded.
"You'll have to forgive me for not playing the part for two people who can barely stand me on a good day," Anders snipped.
"Can any two people stand you?" Fenris snorted, at the normal volume. "I hardly think we're unique."
Merrill and Anders both shushed him before continuing.
"Oh, very good," Anders huffed. "I can see you've come all the way from Hightown just to insult me. I suppose you ran out of second class citizens to spit on on your way down."
Merrill leaned over and, even more quietly, whispered into Fenris's ear. "Alright, you distract him while I go look in the back."
"What?" Fenris said.
Too loud. They both shushed him again.
"You insensitive- My patients are trying to get some rest if you could just keep your fat mouth-"
"Anders," Merrill interrupted. "I'm going to go use the ladies room, if you don't mind."
"There is no ladies room." Anders winced. "Unless you mean you're going to go piss down the drain pipe in the corner."
"Yes, but it sounded nicer when I said it." Merrill skipped away.
Anders turned back to collect some pitchers and wash bins set under the cots he had set up for patients, and Fenris immediately saw the problem. If Merrill was trying to sneak into Anders's back room, she'd have a difficult time doing it with him turned to see her in his peripheral vision. And Fenris was not sure what Merrill was searching for. But if it was trouble for Anders, he supposed it might be worth his efforts.
"Er, mage?" Fenris prodded. He managed to turn his voice down at the last minute, suddenly mindful of the exhausted moans of the patients all around him.
Anders seemed to take it as a peace offering of sorts. He sighed, set the bins back down and, with an extremely wary expression, turned back.
"What is it, Fenris?"
Good question, Fenris thought. He needed something that would consume the full brunt of Anders's attention. But he had no interest in being drawn into a protracted rant about mage rights that would undoubtedly upset them both in the end.
"Cats," Fenris floundered. "They're… bad."
Anders gasped. "How dare you! They are majestic beasts!" he said in a fierce whisper.
Oddly, this plan of action appeared to be working. "They are clearly an inferior brand of house pet," Fenris continued. "Far less personable. Unsuited for combat. An unfavourite in both Ferelden and the Free Marches."
Fenris had never had the pleasure of knowing a cat in any personal sense, so was not sure his particular feelings about them. But he found himself inordinately fond of Hawke's Mabari, and there seemed to be a schism between fans of the dog breed and those of cats.
It appeared capitalising on this was a sound method of insult, given Anders's response.
"Okay," Anders said tersely. "First of all, I know you're only doing this to aggravate me. But I don't care, you're going to listen to me now anyhow. Secondly, cats are not a 'brand of pet' like some kind of inert commodity to be bought and sold at market price. They're living beings." He was ticking the numbers off on his fingers as he went. "Thirdly, cats are very personable, and loving, and affectionate, and anyone who says otherwise is just taken in by pro-dog propaganda! Just because something isn't begging you for attention at all hours of the day and unable to function without imprinting on you doesn't mean it's incapable of love. Fourthly, you clearly have no concept of how important a cat can be for the morale of fighting units. This one time Ser Pounce-a-Lot saved us all by-"
Fenris put on his best irritating smile, leaned back, and let Anders's forcibly quiet rant wash over him like a lullaby. Every so often he snorted or pursed his lips to affect the illusion of disbelief or malcontent.
Anders had ticked up thirteen fingers and counting, when there was a shriek in the back room. Several of the patients groaned. A child wailed. Merrill fled into the clinic with a handful of papers clutched in her hands. And Lirene chased her, waving a broom after her, before giving up halfway and turning to pick up a pile of dropped blankets.
"Oh, oh. I see," Anders said, with sudden thoughtfulness. He eyed the space between Merrill and Fenris with something ponderous and disdainful. "I figured he was here for something medical and too shy to say. I didn't think you'd manage to drag him into your schemes."
Merrill preened, as she smoothed the papers in her hands and folded them into a square.
"Yes, well, you've certainly managed to cause enough noise and trouble for one night." Anders's lip curled. "Got enough to occupy yourself for a while, Merrill?"
"If you please," Merrill agreed.
"Get out then," Anders said. "Fenris," he acknowledged curtly, before shooing him away with an impatient hand.
.
.
"What was that all about?" Fenris asked, when they were safe outside the clinic.
Merrill had folded her square of paper, and tucked it into her arm guards.
"It's just a little game we play." Merrill's voice was coy.
Fenris considered the passages he knew existed from Darktown, up to Hawke's and the others' estates. They were mostly rungs and rungs of endless ladder, with a step rusted through every so often for good measure. Dank and claustrophobic. He elected not to use them, and went to find a regular pulley back up into Lowtown.
"He's very knowledgeable, you know?" Merrill said. "Though he's mean and rude. He's seen a lot, and done many things, in his own way."
Yes, Fenris did know that. He'd seen Anders knit up his leg like it'd never been broken and torn and useless. It was, perhaps, his only merit.
"He has a grimoire," Merrill continued. "It's mostly just medical technique – things he uses for the clinic. But there's also some other things. Dirth'ena enasalin. He wouldn't let me look at it. So I snuck behind his back to write a copy. And he caught me and threw me out, but he let me keep the pages. I'm not sure why – maybe it's what seemed fair to Justice… So now it's a game we play," Merrill explained. "I copy a few pages here and there when he's distracted. And he catches me and throws me out. And eventually I'll have a record of the whole text."
Merrill let him lead them out of the undercity and back onto the docks. The stars were out, and the trip back from was just stairs. Stairs and stairs all the way up to heaven.
"Do you like Hawke?" Merrill asked, seemingly out of nowhere.
"I owe her a great deal," Fenris said, because he didn't know the answer otherwise.
"Yes, but do you like-like her?" Merrill asked.
Fenris shrugged. "She is with the mage." There had been an attraction, but Hawke's affinity for a man only a few sandwiches short of a picnic basket was just one reason it was probably better not acted on.
"I liked her more before," Merrill said. "Now she's always joining in to lecture and mock me whenever Anders is around. But she doesn't seem to care the rest of the time."
Yes, Fenris had observed this trend himself. As much as he agreed that Merrill's use of blood magic could only be ignorant at best, and actively malicious at worst, it was… concerning the way Hawke's opinions seemed to change whenever Anders was in the room.
"I feel bad for Anders," Merrill said.
"You feel bad for him?" Fenris scoffed. "I would not think you'd be sympathetic, given he is the one turning Hawke against you."
"He can't hurt me," Merrill said. "He has no power to. I'm no Circle Mage trapped in a tower with only the Chant to listen to instead. I don't need him to believe in me, and I don't need Hawke to believe in me." Merrill had caught up with him and fixed him with a stare that said it all. And I don't need you to believe in me either.
Fenris found her optimism misplaced. It was… difficult to believe in oneself in the absence of supporters. He hadn't truly been able to do it for himself before the Fog Warriors did it first.
"It doesn't change that your pity is misplaced," Fenris said. "The mage's actions and intentions remain the same, regardless of whether you are hurt or not. He would not hold his tongue for anything or anyone."
"Well… exactly," Merrill said. "It's just that Anders really believes, doesn't he? Even when he's wrong. Everything he says- Everything he does- He really believes in it with a passion… I think he'd be hurt," Merrill asserted, "if he felt Hawke was just humouring him. And she is, isn't she?"
When Fenris had nothing to say to this, Merrill seemed to take it for agreement. Fenris was not even sure she was wrong to do so.
It was pleasantly quiet the rest of the way up to Hightown, and it wasn't until they were back in the market square a quartet of swordswomen dropped down from the raised platform and down into their path.
"You're Hawke's associates!" a woman cried. "You're the bastards that killed Gracious! Know the Invisible Sisters take nothing lying down." Her voice was ugly and cracked with grief, as she swung her sword down at him.
Fenris had already drawn his sword and moved to parry. He thought about telling her that if Gracious didn't want to be killed, maybe she shouldn't have tried to mug them at sword point in the middle of the Hightown streets. But he doubted it would mean much to her. And breath wasn't a thing to be wasted in battle.
"Na abelas!" Merrill shouted, at what appeared to be the top of her lungs, as she flung a fist of stone directly in the woman's face.
The other three advanced, and Fenris descended into his old dance without missing a beat. It was better, he thought, that the warriors directed their attention to him. It left Merrill free in the back to work her magic. Fenris worried sometimes, that he'd never stopped feeling comfortable for him to take this position – drawing a target on himself to keep attention away from mages in back. But there was little time to consider it in the heat of battle.
He drew his greatsword up to press against the enemies' shields, and when it was braced comfortably in his arm, lashed out to tear the ligaments in one of their shoulders with his gauntlet.
There was a shout, just as Fenris managed to completely fell one of them. There was a stream of red hair, and Aveline appeared behind one of the thugs and bashed a shield in the shape of a roaring lion into them.
Now flanked on both sides, and aided by Merrill's pinpoint accuracy with her staff, they made quick work of the others.
Fenris pulled his sword back first, from where he'd split a woman through the torso. He attempted to wipe if off on his legging with little success, before hoisting it back to its resting place.
"Fenris, Merrill, are you alright?" Aveline asked, between heavy breaths. They were all of them still recovering.
"The blood's not mine," Fenris said. It was mostly true. He could tell, now that the adrenaline had receded, he'd been nicked on the arm. But neither Merrill nor Aveline could do anything about that.
He turned back to check on Merrill, but she did not seem harmed, not by her own hand nor anyone else's. She merely brushed off her leggings and beamed. "It's good to see you, Aveline."
"It would be better if I wasn't seeing you," Aveline directed a pointed look at the two of them. It was quite safely an hour or so past curfew, Fenris knew.
"Oh, am I not supposed to be out this late? Am I breaking the law again?" Merrill asked, in the complete confidence that she was. And then- "Are you going to arrest me and tie me up?" -in the complete confidence that Aveline would not.
Fenris found it quite charming that in the dark of night Aveline still managed to blush so very noticeably. "I don't know how it is you manage to run into trouble so much of the time." She shoved the corpse off her blade, and began to pile them together.
"One could ask the same of you," Fenris raised an eyebrow.
"Nice try, Fenris. I am the Captain of the Guard," she reminded.
"All the more reason for you to sit in the Viscount's Keep and direct others into danger for you."
"You've been talking too much with Donnic again, I see," Aveline grumbled. "He mentioned he ran into the two of you earlier."
"We've been looking for Hawke," Merrill volunteered. "She's been very hard to pin down."
"I imagine she's home by now," Aveline said. "Or will be shortly. I need to call for clean up here. Will the two of you make it safely?"
Fenris knew a battle that would not have ended well when he saw one. And that had been such a battle for the Invisible Sisters, if Merrill had not even needed to bleed herself for it.
"We'll endeavour to not kill anyone else on the way," Fenris said solemnly.
Merrill crossed her fingers over one another. "We'll do our very best."
Aveline said something under her breath about insufferable criminal layabouts, and then- "Warehouses Tuesday, Fenris?"
"Of course," Fenris nodded. "Be well until then, Aveline."
As they wander off, Merrill spoke just loudly enough that Fenris had to worry that Aveline could hear them. "You said that earlier about the warehouses? Is it code for something dirty?"
"It was extremely literal," Fenris deadpanned. "And a sudden desire to discuss this with you has not materialised in the half a day since you last brought it up."
Merrill snickered lazily and Fenris, in spite of himself, felt the edge of a smile pull on his face.
Their pace seemed to slow as they rounded onto Hawke's street, and Fenris was under the sudden impression they were delaying and dragging out the moment intentionally. The moon was bright and the air was not quite cold enough to be unpleasant. Fenris surprised himself by finding the silence almost… companionable.
And then they arrived, and Merrill tugged hesitantly on the side of his tunic.
"Uh, Fenris," Merrill said. "Do we really have to go see Hawke tonight?"
Fenris considered the lit windows in the Amell Estate. He thought of candles and light and wine and having to navigate another discussion with Hawke that was likely to go nowhere. If she was even home in the first place. "It is what we spent the entire day running around town for," he said wearily. Although he knew this had stopped being true at some point. At some point, if they'd truly cared about finding Hawke, they would have simply come back to the estate and waited for her.
"It's just I've been up a lot longer than you," Merrill said. "And I'm getting very tired. And there are more things I need to wrap up for the night. And, oh, we never even got around to cleaning up your broken chandelier." Merrill seemed openly distressed about this. "Is it fine if I just come over tomorrow afternoon? We can sweep up and go see Hawke then, if you still want to."
Merrill's skin looked wan in the moonlight, and Fenris could not tell if it was artifice or genuine the way she hung her shoulders.
"I… suppose that is acceptable," Fenris agreed.
"Oh, that's good then," Merrill smiled.
He opened his mouth to ask if she'd be safe getting home, and quickly closed it. She was a blood mage. And he'd already once made a fool of himself trying to protect her from the templars earlier that day.
Merrill trotted off. "Have a good night, Fenris. I'll see you tomorrow," she called back with a cheery wave, before disappearing around a corner and out of sight.
She was gone before Fenris could lift a hand to return the gesture.
.
.
It was only a short walk from there down the street to the mansion he'd never quite let himself think of as home. He looked up to where the windows were broken, and the ivy had grown up and curled on the inside of the library.
He climbed around back to the servant's entrance. Paced back to the main hall, where the shattered chandelier lay fallen as he left it. He went up to the master bedroom and changed out of his day clothes.
The Chantry Bells tolled twenty-one times, the last they'd ring until morning. But Fenris wasn't sleepy. It was the middle of his day, and he'd be up for hours. He could pace, rest, or drink his wine. He could do his daily exercises, or attempt his tired imitation of reading. And none of them, he thought, would be as fun as anything he'd done earlier with Merrill.
He'd woken to a blood mage invading his house, and he'd invited her back to do it again tomorrow. And he wished it was tomorrow already, and he didn't have hours of restlessness between – the clock ticking away seconds of fear and foolishness and flushed anticipation.
She was a blood mage, and he was a fool, and she was only going to betray him in the end. He thought about that, and failed to strum with less warmth. So he sat in his bed, and waited, and failed to find any respite at all.
..