A/N: though I've written fan fiction before (if you've followed me here from Skyrim, hi! *waves spastically at the computer screen*), I'm new to Dragon Age II, and I'm still on my first play through, so I'll probably make mistakes and mess stuff up. Don't get mad, just let me know so I can fix it. Thank you XD
Also, I tend to write long chapters (like 7,000 to 9,000 words long), but I'm trying to keep them shorter this time around. Yeah, right—we'll see how long that lasts ;D
Chapter Two: Agreggio Pavali
Hrodwynn wasn't trying to eavesdrop, but she did want to listen in on the conversation. Actually she, Carver and Varric were standing back a ways, all three of them going through the motions of looking at various nicks and scrapes they'd gotten during all the fighting, all three of them listening intently to the conversation between Fenris and Hawke.
Fenris was… well… unique. And he seemed willing to speak with Hawke, even though the guy was a git. The other three strained their ears, only speaking distractedly to each other in hushed tones, as Fenris tiredly let go of whatever meager information on himself he was willing to impart. It wasn't much, but hearing of his distrust of mages—alright, his outright hatred—made Hrodwynn smirk. Briefly. Carver was looking at her nose just then, so it might've passed for a grimace. Really.
When he spoke of how his former master wanted the lyrium back, preferably over his dead body, Hawke remarked on how that would be a waste of a perfectly handsome elf… and Hrodwynn nearly choked. Not that Fenris wasn't handsome—she wasn't sure… he was… different… intriguing… mysterious… something! No, she didn't choke because of Fenris' looks; she choked because she finally figured Hawke out. The neatly trimmed beard, the artfully mussed hair, the fussiness with his clothing…
She just happened to be looking at Carver when he said that, and saw his brows scrunch down a little—so he didn't approve of his older brother's taste in bedmates. Well, that could explain some of the animosity between them. She supposed she didn't really care who—or what—Hawke slept with, as long as she got her fair share from tonight.
Fenris left and Carver went to go talk with Hawke, so she stayed next to Varric. Her mind must've wandered, because suddenly Hawke was standing over her, almost making her jump. "Hey," his hand was on her shoulder, turning her to face him, Varric moving a little bit away.
"What?" she sniffed, holding her hand to her face. The nosebleed had finally slowed, but it still throbbed like a son-of-a-bitch. She really didn't want to deal with Hawke's condescending and snide remarks, not when her eyes were watering. But his hand wouldn't let her get away.
"Listen, you… you fought pretty well… back there," he nodded at the mansion. "I'd, well, I'd like to work with you again, sometime, perhaps."
She sniffed again, a little less clogged, and nodded. "Sure, fine, sounds good."
"Where can I find you?"
"Ah…" she blinked, thinking quickly. Usually she'd tell him to leave word with Anso, but the snake had set her up for that ambush. Well, it wasn't like she could really blame him, but damn it she had almost gotten killed! She was a thief, a rogue, a lock picker—NOT a fighter.
Yet he had tried not to give her the job. And he had warned her to run. And she only had herself to blame, that she had stuck around and tried to help. Anso was a snake, sure, but that was his nature. He did whatever he could for his clients; just so happened that this time she wasn't his client. Fenris had been. She refused the impulse to look over her shoulder at the mansion which the strange elf had just entered.
"Leave word with Anso," she sighed, "I check in with him for jobs and the like."
Hawke's brow furrowed a little, "You still trust him? After he let us walk into that ambush?"
Hrodwynn gave her head a nod, and regretted it as it made her nose throb worse than before. He saw her wince, and pulled her hand away to look at the damage. Long, gentle fingers probed at the bridge of her nose, making her stutter as she answered, "He… ow… he usually finds good jobs… ow… for me. I kinda pushed my way into this… ouch!… this one."
"Why?" he asked, sounding exasperated. "You were in over your head, you know."
"I thought the job was to break a Siggerdson lock, not be bait in a trap. Stop touching it!"
He pulled his hand back before she could smack him a second time. "It doesn't look broken, if you're worried about that. But you should have it looked at by a healer, just to be sure."
She kept herself from rolling her eyes at the obvious statement. "I know someone I can go to."
"Good," he said, and looked at Carver who made a continuing sort of motion with his hand. "Good, well, we found some reasonable loot in the mansion. I suppose you could come by the Hanged Man, say, the day after tomorrow," he looked at the dawn about to break over the horizon, "Or should I say, tomorrow afternoon for your share? Varric's got a room there; just ask for him."
She nodded, thinking there was no way he was going to hand over her 'fair share' of last night's take. Well, at least he made the gesture, however hollow. She felt her purse at her side; she should have enough for the time being.
"I'll probably be in the main part of the tavern by that time," Varric added, "Drinking. Look for me there; I'll buy the first round."
And just like that her mood flipped. Maybe she would get her money after all, if Varric was going to have anything to say about it. She smiled at him. It was a little garish, half-dried blood over the lower part of her face, her white teeth shining in the predawn light. "Looking forward to it." She had been in the Hanged Man a few times, and kicked out right away every time. Ah, well, maybe sitting with Varric she could manage a sip or two before the barkeeper ran her off for being too young.
Yup, the night hadn't been a complete loss. Sure, she hadn't broken into a Siggerdson like she wanted, something that would have elevated her reputation to legendary status. But at least she was going to get something out of this. She caught Carver's eye, and asked, "You'll be there, too?" At his mute nod, she winked, "Then I'll be sure to see you tomorrow afternoon." He gave her a timid smile, but Hawke was already leaving and he had to break it off quickly.
The three left, talking as they walked away, turning a corner and leaving her sight. She supposed she should leave, too; a nice long nap was sounding perfectly wonderful right then. But in looking back at the mansion one last time, she saw something she had missed earlier thanks to the night and the shadows. With the first rays of sunlight, she could now see a long smudge of something dark on the wall where Fenris had been leaning.
Blood.
Checking the ground near his footprints, she found more drips and drops.
Damn, no wonder Fenris had been so exhausted during his conversation with Hawke. And he had not once spoken about his own injuries or pain. She squinted at the doorway of the mansion; though it was firmly closed, it held only a standard issue lock. Well, that wasn't going to stop her.
Fenris was tired. His body screamed for rest, yet he felt anything but confident sleeping so soon after a fight, and in his enemy's home.
Truthfully, he supposed it wasn't Danarius' mansion, usurped from some other noble for the duration of his short visit to Kirkwall. However, his former master had walked this very floor, between these very walls. He could almost hear the bastard's voice, the sound of his footfalls coming up behind him, feel his hands touching him…
Fenris paced on as if he could pace away from those memories. He stalked through the rooms, searching for anything Danarius might have left behind, or anything of value overlooked by that mercenary Hawke and his companions. They had taken the choicest items, something Fenris didn't begrudge as he had no money of his own to pay them their promised fee. He did hope, however, that there would be something left for him to sell. He didn't know how long he would have until the next group of bounty hunters came for him, and a body needed food and drink to survive.
After several hours he was in the cellar, up to his elbows in a partially unpacked crate. Nestled inside the straw he found several bottles of Agreggio Pavali. He pulled one out, staring at it like a poor man stares at an uncut diamond. The drink was rare, expensive, and there were enough bottles to fetch him a heavy purse. He didn't think he'd sell the bottles, however, at least not all of them. Pavali had been Danarius' favorite drink. A flash of memory returned to him, a kiss they had shared late one night after a party. Even though Fenris had been made to entertain first the guests and then the master, the lingering burning ache didn't keep him from smelling the alcohol on Danarius' breath, tasting it on his lips. Fenris had stolen the taste, savored it in his own mouth—and that moment was when his first selfish desire bloomed to life. He wanted to taste it someday, taste it for himself, have the sweetly strong liquid stain his lips, fill his mouth, thicken and swell his parched throat…
He found himself upstairs a short while later, rifling through the rubbish in the master suite for anything that might resemble a drinking vessel. He shoved an overturned chair out of the way, and that annoying twinge in his shoulder returned. Suddenly his vision blurred, the bottle slipped from his fingers, but only fell a short distance. He looked stupidly at the bottle, rolling away from him across the floor, and numbly wondered how he had ended up on his knees.
The bottle came to rest beneath a foot, tilted up at an angle to stop its progress. Fenris looked at the boot, and then looked at the leg coming out of the boot, thin and long and covered in dark leggings. He followed the leg up to find a bright green tunic, a festive color that made his eyes want to hurt it looked so alive. He lifted his gaze higher, and saw a familiar face. Forcing away the fatigue, he let out a small grunt as he gained his feet.
"I… ah… hope you don't mind, but I let myself in…" the girl gestured vaguely behind her, taking her cloak off her shoulders.
He waved off her concern, apparently not upset that she had invited herself into his 'home,' nor that she seemed intent on staying. "You're one of Hawke's friends, aren't you?" he asked. "I don't remember your name…"
"Hrodwynn," she supplied. Her bright green eyes—a perfect match for the tunic—blinked at him, and for a moment she was the one staring stupidly.
"I should say something like, 'pleased to meet you, Hrodwynn,' shouldn't I?" He walked up to her, his steps slow, his posture alert despite his fatigue. "But I'm afraid I haven't much practice with social courtesies." She didn't flinch as his gauntleted hand reached up to push a lock of dark red hair back behind her ear. He told himself it was only to look at the cut she'd gotten earlier during the fight, the cut she'd gotten from the blow that had bloodied her nose.
The cut she'd gotten when she had stepped up behind him and blocked a swing that would have cloven through his spine.
"How's the nose?"
She sniffed, blinked, and seemed to come back to herself. "It's, ah, not broken, thanks for asking," she answered. He watched as two bright pink splotches of color stained the pale skin of her cheeks. She was a funny little girl, quirky and spry and full of spunk, but loyal and determined, as he recalled from the comments that flew between her and Hawke shortly after the fight in the Alienage. She hadn't signed up for a fight, but she wasn't going to back out just because things got bloody. He found himself admiring her courage. "Mind if I use your fireplace?" she pointed off to the side, but for some reason didn't turn away. He though it might be because his gauntleted hand was still at the side of her face, and she was concerned about hurting herself on the talon-like tips of his fingers.
"For what?" he asked, taking his hand away, his gravely voice deepening further. Though he didn't mind the company, he didn't want her to think she would be welcomed here, at any time of day or night, when more hunters could come for him at any moment. Too much danger for such an innocent to get herself wrapped up in.
"Well, ah, I brought a few things, for, well, any injuries you might have." Truthfully, the salves and sutures and herbs had been free, but the little bit of food had emptied out her meager coin purse. It would be worth it, however, if she could trust Hawke to pay her tomorrow.
If she could trust Varric, actually. That dwarf had a good reputation, and if he worked with Hawke, then at the very least he'd see that she got her fair share, even if Hawke had been disinclined to include her on last night's contract. And that Carver fellow, too, seemed like an upstanding sort of guy. She tried not to think of them as she knelt beside the cold hearth Fenris had gestured towards, focusing instead on setting out all the things she had bought from that healer in Darktown. Fenris was hurt, now, and needed her help, because she was damn sure no one else had noticed his injuries, even himself.
He watched her for a few moments, curious and admittedly a little fascinated, as she started pulling items from her pack. She set out little folded packets of herbs, potent ones if his nose did not deceive him. There were also a couple of small jars, a folded leather pouch that reminded him of… old unpleasantness. Next came a loaf of bread and something encased in paper that looked like it had juices soaking through the wrapper. Still she continued, until the entire sack had been emptied and lay, rumpled and currently unneeded, by her cloak.
"I said," she stood up, the movement attracting his wandering thoughts, "Do you have any firewood?"
He gave himself a little shake; she had been talking this whole time, and he couldn't remember a word of it. He must be more tired than he thought if he was losing focus. When was the last time he'd slept? "No, that is, I don't know."
She nodded to herself, looking around for something suitable. "I suppose you'll want to save those papers, in case they say where this Danarius has gone. I'll just use the wardrobe over there, seeing as it's in splinters anyway." She kicked and stomped at the wood, prying off piece after piece, until she had a fair-sized load in her arms. "Have you found anything useful, like a flint?" she asked as she set up the wood in the fireplace.
He shook his head, "I haven't found much of use here other than that bottle."
She had continued to focus on starting a fire while he answered. Finding a low burning lantern on the mantle, she lit a smaller splinter in the flame, using that to start the fire. When the flames were catching onto the larger pieces, she turned her attention towards the bottle. She had set the Pavali down on a small table, and as she looked at it her dark red eyebrows drew into a frown. She made a little hum, like she was thinking to herself, before giving a half-hearted shrug. "I suppose it couldn't hurt. Might even help dull the pain."
"Pain?" he asked. He was having far too much trouble following her. He felt that keenly when she turned back to him, a look on her face like she was addressing a backwards child.
"You're hurt, Fenris, and bleeding. Didn't you notice it?" She studied the remarkable elf before her. Sure, he had been a slave, and she supposed he hadn't noticed he was hurting because he was no stranger to pain. But he had to be blind not to see the trail of red drops he left all through the mansion. She watched his eyes, a dull green that seemed cold and already faded from this life, and slightly out of focus as he stared at her face. Perhaps that was it: he was in shock from his injuries. Well, she had brought medicine that would help with that, too.
He didn't answer her question, or couldn't, either way she didn't feel disappointed. Instead she pointed to a low couch in front of the fire and said, "Sit."
He obeyed her unquestioningly, taking a seat exactly where she had pointed, his posture perfect and his face blank. It gave her a bit of concern. Either he was too exhausted to think or argue with her, or he realized that she was right and he was in need of her help—or he was still used to being a slave and doing whatever an authoritative voice commanded. She pushed away that last thought and grabbed the Pavali. After casting about for a cup, and not finding one besides what she had brought for the medicinal tea, she finally decided just to uncork the wine or brandy or whatever it was and hand him the bottle. "Take a healthy swig."
He took it from her, stared at it a moment, and then raised it in a toast. "Benefaris."
Hrodwynn couldn't help herself, watching as he tipped his head back, the mouth of the bottle pressed against his pursed lips, his eyes falling half closed as his larynx bobbed. He had an unusual expression on his face, a strange mixture of longing and expectation and desire and fulfillment. She had no idea what was going through his mind, and after a moment she realized she probably wouldn't want to know.
After his third swallow, he lowered the bottle to the couch at his side and made a funny sort of sound. The corner of his mouth twitched, his black brows curved and his eyes staring into the fireplace. She didn't think the alcohol would hit him that hard that fast, but he definitely had the look of someone who was lost in his thoughts. She knelt in front of him between his legs and began working on removing his armor.
His first taste… his first real taste… had been everything he had hoped it would be, and nothing like what he had imagined. The Pavali was thick and heavy in his mouth, seeming to swell and expand though he knew it was only because he had tried to swallow an oversized mouthful. The fumes swept up the back of his throat and invaded his sinuses, but he resisted the impulse to sneeze. The liquor hit his empty stomach and burned, a delicious pain that he could savor—the pain of a free man, one who could drink what he wanted, whenever he wanted, and not have to steal it from his master's lips.
He came out of his musings at the first tug, and was amazed to find the girl kneeling before him. He lifted questioning eyes to hers, but she didn't answer, other than continuing to pull at his gauntlets, mindful of the sharp claw-like tips on his fingers. Next came the belt; she could feel his eyes burning into the top of her head as she undid the buckle just off-center of his front. When she lifted his arm to work on the fastening for his cuirass, he finally let out a reaction. The hiss was short, surprising both of them she thought, but at least he wasn't so far gone that he couldn't feel pain.
She moved more carefully after that, working from the other side. His eyes followed her, still questioning, still unanswered. It was a bit of a struggle, for her to lift the strange cuirass off his shoulders without stabbing herself on the pointy bits, or making him have to move his hurt shoulder. At last, though, she finally had the armor removed; all that remained between her and the wound was his tunic.
Her fingers trembled a little as she started on those fastenings, not sure whether or not he would allow her to remove it. She felt like she was trying to help a wounded animal, something used to being caged and beaten, and now that it was free of the cage, it was also free to distrust. She swallowed her fear and unease, the sound of her nervous gulp loud in the chamber, but he thankfully made no comment.
When she had bared his torso, she found herself fascinated once more by the strange markings. She had the impulse to touch them, to trace them with her fingers, to memorize their curves and lines, their circles and tips. They seemed to be everywhere, inscribing some secret meaning into his very flesh. But the wound just to the side of his shoulder blade was an angry red and festering. Setting aside the tunic, she reached over for a few of the items she had prepared earlier.
He saw her pick up that small parcel wrapped in leather. He watched her closely as she unwrapped it, revealing exactly what he thought would be inside—knives and tweezers and a small needle… He could remember similar items in Danarius' hands, being used to cause pain, to cut and rip and injure. His eyes must have showed something of his thoughts, because when he looked up at her, he saw her smiling at him reassuringly. Just a small smile, hardly there before it was gone. Then, implements in hand, she moved out of his sight behind his back.
He leaned forwards, his elbows on his thighs, as she went to work. Yes, there was pain, there was always pain. Pain infused his very being every waking—and sleeping—moment of his life. This pain was different, localized, precise, clean. He could almost picture it, one of her hands pressed to his fevered skin, the other holding the small-bladed knife, cutting through infected tissue, slicing further into the wound to get at the source of the pain. The tweezers were next, digging around, grabbing hold of something, tugging, pulling, a soft curse falling from her lips as she lost whatever it was, and then pulling again, long and slow and final.
It came out with her small exhale of triumph, and she dropped the wooden splinter still clutched by the tweezers onto the couch beside him. When had he gotten that? Thinking back, he realized it had been from that night, the last time the bounty hunter had cornered him, after he had jumped through a window. He must've been shot as he jumped, and the roll across the floor had broken off the wooden bolt, but left a splinter from the shaft buried in his back.
He became aware of the fact that she hadn't moved, that she was still standing behind him, one hand laying cool against his sweaty skin, part of her fingers brushing one of the markings. Her light touch was as painful as a burn, but without the scarring. No, the scars were already there, in the form of those marks, and just as permanent.
He supposed he should explain some of it, how he could walk around with a splinter from a bolt in his back and not know it. He felt her pull away, and for a moment he feared she had gotten tired of his stoic silence—and why should that matter to him? Then she returned, rinsed his wound and began applying a numbing salve against the edges.
"The markings on my skin," he began, not sure what he was saying or why, but wanting to fill the silence between them, wanting her to understand, wanting to find out if she would pity him as others had. "The lyrium. It was not only painful having them put into my flesh, but they continue to leave me in agony. It never ceases, and worsens when the markings are touched, if you had been wondering how I could have not known of that," he nodded to the splinter.
Now it had come, the moment of truth: would she pity him? Would she be disgusted by him?
Would she continue to treat him as a person?
Hrodwynn was barely holding it together. She fought the trembling in her fingers as she finished stitching the wound closed. She blinked away the tears before they could fall. She swallowed the lump in her throat before it could choke her voice. Fenris was proud; she had been able to tell that from the beginning. He did not tell her this to garner her pity.
"You should have someone take the stitches out in a week or so," she said, when she was fairly sure she could speak normally. "In the meantime, try not to get shot in the back again. Or if you do," she pressed a soothing poultice over the wound and began winding bandages around his chest to hold it in place, "Find someone to dig it out right away. There are some herbs here, to fight off any fever or infection. I'd suggest going to a healer, but that takes money, which—I'm just guessing—you don't have." Like hell was she going to suggest going to a mage for healing, even Hawke, after hearing how what Danarius had done to him left him in such continual pain. His hatred and distrust of mages made perfect sense.
Fenris looked over his shoulder at her, and got a hand in his face forcing him to look straight once more. "Don't twist like that; you'll mess me up."
He smiled, on some level appreciating the way she scolded him. No, she wasn't going to treat him any differently. He relaxed a little, not realizing how tense he had become, and allowed her to finish her ministrations.
"You should have something to eat, before you fall asleep," her chiding voice made him blink his eyes open. He hadn't realized he had almost dozed off, sitting on the couch, still leaning forwards as she tied off the bandage. He twisted again to look over his shoulder at her, following her as she walked around the couch and returned to the fire. The paper-wrapped package with the stains of gravy had been warming on a plate. She brought it to him, opening the envelope and letting the steam escape. Several slices of roast beef were inside, well seasoned and stewing in their own juices. He accepted the plate and attacked the food, eating it like his name implied, without any utensils. Hunger urged him to lick his fingers, too jealous to waste even the smallest drop of gravy.
She passed over a cup of medicinal tea and the loaf of bread, both of which were finished off in a similar fashion. Again Hrodwynn got the impression of a wild animal, accepting the help and food, but still not trusting, not giving, not sharing.
That wasn't quite true—he had shared with her about his pain from the markings. It had been something personal, something he no doubt didn't trust just anyone with knowing about him. But he had trusted her.
She saw that he was looking at her strangely, his pale green eyes staring into her bright green, giving her the feeling that he was trying to leach the color and life from her, or maybe use her liveliness to replenish his spent spirit. She lifted her chin a little, leaned away a little, and gave a little cough. "You should probably rest now."
He didn't answer, feeling strange. He wasn't sure if it was something in the salve she had used, or the medicine she made him take, or the Pavali he had drunk earlier, but a very pleasant warmth was spreading through his limbs—almost drowning out the unpleasant sensations. She was sitting next to him, then standing, then taking his hands, then pulling him to his feet. He stood before her, looking down on her looking up at him, and had to speak. "How old are you?"
A blush stole back across her cheeks again, a lovely color on her pale skin. She was so full of color, the dark red of her hair, the bright green of her eyes, the white of her skin, the pink of her blush, the red of her lips. He could kiss those lips, thick and soft and inviting, and it would be because it was something he wanted, not because another had willed it. Yet when the moment came for him to lean forwards, he found he couldn't move.
"Old enough," she said, her voice gentle to his ears. It took him a moment before he remembered what the question had been, and another moment to see that she was pulling away. No, he was turning away, or she was turning him away, her hands careful to touch his markings as minimally as possible. The bed was before him, with a real mattress that wasn't stuffed with straw, with thick and soft bedclothes. He wanted to pull away, thinking of how Danarius had slept on that bed… but then the animal in him wanted to sleep there, wanted to mark that territory now for his own. He took another swig from the bottle—how had it gotten back into his hand?—and sat down on the edge of the bed.
She wanted to ask him if he'd be alright now on his own, but she wasn't sure if he'd hear her, much less not be offended by her concern. She watched him tip the bottle back again, his eyes getting that faraway look to them once more, and instead asked, "What are you thinking of?"
He pulled the bottle away from his lips, filling his vision with her face. She was still standing, leaning over him, her hair falling forwards over her shoulders. He could kiss her now, his hand reaching up to cup her shoulder, wanting to climb higher to her neck, to pull her the rest of the way down…
And her first kiss, like his had been, would be of Pavali-tainted breath.
"Venhedis," his deep voice sighed, and he watched the little furrow of confusion grow between her eyebrows. No, he wouldn't do to her—or to anyone—what had been done to him. His hand on her shoulder gave her a gentle shove. When she staggered back a step, his other hand threw the bottle against the wall, the liquor exploding with the shards, bursting outwards in a strange, haphazard pattern. Exhausted, he laid down on the bed. "You should go now."
She took another step back, fighting the shock and the cringe after the thrown bottle, though the confusion was too strong to simply wipe away. Had he… had he been about to kiss her? She thought so, having seen that look before in a man's eyes. But then… what in the world had stopped him? It wasn't like she would have refused him, would she? She thought back over her actions, trying to think if she had given him the wrong impression, then trying to think what was the impression she had wanted to give him. She had come uninvited into his home, halfway undressed him, tended his injuries, fed him, took him to bed…
She supposed he had a right to feel confusion, too, and to change his mind regarding kissing her. Truly she hadn't meant to act so… brazen, but what else could he think after all her actions tonight? Her gaze returned to his form on the bed, his eyes closed already in repose, his dark brows softening from their guarded slant to a somewhat… less reserved… curve. Perhaps she could blame it on the alcohol, if he ever asked her of this.
She pulled a blanket over his form, picked up her empty sack and cloak, and closed the door behind her as she quietly left.
