Chapter Twenty: Hope
Hrodwynn stared down at herself, chin tucked in, arms spread wide—and sighed discontentedly. She wore her high-heeled boots, cleaned and buffed of any dirt or scuff marks, a fresh pair of skin-tight, soft leather leggings… and the rough-spun tunic she'd been given upon leaving the Embassy. It was a boring tan color, the fabric stained and not all of if from her, not to mention moth-eaten in some areas and nearly worn through in others. It was tailored to fit a man's frame, so it was too long in the arms and a little tight across her chest.
But, damn it, it was the only tunic available!
She had torn her room apart after everyone left, searching for anything: a spare tunic, an undershirt, even an old rag repurposed to clean her daggers. Bloody Void, she would have settled for a bunch of ribbons she could have woven into a toga. But there was nothing, no scrap of fabric, no oversized scarf, nothing she could wear to cover her torso other than this old, disgusting, sorry excuse for a tunic.
"I need to go shopping," she mumbled to herself.
She had done what she could with the offensive garment, spending most of the morning scrubbing off the blood and gore until her fingers were pruned from all the water. Yet it remained stained, threadbare, and worst of all that dull and lifeless tan color! Wearing it now made her skin crawl, and she seriously considered heading out to do a little shopping that very afternoon. But she was occasionally dizzy, and stiff, and embarrassed, and angry, and wanting to curl up into a little ball and cry…
Not that she hadn't done a fair amount of crying already that morning.
The sound of the main door closing echoed eerily through the mansion, starting her from her thoughts. She brushed aside her fatigue and disgust over her current wardrobe limitations, and picked up her daggers, one in each hand, before creeping towards her bedchamber door. After realizing she would be spending so long living with Fenris—she mentally made a face at that unfortunate turn of phrase—she had insisted on her own room. He had acquiesced without argument, and she did her best not to question his motives, merely thankful for the distance between them.
She eased the door open a crack to allow the sounds to travel better to her ears. The footsteps were soft though solid thuds, without the click of boots, so she assumed it was an elf. And since the steps were sure and measured, and pausing outside Fenris' bedchamber door, she assumed it was him. She eased the door open a little further and snaked her head around the frame, just in time to see his familiar dark form disappear inside.
Hrodwynn closed her door and breathed a heavy sigh, glad there was no danger. Not that she felt she was in any danger of being attacked while living at Fenris' mansion, but after the past couple of weeks, taking anything for granted would be foolish. She twirled her daggers, slipped them into their sheathes on her belt, and sat down on the couch. She picked up a long, thin strip of metal and an old file, and began working on creating a new lock pick. Her tools had been confiscated upon her arrest, and she doubted she'd ever get them back, which meant she had to make herself new ones. Vaguely a tiny bit of nagging guilt tugged at the back of her mind—she had promised to give up her life of crime—but instead she made herself a new vow that she'd never get caught again!
There was a knock on her door, and Fenris' voice drifted in a considerately quiet tone through the wooden portal. "Hrodwynn?"
She looked up from her work and called out in answer, "Come."
The door opened, cautiously, and Fenris slipped his head inside, almost timidly in her opinion. He had a look on his face, something other than his normal emotionless stoicalness. It was strange, almost… well, she couldn't think of the word for it, being so out of place on his features. But it seemed… it was almost… eager anticipation?
"Excuse me, I don't wish to disturb you. I had thought you might be resting."
She made a face and set aside her tools, "Couldn't. There are things I could do, and I'm not sleepy, and just lying in bed waiting to fall asleep was making me crazy."
He watched her stand up, carefully stretching her stiff and sore body as she did so, and felt his body react. She was wearing that old tunic, just as he suspected she might. It looked as if she had put in an effort to clean it, but the fabric was still damp, and straining far too hard across her chest. She must have felt a chill, as two hardened nubs appeared while she walked towards him, and the thinness of the fabric added to the tightness of the fit along with the obvious lack of any small clothes made the twin points even more pronounced. He swallowed and tried to master himself, tried to keep his eyes on hers, tried not to notice the slight tremble that raced through her body. "I, er, brought back some lunch. It's in my chambers."
Hrodwynn felt… there was no word for it, no previous experience she could relate to it. She watched his expression change as she approached, turning from that open and boyishly excited look into something… feral… hungry… chained. It made her feel apprehensive, but not out of fear, and the confusion made her give in to a little shudder. She licked her lips, and tried to sound normal as she answered him. After all, this was nothing out of the ordinary; they often ate their meals together in his chambers. "Sounds good. I'm starving."
"Did you, er," he stepped aside to allow her to proceed him down the hall, thinking to remove her torso from his sight, but she fell into step beside him. Damn it. "Did they feed you, in prison? I mean, they didn't starve you, did they?" He lifted up the hand between them and scratched an imaginary itch alongside his nose.
"I was fed," she answered, not really wanting to talk about it, but her mouth kept babbling to cover her uneasiness, "Nothing like fresh vegetables or meat, and certainly not very appetizing, but the gruel kept me alive alright. What's for lunch?" she sniffed, smelling something slightly sweet assail her nostrils.
"I wasn't sure what you would like," he held the door open, finally getting her to go first and give his shaking eye muscles a short reprieve, "So I brought a little variety. There's some fresh baked bread, a couple of pot pies, and…"
"Strawberries!" she exclaimed, jumping towards the table. Immediately she plucked one up from the pile, popping it nearly whole into her mouth, barely keeping hold of the stem.
"I wasn't sure if you liked them," he quipped drolly, inwardly pleased over her reaction, "But they were freshly picked this morning, so I took the chance."
"They're wonderful," she moaned ecstatically. The movement of her lips caused a little bit of strawberry-flavored drool to escape the corner of her mouth. She caught it with her hand, glancing with reddening cheeks over her shoulder at him, and mumbled, "Excuse me."
The next moment froze time. She stared at him, unable to believe what her eyes were telling her. Fenris was watching her—watching her eat, for the love of Andraste—and smiling like… like… like he was enjoying it. Yes, it was a strawberry, and a juicy and flavorful one at that, but that was no reason for him to… well… act like… act like…
…act like he had done something nice for her, and felt pleased when she enjoyed it.
That couldn't be right, she thought to herself. Fenris was never nice to her. The thought that the strawberries were poisoned crept into her mind, and she had to turn away before he could see how the guilt over the deserved-yet-improbable allegation deepened the blush on her cheeks.
Fenris felt disappointed. For a moment, for one beautiful brief moment, it looked like they were sharing a pleasant experience. She had smiled at him, smiled for him, but just as suddenly as the smile appeared it faded, that old and battered wall of guardedness coming back between them. He knew he shouldn't be surprised, he had spent years building that wall, but he had hoped… He tried to hide the disappointment from her, but the taste of bitterness was strong on his tongue. "I'm glad you like them."
She heard the downward tone in his voice, grating like carriage wheels over gravel, and wondered why he would be disappointed. "Did you, um, meet with Brekker?"
"I did," he seized the change of topic with both hands, walking around her towards the end of the table. "He, ah, doesn't have a job for me yet, but he'll let me know when he does. For now, I'm to act normally around Hawke, and wait for Brekker to contact me." He picked up one of the small pies. "There was something odd, though."
"Oh?" she hummed, not really interested, but wanting to talk. Talking kept her mind from thinking, and she didn't like the confusing and contradictory thoughts currently running through her head. She picked up the other pie, took the seat on his left, and pressed, "What was odd?"
"Well, I can hardly be certain," he hedged, "I don't know what's normal for him. Perhaps this was not out of the ordinary. But on the desk in his office…"
Hrodwynn's brows furrowed as she interrupted him. "He doesn't have an office. He meets in a different place, every time. I mean, sure, there are some things he carries with him from place to place, notes and weapons and stuff to sell, but he doesn't have a permanent, stationary office with a desk and shit."
"He does," Fenris argued, "At least, I assume it's permanent. Down in Darktown, near the abandoned docks, there's a warehouse…"
"Like the one with the sewer entrance?" she swallowed thickly, trying not to remember the time Jaxon stabbed her.
"A couple of doors down, actually. From the number of people coming and going through several back entrances, and the regularity of their schedule, it appeared to be a well established routine. Certainly not some place he'd recently acquired. No, the men and women in his gang knew what they were doing, and where, and when."
Hrodwynn set down her pie, half-finished. "I've never known. He always sent someone to collect me, when he wanted to use my talents. Usually Jaxon. And we always met in a different place. Every time. Guess you got the privilege of seeing where he works, now that you're in his gang."
"Quite probably," he agreed. "Anyway, as I was saying," he looked at her, daring her to interrupt, but she snapped her mouth shut to let him continue, "There was a map on his desk."
"A map?" Oh, how quickly she forgot her unspoken assent to keep quiet.
"Yes," he sighed, "I, er, wasn't able to read any of the names of places, but judging by their placement, I believe it was a map of Kirkwall and the surrounding area. I noticed a few peculiarities on it, and I think I should speak with Hawke this afternoon."
"Why?" She had resumed consumption of her pot pie, and spoke around a mouthful of food.
"Because, if I'm not mistaken, one of the places marked on that map," he picked up a strawberry for himself, "Was that mine Hawke has part ownership in."
"The Bone Pit?"
He nodded.
"Wasn't Hawke planning a trip out there sometime soon?"
"Yes, their caravans are being hijacked. He wants to go there, investigate, see if he can't find out who's doing it."
"Oh, Blessed Andraste," her eyes grew wide, her pie forgotten again. "Do you think… Brekker is behind the hijackings?"
"It is a distinct possibility," he nodded, "Certainly too coincidental, if I'm right and the markings on the map line up with where previous hijackings have taken place. Which is why I want to speak with Hawke."
"He'll know the locations, and if they match…"
"Then we'll know what Brekker is up to."
"And be finished with the bastard," she smiled. "Maker, wouldn't that be a relief? No more pretending? No more awkward moments? No more living together?" Her voice faltered on that last, her eyes shifting towards his, her smile fading in time with his face falling.
"Yes."
Silence fell between them, harsh and sharp, cutting into the happiness and alleviation she should be feeling. If this was something they both wanted, why did neither of them appear happy, she wondered. She stared down at her pie, poking one finger at the cooling and congealing gravy, and tried to think of something to say. "Mind if I tag along with you?"
"No," he said simply, "But do you think you should? Anders wanted you to rest all day…"
"I, um, need to run an errand or two," she looked away, her eyes falling on the pile of strawberries. She snagged another one and picked at the stem, simply to give her fingers something to do.
"What sort of errand? I only ask, to see if I could do it for you. I wouldn't want to be responsible for incurring Anders' wrath by allowing you to exert yourself."
"It's… sort of personal," she elaborated with a shrug. All the leaves had been plucked from the berry, and now she was working on digging out the stem. Fenris didn't verbally press for her to continue, but his silence made her shift uncomfortably in her chair. She swallowed, popped the strawberry into her mouth, chewed it slowly, but eventually she had to answer. "I need a new tunic!"
She didn't know why, but tears were stinging her eyes, hot and bitter and overflowing with embarrassment. She pushed herself back from the table, waving her arms, walking around, looking at everything but Fenris as she explained. "These past couple of weeks, have been kind of hard on my wardrobe. From being stabbed by Jaxon the other week, to what happened at the Embassy yesterday. I'm out of tunics. I just… want to go shopping… find something to wear other than…" Damn the tears spilling down her cheeks.
She stopped in front of the hearth, staring down at the flames, not wanting to face him. It was embarrassing, admitting her vanity to him, but honestly even an arse-hole like Fenris shouldn't expect her to walk around in prison rags!
She didn't hear him come up behind her, not while he was wearing those sole-less, over-zealous shinguards instead of boots. She didn't see his shadow, the dancing light of the fire's flames continually changing the dark patterns across the floor. Yet something told her he was near, something warned her he was standing right behind her, something made her tremble with… It should be fear she was feeling, an overwhelming urge to fight or flee, but it wasn't. Slowly, calmly, trustingly she turned to face him, one hand on the mantle to steady herself, and lifted her eyes to his.
"I have something for you," he admitted. She was amazed, but not that he was standing there holding a package—which was certainly far enough out of place for him it should have surprised her. No, she was amazed at the anxiety tightening the corners of his eyes, flushing his cheeks, quickening his pulse, making the paper-wrapped parcel crinkle as his hands shook. "It, er, caught my eye, on the way back home. I thought, well, I thought of you." Truthfully he had seen it several days ago, and had been agonizing over the decision to buy it for her, when this opportunity arose, giving him the perfect alibi to be nice to her.
She took the package and weighed it in her hands, wondering what it could be. She picked at the knot in the string holding the paper in place, but the twine was tied tightly. She pulled out a dagger, flicked it across the string, sliced it cleanly, and re-sheathed the blade all in one fluid motion. Then, her hands now doing the trembling, she pulled apart the edges of the paper.
As soon as the contents were revealed, both of them froze. Fenris held his breath, wondering what she would make of it; Hrodwynn couldn't breathe, unable to fathom why he would do such a thing. It was a tunic, a brand new tunic, made from expensive silk fabric, and colored a bright green that perfectly matched her eyes. Her fingertips touched the tunic with trepidation, unable or unwilling to believe what she was seeing—what he had done.
"What are you playing at?" she whispered.
"What?" he repeated, bewildered.
"What's the game, Fenris?" she sounded exhausted, fed up, done in. "What's the trap? Am I supposed to wear this, and, I don't know, you tease me for taking favors from you? I can't figure this one out, and frankly I'm too tired to keep trying. So what is it you want from me?"
He had hoped for a better response than this, but he shouldn't have expected anything else. "It's just a tunic. I suspected you were out of them, after what they did to your tunic yesterday, and when I left you this morning I saw you were using a blanket to cover, er, up. I thought… I hoped…"
"Hoped?" she repeated, bewildered. "Hoped? What could you possibly hope for from this?" She lifted her fist up towards his face, bunched full of the silky fabric.
"I meant what I said, earlier this morning: I'm done, too. I'm done lying to you. To myself. I…" he couldn't say it, not to her face, not to those eyes full of pain and distrust. He paced away, hating himself, hating his earlier actions that led them to this situation. Yet he knew it was his fault this was so messed up, and in a fit of self-martyrdom, he pulled back his shoulders and looked her square in the eyes and MADE himself tell her the truth.
"A few years ago, I met this young woman," his voice was breathy. The emotions he'd been denying for so long were clamoring for expression, creating a logjam of feelings that nearly choked the air in his throat. "That very first night, she saw things in me, about me, no one else ever had. And not just that I was bleeding from a festering wound in my back. She came to me, alone and unafraid, to tend my injury. When she saw my markings, she didn't look upon them with envy—as Danarius and so many of his peers had—she looked upon ME… as a person. I wasn't a possession to be flaunted, a symbol of one's status; I was simply a man. She was the first one who ever looked at me in that light. I think…" he swallowed, trying to push the words past the constriction in his throat, "I think, that was the moment I fell in love with you."
She stared at him, the tunic still clutched in one hand, giving no indication that she had heard much less understood what he was trying to say.
He pushed on, not giving her time to consider his words, fearing he'd spoken them too soon, desperate to finish presenting his case. "I didn't understand at first what it was I felt, and when I did, I found myself unwilling to allow it. I don't know if I ever dreamed of having a normal life before this," he flexed his fingers, briefly invoking his markings. "But, certainly in my remembered past, I knew such a thing would be impossible for me. A runaway slave. Branded. Hunted. Always on the move. I assumed I'd have to live my life alone, in fear that, one day, Danarius would catch up to me. And anyone near me, anyone I cherished, would get caught in the crossfire. So I pushed everyone away, including the one woman I love, to keep her safe, to keep them all safe. But, as it has been pointed out to me repeatedly as of late, it's been three years. Three years with no word, no pursuit, no sign of Danarius. It has to be obvious, even to me, that my former master has cut his losses and given up trying to recapture me. Which means, perhaps, it's not too late for me…. for us…"
He stepped towards her, daring himself to touch her, feeling deservedly guilty when she pulled back. He let his hand fall as he finished, "I know, one tunic won't change how you feel towards me. There's too much hate and hurt for that. But if you'll let it be a start, I'll spend every moment from this one forward showing you how much I love you." He dropped his gaze finally, breaking the spell, allowing her to blink. "I don't expect your forgiveness—especially not anytime soon—I only hope for it. Someday."
Hrodwynn didn't speak. She couldn't trust herself to open her mouth, not at that moment, perhaps never again. Fenris had just professed… what… his love for her? Love? When all this time, all these years, he'd been pushing her away, hating her, belittling her… just to protect her from Danarius?
And men claimed women were illogical.
She left the room. She needed to move, needed to distance herself from him, needed to think. She made it all the way back to her chambers and closed the door behind her with a solid and satisfying thunk. She leaned against it, closed her eyes, and just breathed. When she felt calm enough, and brave enough, she opened her eyes and brought a hand to her face, a hand full of the new tunic.
Her eyes watered again at the thoughtfulness of the gift. It was a beautiful green, a bright emerald that, thanks to the sheen of the silken fabric, glittered like the jewel. She held it up to her torso and lamented the lack of a mirror. In a flash she tore off the prisoner rags, almost ripping the fabric in her haste to remove it from proximity to her skin. Then, bare chested, she held the new tunic against her again. Her fingers ran over her limbs covered in silk. It felt wonderful, the fabric cool and clean, not a stitch out of place nor a worn patch anywhere!
Just as eagerly, though far more carefully, she pulled the new tunic over her head, slunk her arms through the sleeves, settled the hem around her hips, and flicked the ends of her hair over the top of the collar. She stood as she had earlier in the day, her chin tucked in and her arms spread wide, and looked down at herself.
It was the perfect tunic.
"Damn you, Fenris," she whispered. It was without heat, without anger, instead full of frustration and confusion. Here was a man who had tormented her for years… suddenly being nice to her? Telling her he loved her? Buying her gifts? And she should believe him? Trust him? Return his love?
She stopped admiring herself to tuck her tunic into her waistband. "I need advice," she thought out loud, "Someone I trust. Anders… no, he hates Fenris; he'd be biased by default. Hawke…?" she shook her head at herself, knowing the idea was a bad one as soon as the name left her lips.
"I need a woman's advice," she continued, buckling her belt. "Isabela is knowledgable, but hardly trustworthy; I can't believe half the stories she tells. Merril…" she paused to snort, adjusting the tunic so she could bend and twist without pulling the fabric. "Aveline, I suppose, except that I can't be seen with the Captain of the City Guard right now, or she'll have to arrest me. Then there's… there's…"
She stopped, lifting wide eyes up in astonishment, to stare unseeingly at the hearth. "There's no one I can talk with. I'm on my own." She blinked and came back to herself, glancing around her room, hands on her hips.
"Well, shit."
She couldn't accept that there was no one, not a single person in all of Kirkwall, that she could talk with, that she could seek motherly advice from, that she…
The answer hit her with such clarity, she felt ashamed she hadn't thought of it first. Feeling better with her destination in mind, she almost smiled when she returned to Fenris.
He was still in his chambers, staring at the fire. He spun when she entered, his expression hopeful, his eyes lighting up when he saw she was wearing the tunic. He even smiled, a small thing, but it appeared to be genuine. "You look lovely."
"It's, er, a little big around the shoulders," she criticized, immediately regretting it when his smile faded. Kicking herself for having started it this time, she amended, "But considering I wasn't there for it to be tailored to, you did a pretty fair job guessing my size."
"I got the color right," he recognized the olive branch she has holding out, and accepted it, "It perfectly matches your eyes."
"I haven't seen," she admitted softly.
"Oh? Wait, just a moment, I think I have something here…" he began rummaging along a shelf, hurriedly, looking at the very thing he searched for at least three times before he finally saw it. He picked up the small mirror and walked towards her, holding it in his hands, angling it so she could see. He watched her face closely, waiting for that moment when she would see herself, see her face, see the green of the tunic accentuate the green in her eyes.
The moment occurred, flickering to life like a spark from a fire, and just as quickly passing away beneath her tears.
"You're right," she blinked and swiped at the offending moisture, "It does."
There was that silence again; though not as sharp this time, it was lingering and viscous and just plain awkward. Fenris set aside the mirror, forcing himself to look at her and accept the consequences, as he began, "About what I said…"
"Don't," she pressed her fingertips to his lips, and tried hard not to think of how or why she had gotten so close to him so quickly.
"I realize it will be hard for you to believe," he pressed the words out around her fingers, trying not to notice the salty taste of her tears still on her skin, "Perhaps even make you uncomfortable, but I mean every word of it." His dull green eyes held a flicker of life, of hope, as he once more declared, "I do love you."
"I know you want me to say something, but…" she dropped her hand, "I need some time, to think about it, alright?"
"Take all the time you need." The words were spoken as a vow, a promise, that he would wait until the end of eternity for her answer.
She cleared her throat, still feeling uneasy, still wondering how he would turn this against her, still expecting the worst from him. But he seemed so sincere, she wanted to believe him. Maker, but she needed that advice! "Um, right, then, I suppose we should get going."
"We?" his brow furrowed with confusion, "Where?"
"To Hawke's mansion," she reminded him. "You still want to talk with him about the raids on those caravans, don't you?"
"And you're still coming with?"
"I, er, yes, I am," she lifted her chin. "I want to visit with Leandra. It's been simply ages since I've seen her."
He didn't look like he believed her, but he didn't have a reason to deny her. Other than, "Anders is going to have my balls for this…"
"Fenris!" Hawke exclaimed, coming into the foyer. Sandal had raced ahead of everyone at the sound of the knock, eagerly opening the door wide for whomever, friend or foe, might be outside. Hawke had followed him, just in case, and was surprised to see the elf standing there. "And… Hrodwynn," he sounded less than pleased when her familiar deep red hair appeared from over Fenris' shoulder. He was already in trouble with Anders over Hrodwynn's trial yesterday; he couldn't imagine the tongue-lashing he'd get once Anders got back from the clinic to find her here rather than resting at home. "How wonderful. Do come in."
"Hello, Hawke," she was used to coldness from him and brushed it aside, seeing as how she wasn't there for him, anyway. Instead she turned towards the strange dwarf boy and smiled brightly, "Hey, Sandal, how have you been? Do you like living here with Hawke?"
"Enchantment?" he asked, hopefully.
"Not today, but thanks for the offer," she sighed before turning her attention back to Hawke. "Hope you don't mind my tagging along with Fenris. He said he had something to discuss with you, and I thought to myself, it's been a while since I've seen Leandra. I think I'll come with him, just to pay her a visit. She's at home, isn't she?"
"In the library," he thumbed numbly over his shoulder.
"Excellent. I'll just go and find her. If you'll excuse me," she smiled again before slipping around the stunned Hawke.
"Anders is going to have my balls for this," he mumbled. Fenris hummed an agreement.
Hrodwynn didn't hear them, wasn't even trying to listen. She was chewing her lip, nodding absently at Bodahn working at a desk, skirting the Mabari dozing before the hearth, all the while her thoughts turned jumbled and her courage faltered. After all, she had been a few steps away from marrying Carver at one point—at least as far as he was concerned—and now she was going to speak with his mother about another man. Oh, Maker, this brilliant idea was turning more tarnished by the moment!
"Hrodwynn!" Leandra exclaimed, coming out of the Library to spy her, sealing her fate before she could flee. Then a miracle happened—Leandra held her arms out, opened and welcoming, and smiled warmly at her. "My dear girl. It's been so long since I've seen you, you're all grown up! Come with me and we'll talk. I want to know what you've been up to. I've tried asking my son," she cast a long-suffering look over Hrodwynn's shoulder at Hawke's approximate location, "But he hardly ever speaks of you, so you must tell me everything."
Everything, Hrodwynn repeated to herself. The next moment, all thought fled as she practically raced into the older woman's arms. There was no more fear, no more anxiety, no more second-guessing… All was right in the world, or soon would be, thanks to this wonderful, kind, accepting, graceful woman.
"There, there," Leandra patted her back, sending a baffled expression towards her son, "Whatever's the matter?"
Hrodwynn answered, sort of, a moaning and weak whimper escaping with a choked sob.
"She's had a bad day or so," Hawke answered, vaguely.
"What do you mean?"
"Ah," he eloquently hedged, casting about for an answer that wouldn't get him into deeper trouble. Giving that up as a lost cause, he decided to try the truth, hoping Hrodwynn's tragic experience would distract his mother from scolding him. "Did you hear about the public flogging yesterday at the Orlesian Embassy?"
"Yes, some would-be lady thief was made into an example for… oh, no," she ended in a sympathetic moan as she remembered, belatedly, what was Hrodwynn's profession of choice. "Well, that explains why your friend, Anders, was so upset this morning. There, there, my dear, it's alright now. It's over. Garret," she lifted her chin to speak with her son, shifting Hrodwynn around to face the stairs though keeping one arm around her shoulders, "Be a dear, and send Sandal up with some tea for us. We'll be in my chambers. Come along, Hrodwynn, we'll leave the 'men' to discuss their 'important' matters, while you and I talk about what's truly important."
Hrodwynn didn't quite register the exchange, nor did she notice the stairs, not until she stubbed the toe of her boot and stumbled. Leandra's arm around her helped her keep her balance, however, and she automatically began climbing. Yet it wasn't until they were safely ensconced in Leandra's room, Hrodwynn warm and cozy on a chair before the fire, that the tears began to dry.
"I'm sorry, Leandra," she sniffed, staring at the flames, finding the flickering comforting on some level, "I didn't mean to make a mess of myself. I really don't know why I'm here, other than, well, I need to talk with someone."
"Ah, now I'm beginning to understand," the older woman nodded sagely. "This has nothing to do with, er, whatever happened yesterday. This is a matter of the heart."
Hrodwynn's jaw dropped, her green eyes glittering, as she lifted her face up. "How did you…?"
There was a knock at the door, and Leandra smiled and patted her hand before calling out, "Come in, Sandal. Thank you, dear boy. Put the tray right here on the table. That's it."
"Enchantment!" he proclaimed proudly, setting down between them the tray loaded with tea and cups and biscuits without spilling a drop or rattling a dish.
"Thank you, Sandal," Hrodwynn smiled for him.
He beamed for her.
After he left, Leandra opened the top of the tea pot and sniffed. "Oh, dear, perhaps I shouldn't have had Sandal bring the tea. It seems he's made us his specialty."
"Let me guess," Hrodwynn pulled half a smirk, beginning to feel more like her old self, "Enchantment tea?"
"However did you know?" Leandra deadpanned.
"The metallic smell," she answered. "Sandal made us 'Enchantment soup' one evening, and the smell of a wet rune stone is fairly distinctive."
Both women laughed.
"Well, never mind the tea. Tell me what's troubling you so," Leandra passed over a biscuit.
"I, um, I'm kind of, well, embarrassed…" she shrugged, picking at the small cookie with her fingernails. "I mean, Carver and I, he was your son, but there's this other man who's…" she paused to shrug, "I don't know, I need to talk with someone, a mother type person, and you're the only one I know of, but when I think of Carver…"
"Don't think on it," Leandra settled her hand over Hrodwynn's, temporarily suspending the destruction of the biscuit. "Carver was a headstrong and enthusiastic young man, a problematic combination at the best of times—believe me. And yes he cared for you deeply, so of course he assumed you returned his affection with just as much zeal, and made elaborate plans for your future together. But he's gone, and that was so long ago, and you were so young back then, it's no wonder there's another man who's caught your eye. No need to feel embarrassed or ashamed. I'm sure Carver would want you to be happy, even if that meant finding yourself falling in love with someone else."
Hrodwynn nodded, trying to smile. "Thank you."
"So, who is it?" Leandra pressed, bending her head close, as if she was just another young woman sharing a confidence. "No, let me guess: that elf who came with you, Fenris, isn't it?"
Again her jaw dropped. "How…?"
"It was the way he looked at you, whenever Garret's back was turned," she answered matter-of-factly. "It's obvious that he has deep feelings for you, feelings he has trouble sharing, I'm guessing?"
"Not exactly," she evaded, thinking of his confession earlier that afternoon.
"Then, is it that you love him, or is it that you don't love him, or do you know?" Leandra picked up a second biscuit to hand over, as the first one was nothing more than crumbs on her lap.
"It's… complicated…" she agreed, accepting the fresh fodder.
"We have the time," Leandra offered, "And this is why you came here today, isn't it?"
Hrodwynn nodded. Again.
"Start at the beginning," Leandra suggested, leaning back and picking up a cup before remembering it was empty. She set it down and waited quietly for her guest.
The silence wasn't long. Hrodwynn seemed at last to be over her uncomfortableness and awkwardness. The tale spilled from her lips as the crumbs spilled from her fingertips. She shared everything, from the very first night she met Fenris, through the years of verbal abuse, and finally culminating at his proclamation of love. The afternoon wore on into evening while she spoke, the tea growing cold in the pot, the biscuits turning stale on the plate. Leandra never once interrupted, never once offered advice or tried to find the right words whenever they eluded Hrodwynn. She was quiet and willing to listen, and at the end of it all continued to remain just as non-helpful.
"So?"
"So… what?" Leandra countered, keeping her expression open and neutral.
"So," Hrodwynn swept her arms wide, "What do you think? What should I do? What's your advice?"
"I don't have any."
Hrodwynn felt her eyes beginning to water. "But…" she shook her head, trying not to start crying—again, "But I came here, because I need advice. I need someone to tell me what to do. Because I don't know what to do or how to feel or any of that. I need your help, Leandra, please. You've been through this before. You've been in love. You know how it feels. Is this love? Is he telling me the truth? Should I trust him? Or should I tell him to go to the Void? What should I do? Tell me, please."
Leandra sighed, weathering the storm of emotion and accusation without qualm. "I can't tell you that, Hrodwynn; no one can tell you what to do. But," she leaned over again, placing her hand on her shoulder, "I think you already know the answer. Don't you?"
Hrodwynn shook her head, tearing up again, more from fear this time than sadness or pain. "No, please, I… I can't… I can't trust myself…" She angrily swiped away the tears that dared to escape before she amended, "I mean, I can't trust HIM. He hurt me, purposefully, only to protect me?! Does that make any sense?"
Leandra leaned back and took a deep breath. Her eyes flickered towards the door behind Hrodwynn, but she made no move towards it. "People will do strange things to protect the ones they love. For instance, my son has been wasting hours every week, following me whenever I go to visit my brother, Gamlen, in Lowtown. He could have told me there had been a vague threat made against my life, and I would have made certain allowances, but he preferred to keep the worry and inconvenience for himself. However, now that I know there's the possibility of danger, I can leave earlier in the day and be home well before dark. Would that make you feel better, Garret?" she raised her voice at the end, intending it to carry through the door.
Hrodwynn spun in her chair, feeling guilty and embarrassed and slightly pissed off. She saw what Leandra had seen earlier, a pair of shadows moving across the crack underneath the door. The shadows made to move away, hesitated, and shifted closer towards the latch. The next moment, the door opened and Hawke was standing there, the faintest tint of pink beneath his beard.
She stared at him with eyes as hard as emeralds, wondering just how much of their conversation he had heard.
Hawke pointedly ignored her, his warm amber eyes only for his mother. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the threats, mother, but I didn't want to worry you."
"See what I mean?" she said to Hrodwynn. "He took all the worry, all the responsibility on his own shoulders, rather than allowing me to lighten the load."
"Mother…" he groaned and rolled his eyes.
"Never mind that now. Go and tell the cook there will be two more for dinner tonight. You and Fenris are staying, aren't you? Of course you are. I'm sure the cook won't mind, and if he does, too bad. We're still trying to find decent servants for this place, and with the company Garret keeps, if a cook can't handle a last minute change in the menu or in the number of guests, I'm afraid he simply won't do."
"Mother…" Hawke moaned again.
Leandra stood, ignoring him for the moment. She leaned over Hrodwynn and whispered, "Take a moment. Dry your eyes. Wash your face. Then we'll see you downstairs." She patted the young woman on the shoulder and glided towards the door. "Come, Garret, you have to speak with the cook, remember?"
"Mother," he tried for the third time, once the door was closed and they were essentially alone, "Listen, these threats against you, it's something I'm handling."
"By throwing Fenris and Hrodwynn together," she countered quietly, her voice carrying no further than his ears. He stopped suddenly on the stairs, his jaw almost dropping. "Oh, don't think I didn't see through this little ploy you and Varric hatched up. Though why Hrodwynn doesn't see through it is beyond me, but I suppose that's lucky for you. Fenris, too, I imagine, wouldn't be too happy to learn he's being manipulated."
"He's… they're… it's complicated."
"Complicated," she repeated, nodding, "What everyone says when they don't want to explain something." She reached back and took his arm, pulling him down the steps.
"They do love each other."
"I know," she agreed readily. "Hrodwynn knows it, too. She simply cannot admit it. But I think I've given her a push in the right direction."
"Maker's breath, was there anything you two didn't talk about?"
"That's what we women do: talk," she hummed. "Now, go speak with the cook, while I try to determine who'll sit where tonight. It's been a while since I've hosted a social gathering…"
Fenris kicked an unoffending pebble with his big toe, sending it skittering down the street ahead of them, trying to think of something neutral to say. "That was… an eventful evening."
Hrodwynn gave him half a smile, closer to a smirk, but the uplifted part of her lips was towards him. They walked together, shoulder to shoulder, looking for all intents and purposes like two friends taking an evening stroll. "I think the term you're looking for is 'unmitigated disaster'."
"If mages had the power to kill with a look, Anders would have succeeded tonight. Whatever possessed Leandra to place us opposite each other?"
Hrodwynn tossed her hair about, feeling the slight buzzing in her head from the wine, hoping the cool breeze would clear it away. "We were a small group tonight. I suppose it was either you sat across from Anders, or next to him. That would've been worse. Imagine if you had asked him to pass the salt, or to pour another glass of wine. It would have ended up all over your lap!" she giggled.
He chuckled a little, the sound carrying through the nighttime air. Perhaps it was the seven course meal, perhaps it was the company, perhaps it was the wine, but he felt… agreeable, even cheerful. "That would have been asking for trouble."
"Speaking of asking for trouble," she segued, "I can't believe Anders agreed to come with us to the mine later this week. He hates leaving Kirkwall. And it's dangerous—the more he's out moving around, the more likely he'll be spotted by those looking for him."
Fenris stared at his toes, but he offered an answer. "I think he's more concerned for your safety, than his own."
She blinked at him, confusedly. The wind gusted, blowing her hair across her eyes, and she shook her head again to dislodge the tresses.
"He didn't accept Hawke's invitation to come along, until after you insisted on joining us," he elaborated.
"He's just overprotective," she waved it aside. "Sure, I've had a few close calls these past couple of weeks. And Brekker's been involved each time. And he's involved with the mine. But, honestly, all we've got to do is catch his men in the act of attacking the caravans, with the Captain of the City Guard for a witness, and he's through. Arrested. Incarcerated. Finished. What can go wrong?"
He decided not to answer. "Are, er, are you sure you're alright with this?" he changed the subject. "Coming back with me tonight? You didn't have to; you could have stayed with Hawke and…"
"No, I couldn't," she cut him off, knowing he was referring to when Anders asked her to stay the night, giving some flimsy excuse of how late it was or some such. "Anders made that offer, not Hawke. And I saw Leandra's face when he made it. She wouldn't have turned me away, but with Bodahn and Sandal staying with them, they barely have room for the cook. If I'd've stayed, I would've ended up sharing the hearth rug with the dog."
"Mabari."
"Whatever."
"The cook quit."
She looked at him again, trying to shake the hair out of her face. "Damn. I liked that cold soup thing he made, with the tomatoes."
"Gazpacho," he agreed. Another gust hit them, from the side, and he watched her hand battle to keep her vision clear. "You need to cut your hair."
"So do you," she quipped, reaching out to shove a wayward strand of white from the corner of his eye.
He stopped walking and looked at her with astonishment. She was one of the few who knew how it pained him to be touched; and though her fingers didn't come in contact with any of his markings, she knew he was still adverse to casual physical contact. Yet the fact that she would do so, boldly and without fear—as if he was a normal person—caught him off guard. When she let her hand fall away, he found himself missing the feel of her warm skin against his.
"Listen, Fenris," she paused, puffed her cheeks, blew out an exasperated breath, and turned to look down the street. He watched the breeze lift her hair out of her face, sending the ends fluttering like the wings of a flock of birds. "Listen," she tried again, licking those deep red lips. "Fenris, this whole," she flapped one hand between them, "Thing, with us, these feelings, whatever they are, I…"
For a few seconds her lips kept moving, though no breath was there to give voice to her words. She made a face, a delightfully frustrated face, something akin to enduring irritation. A second more and a rather unladylike sound escaped her chest. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, having turned sideways to the breeze to face him, and tried again.
"Bugger it all, but this is hard. I want to, that's the trouble, but you've done a very good job of making it difficult. Every time I tell myself to say it, there's that nagging suspicion that this is going to end badly somehow. Like always. Oh, maybe it's the wine talking."
He opened his mouth to answer, but she had continued.
"Never mind, it's not the wine. I was feeling this way during dinner… no, that's not quite right, either. I guess I'd made my decision, long before the wine, long before I had a talk with Leandra, much good that did…"
Her voice dropped into a mutter, one that Fenris had to strain to hear. He leaned in a little closer, probably a little too close, but she had turned towards the breeze once more. This time she brought a hand to the side of her face to hold the bangs out of her eyes before she turned back. He was still close, and their cheeks bumped together, the corner of their lips barely brushing before they both pulled back.
He didn't dare move. He didn't dare breathe. She was so close, he could taste that beautiful wine on her breath. He could imagine her hair, caught up in the wind, tickling his cheek. He could feel the heat of her body, penetrating their clothing, warming him, filling him up from within.
Maker, but he wanted to return the favor.
"Fenris," she all but whispered, "Listen…"
"You've said that," he reminded her, sensing she was weakening, instinctively going in for the kill.
"Oh, have I? Right, well, then, um, what part haven't I said?"
"The part that comes after that." He shifted, leaning towards her again, holding her gaze trapped within his.
"You're doing it again," she felt like she was panting, that despite the wind she was standing inside an airless room.
"Doing what?"
"Making me feel," she swallowed. Her hand suddenly appeared, fingertips pressed lightly against his cuirass. She had no where near the strength to hold him back, but the mere presence was enough to stop him. "Damn you, Fenris. How do you do it? Why? I…"
"Whatever it is that I'm doing," he vowed, "I'll stop it. I don't want to hurt you—I won't hurt you, ever again."
"You're not… hurting… me," she shook her head, sending the short strands willy-nilly around her head, making his fingers itch to catch them up. "Not this time. But you are making me feel. And I don't know if I want to feel… this… whatever it is, but I do. I do feel… something… I just don't know what. But if you're serious, if you truly love me and want a relationship with me…"
She looked away again.
He waited. He meant what he said, his vow to give her all the time she needed as well as his vow not to hurt her, and pressuring her into this would be hurtful. So he waited, standing there in the middle of the deserted street, as the wind picked up with a howl.
The temperature dropped suddenly.
Hrodwynn shivered, the silk shirt doing nothing to hold in the heat of her body.
Fenris glanced up at a new sound coming towards them, reminding him of a carriage out of control racing down the street. "Rain."
She didn't answer verbally, but grabbed his hand and started racing down the street. She was pulling them into the rapidly approaching storm, but it was the most direct route to his mansion. The wind lashed their faces, tugged on her shirt and threw sand in his eyes. The rain started, heavy wet drops falling like miniature anvils to pound their flesh and clothing. The temperature continued to fall, and after the stress of the past week and the heat of the day and the walks to and from Hawke's home…
Hrodwynn was gasping for breath by the time they reached his mansion. She paused only long enough to push the door open, not waiting for him to do it, knowing it wasn't locked. Her hand still held his, and though their skin was wet and slightly slippery, she refused to let go, pulling him inside after her. She spun, intending to close the door behind them, but he had too much momentum to stop. His bare feet skidded on the tile floor, betraying him, threatening to pitch him headfirst into the corner of a wall. He clung to her for balance, spinning around to grasp her forearm, but she was too intent on closing the door and didn't have the chance to notice he was in trouble. Unable to brace herself, the door slipped from her grasp as she was pulled along after him. She twirled, his momentum transferred to her, and in one terrifying moment he feared she would be the one to hit the corner. He bent his elbow and yanked her towards him, changed her trajectory, melded their bodies and their velocity into one, and wrapped his arms protectively around her.
Their bodies landed in a tangled heap, limbs indistinguishable, clothing and armor soaked, breathless wheezing filling the foyer.
It was several moments, the rain pelting in past the open portal to drench their feet, before Fenris found his voice. "You were saying…?"
She blinked, brushed thick wet strands out of her eyes, and realized she was lying on top of him. "What? Oh! Um, listen, Fenris…"
"You've said that," he deadpanned, "Three times now."
She stared at him, her emerald eyes dark in the lightless interior, unreadable to be read by him. Then she laughed. It was an open laugh, and honest laugh, a warm laugh, an encouraging laugh. He joined her, only a soft chuckle that might have been lost within the storm if she hadn't been lying on his chest and feeling it move. "Alright. Here's the deal. You love me, at least you're saying you do, but I don't know how I feel. I'm going to need some time, to figure stuff out, but if you want this—if you truly want this, well, then…" she sighed and pushed herself up to her hands and knees, lifting her weight off of him. "Then we'll give it a go."
She held her hand.
He took it.
"Thank you."
She didn't know if he was grateful for the hand up, or for the chance to prove he loved her. Frankly, she didn't think it mattered.
