Chapter Twenty-Six: Plots

Varric sat at his usual spot, a deck of cards shuffling mesmerizingly through his fingers, a mug of what might be ale at his elbow, his soft brown eyes surveying the tavern as a king surveying his subjects. Not that he had delusions of grandeur—far from it, of course!—but in all modesty, no one knew Kirkwall or it's residents as well as he.

It was his favorite pastime, watching people, a safe and quiet enough hobby that helped to fill the time between those "little" jobs with Hawke. Not that there had been too many of those lately. Ever since the Arishok attacked the city and killed the Viscount—or more importantly, ever since Hawke battled his way through countless qunari and challenged the Arishok to mortal combat, avenging the Viscount's death and freeing the city of the qunari and finding himself proclaimed the "Champion of Kirkwall"…

Well, Hawke had been busy with other matters lately, and that was fine by Varric. After everything else that had happened, he could stand a bit of a breather. It wasn't as if he was hurting for cash, not like he had been when he'd first seen Hawke stumbling blindly through the city, mother and kid brother in tow, green and lost and hungry. No, since teaming up with the indomitable apostate, he had more gold than he could count, more business than he could keep track of, and more connections than what was good for him.

And the damn Merchants Guild wouldn't leave him alone because of it!

A card slipped out of place, falling away from the deck, to land face-up halfway across the table. The card was from the suit of songs, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he paused in his shuffling to pick it back up.

Nope, he thought to himself, turning the card in his fingers and slipping it back into the deck, a little breather had been just fine by him.

Of course, he hadn't been idle. He'd had plenty of things to keep himself busy, not the least of which were his two pupils. He looked across the tavern room to the bar, where said pupils—Fenris and Hrodwynn—were waiting for the next round of drinks. He had been surprised, and a bit pleased, when the two of them came up to him three years ago and asked him to teach them to read and write. And he looked on them now with a bit of fatherly pride, thinking of how far they'd come in such short a time…

… "You always draw your 'e's backwards."

"What?" Hrodwynn blinked, looking up at Fenris. She had ink stains on her fingertips, the quill almost breaking she held it so tightly in her hand. She watched him tip the feathery end of his quill down to tickle a specific spot on her parchment. She followed his gesture, her eyes dropping and her cheeks warming with embarrassment as she saw he was correct. Her tone was almost accusatory as she retorted, "How can you tell? You're sitting across from me. It's upside-down to you."

"I… can," Fenris shrugged, leaning back and setting his quill aside. He passed his own parchment over to Varric before standing up. "Finished. I know how letters are supposed to look, how they relate to each other, the direction the text flows, whether it's upside-down or backwards or even seen through the paper when it's held up to the light."

Varric half-tuned out their bickering, knowing tensions were a little high between them. He looked down at Fenris' handwriting, noting the artistic quality, the evenness and measured pace. The broody elf took his time when he wrote something, careful and precise and thoughtful and, well, he literally DREW his letters, like a master artist painting a portrait.

Another parchment was shoved in his direction, the paper making a scraping noise on the tabletop and almost tearing. Varric suppressed the sigh as he looked down at Hrodwynn's latest attempt. She was quite the opposite, her letters scratched and slopped down on the paper, always in too much of a hurry to form her thoughts before she formed the words. Her page was a labyrinth of blotches and scribbled-out words, as vibrant and volatile as the woman who formed them.

Their critique of each other's penmanship escalated in volume, and Varric couldn't ignore them any longer. He set aside their work and squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose, as he quipped, "Oh, will you two get a room!"

That shut them up. They both turned as one to stare at Varric, open-mouthed and wide-eyed. He smiled inwardly at their stunned silence, but outwardly he kept his scowl. "Or better yet, use this one. I'll go downstairs and get myself a mug or two, give you some privacy. Then when it's finally out of your system, you can join me."

Fenris recovered first. "I have no idea to what you are referring…"

"Don't even try it, Broody," Varric's hand moved away from his nose to make a ceasing gesture. He fixed both of them with his glare as he continued, "The sexual tension between the two of you is palpable. I can feel it. I can actually feel the…" he flapped his hand out in front of him, "energy… the electricity arcing back and forth. Which is surprising; I thought the two of you had already."

"Had already… what…?" Hrodwynn didn't want to ask, but she couldn't stop herself.

"Don't answer that," Fenris moved to place himself between her and Varric, a very protective—and very telling—posture. "It is none of your business."

"Right," the dwarf rolled his eyes, "The health and happiness of two of my closest friends is none of my business. Alright, fine, I'll pull my big, fat, broken nose out of your private affairs," his eyes twinkled at his little play on words, and the deepening blush on Hrodwynn's cheeks confirmed his suspicions. "But at least let me give you one last word of advice: find a way, some way, any way, to get it done. All this… tension… is taking its toll on you two. And the rest of us are beginning to see it…"

…Varric's eyes came back into focus, his mind returning from last week's memory to see the two as they were now, standing hip-to-hip at the bar, Fenris' hand on her shoulder, Hrodwynn's faced lifted up towards his. He said something, and she smiled in response, the pale skin of her face easily showing the faintest blush. Yet her smile was a bit tight, and his fingers never twitched nor strayed to touch her skin. No, things still weren't quite right between them, but they were doing the best they could, Varric supposed. He desperately hoped, and prayed, that this little plan of theirs would work—not that they had shared their plan with him. Yet he had managed to ferret out come clues and put the pieces together. As the two of them returned to the table with the mugs, he nodded for Hrodwynn to hand him a fresh mug. When she reached his side, he paused in his shuffling to reach into his coat.

"I just remembered, I have something for you," he spoke quietly, for Hrodwynn's ears only. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously at the folded letter he pressed into her side beneath the table and out of sight of the others. Automatically she took it, if only to keep it from being discovered, but when she looked back at him, her question was written plainly in her expression. He smiled reassuringly and answered, "Just a few names of some 'associates' of mine whom you might want to look up once you reach your, um, shall we say, port of call."

"How did you…?" she started and stopped herself just as quickly.

"Oh, you and the Elf have been pretty stealthy about the whole thing, but, come on, this is me we're talking about. Of course I figured out what the two of you are up to. There was your sudden and urgent interest in learning to read," he began to tick off on his fingers, a bit awkwardly around the card deck, "Still surprised you two came to me, rather than Hawke or Anders, but I suppose you have your reasons. Then there's all these quirks you've picked up recently, cursing and toasting in Tevene, almost like you're trying to adopt new habits—Fenris' habits. I've even found out about the passage you booked on the ship sailing for Minrathous in the morning—passage for one, by the way? Am I to assume only one of you is going?" he raised an eyebrow at her, but she pressed her lips together tightly, as if afraid of what might slip out if she didn't keep them closed. "Uh-huh, thought so." It was a non-committal sort of sound, neither approving nor disproving. He finished off his old mug and handed it to her.

"Varric, I…"

"Nah, don't say it," he waved it aside, whatever she might have said, whether apology or denial or confession, he didn't care at that point, because he already knew. "I imagine you've got your reasons; Broody, too. And if your reasons are his reasons, then I know there's been a lot of thought put into it, whatever 'it' is the two—or one—of you are doing." He shrugged off his sullenness over not being included in their plot, his concern for her outweighing any hurt feelings, and reached around to grip her forearm for a moment. "Just promise me, Button, that you'll be careful."

"Always," she answered a little too glibly, and a little too quickly.

"I mean it…"

She stopped his words with a quick peck on his cheek. It surprised him, and maybe it surprised her, too, but she recovered first. "I mean it, too. I'll be careful. We," she couldn't help the glance over to Fenris, who was setting mugs down in front of Aveline and Sebastian, "Have been careful. It's taken us three years to get this far; that's being careful, isn't it?"

Varric sighed, knowing she was right, but still not feeling good about this. "Fine, but see one of those friends of mine, as soon as you step foot on land."

"I will," she promised.

"First thing," he pressed.

"Second," she countered, and continued when his face darkened into a scowl. "The timing on this trip is a bit tight. As soon as I get there, I have to hare off to meet someone before she gives up waiting. But after I'm done speaking to her, or, erm, him, or, whoever," she paused to clear her throat, "I'll go straight to one of these friends of yours and check in. Just so you don't worry. It'll probably be a waste of time, you know that, right? I could be back onboard a ship and heading home before you hear from this friend."

"That's alright," he let go of her arm, "I'd rather hear good news twice, than no news at all." She gave him a smile for an answer. He watched her move away, meandering around the table as if merely passing the time, sidling up next to Fenris to whisper something to him. Probably about the list of names Varric had passed her, if Fenris' sudden glare was anything to judge by. Varric didn't let himself get flustered by it, instead leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smile and raising his mug in acknowledgement. Fenris glared at him for a second longer, before giving him a short nod.

Well, Varric thought to himself, taking a sip before going back to shuffling his cards, he'd done all he could for the two kids. He hoped everything would work out for them in the end.

His gaze drifted onwards and settled on the Chantry Brother, Sebastian. There was another area of worry for Varric. He knew Sebastian was up to something; there had been a lot of correspondence between the former prince and his former kingdom. But whether the Brother was plotting to leave the Chantry and reclaim his throne, or something else beyond Varric's currently ability to discern, the solution to the mystery eluded him…

…Sebastian's smile was heavenly, his brilliant blue eyes merrily devouring the words written on the parchment. He hunched over his letter, elbows to either side, so enthralled with the missive that he forgot he was at the Hanged Man. Varric sat down at the table, setting one of the mugs before Sebastian, pretending all he had been doing was getting the next round of drinks, and that he hadn't at all been spending the past thirty seconds trying to get a peek around one of the Brother's massive biceps at what he was reading.

"Good news?" Varric hummed, his practiced and unconcerned voice echoing inside his fresh mug, gently reminding the Brother that he wasn't alone.

Sebastian started, jumping in his seat, blinking rapidly at the dwarf, his hands slapping the parchment with fingers splayed, attempting to hide all the lettering. "What? Oh! Er, quite, yes," he quickly tried to put the letter away, crumpling it in his haste to fold it and all but tearing the parchment as he shoved it in a pouch at his belt. He must have sensed somehow that Varric needed convincing, as he did his best to appeared unconcerned. He slouched in his chair and stretched an arm across the back, cocking an ankle over his knee, toying with the handle on his mug. Lazy lids fell down over his bright blue eyes as he stared into the murky, mucky brew. "I mean, no, nothing, not really, just some, um, correspondence from a, ah, old friend."

"An 'old friend,' huh," Varric repeated; he wasn't buying it for a moment. The sudden guilty start, the almost puppy-like eagerness to appear nonchalant, told him more plainly than a written confession that Choirboy was up to no good. Either he was up to something, or there was a woman involved—which also meant he was up to something. Partially out of habit, partially because he simply could not help himself, he started to sniff around for clues. "So, what's her name? Mont—something?"

Varric had tried to keep his voice easy and relaxed, but Sebastian was too uptight over this subject. "What?!" Sebastian's voice squeaked painfully, like a boy hitting puberty. He paused to clear his throat, wrapping an arm around himself beneath the table and patting his pouch to make sure the letter was secure. " No, no-no-no-no, I mean, er, that is," his expression turned slightly crafty, but he was too far out of practice, too far gone from his roguish days, to pull it off, "Whatever would make you say my letter is from a girl?"

From a girl, or about a girl, Varric wondered to himself. He thought he had him for a moment, but now he wasn't so sure. He decided to play along, at least until he figured out whether or not the letter was from an old flame. It would be scandalous if an avowed Brother took up with a woman, and he wanted to be the first to know of it—to protect Hawke's reputation, of course. The Champion of Kirkwall had an image to maintain, and that image might get a wee bit tarnished if one of his companions behaved poorly, guilt by association and all that. Thinking of Sebastian's upbringing, he decided a direct approach might be best. "Well, there's the slight flush to your skin, probably due to an elevated heart rate that resulted from, oh," he paused to wink suggestively, "Let's call it 'excitement.' Now, there's only a couple of things that can get a man that, er, 'excited,' that quickly. A girl would be one of them…"

Sebastian's cough cut him off short. "Ah, yes, I see your point," he nodded agreeably, "Well, if it were from a girl I once knew, it really wouldn't matter now, would it, with me being in the Chantry and vows of chastity and all."

Now Varric was certain. Sebastian looked very relieved that Varric thought the letter was from an old love—much too relieved. Which meant that the letter was from someone else. And about something else. Something he wasn't willing to share, at least not yet…

…Varric came out of his musings and noticed Sebastian had noticed his stare. The Brother was looking at him, smiling only a little falsely, but it didn't fool the dwarf. Varric returned the smile to put the Brother at ease before returning to his shuffling, his gaze drifting safely down to the cards. Feeling that old tingling of unease, he thought it might be best to discover what Sebastian was up to before matters got out of hand. He tried to remember what had been the name on that letter. It hadn't been in the address but in the body of the letter, as if it had been the subject of the message. He racked his brain, trying to draw the script out of memory and back to the light. Mont—- something. No, that wasn't quite right. It was… something—monte.

His train of thought was suddenly and completely broken. The door of the Hanged Man opened and two men walked in, one a strawberry-blond with an almost haunted gaze around his eyes, the other a tall and dark cool drink of water who swaggered in as if he owned the place. Well, Varric chuckled to himself, Hawke certainly bought enough ale and spent enough time here, he might as well have bought it.

"HAWKE!" a call rang out from patrons and staff alike at the sight of the Champion of Kirkwall. Ever one who loved the spotlight, though of course he would humbly deny the desire to seek it out, Hawke raised a hand to acknowledge the adoration of his public, smiling perfect white teeth that were such a beautiful contrast to his dark hair and swarthy skin.

"Anders!" Hrodwynn's voice was the only nonconformist in the tavern. Varric inwardly chuckled at that. Even after all these years, Hrodwynn and Hawke never could find a way to tolerate each other. He looked up at the pair of mages as they took seats at the table, and yet another foreboding conversation came to mind…

… Varric scoffed, "You've got to be joking." He stared at the mage standing next to him. They were behind the stairs, around the corner and out of sight of the table full of their friends. He had felt enough ominous premonitions when Anders had first asked to speak with him privately—without Hawke. But after hearing what Anders wanted him to find…

"I'm quite serious," he grabbed Varric's arm and added, "And keep your voice down. I…" he paused to give a guilty glance over his shoulder to where the others were sitting and singing and enjoying the evening, "I don't want the others to hear of this… not yet…"

"Wait," Varric held up his hand, slipping from Anders' loosening grasp as he did so and bringing those darkened, haunted eyes back onto him, "Wait. Just let me get this straight. You think you may have found a recipe for a potion that will rid you of Justice, but you don't want to tell anyone about it? Not even Hawke? Or Hrodwynn?" There was a bad sensation, like an itch he couldn't scratch, winding its way up his spine. It put out roots right between his shoulder blades, digging in with the intention of becoming a permanent part of his body.

"No, I don't," Anders gaze dropped, refusing to meet his eyes. He stared at a button on Varric's coat as he continued, "Not yet, at any rate, not until I've tested it, until I'm sure it will work." There was movement out of the corner of his eye, and he turned his head as if he knew it would be Hawke, which it was. The Champion was sauntering up to the bar, ordering the next round of drinks, but Varric figured he was really trying to discover where he and Anders had gone to, and what they were up to. Anders had paused to glance across the crowded tavern, too, to where Hawke was politely, but firmly, declining a young woman's offer to go upstairs. "I… I don't think I will be able to bear it, how they will look at me when I… that is, if the potion were to fail and I were to let them down."

The hunger in the man's eyes, the angst, the depression, the desperation—all of it tugged at Varric's heartstrings. He was always a softie and a sucker for a good romance. "Hey, listen to me, Blondie. They love you, both of them, unconditionally; you could never let them down, whether or not this potion works. The important thing is, is that you tried, alright?" He saw Anders' face grown even more emotional, and he caved in, "Oh, fine, whatever, I'll do it. I'll see if I can't find a source of drakestone for you. Might take me some time, thought; it's not like I can run down to the corner stall at the local marketplace and pick up a lump or two for a few coppers."

"It doesn't have to be purchased," Anders shot him a look, too relieved and grateful, and almost too quickly. He seemed to realize this as well, and made a prevaricating shrug, trying to ease past the moment, "I mean, if I knew where to find it, a natural source of it, I'd go and pick some up myself. Trying to keep this under wraps as much as possible, you see."

"Playing close to the vest, are we?"

Varric meant it as a small joke, but Anders took it far too seriously. "Is there any other way to play it, when so much is at stake?"

There was a wistfulness to his tone, an almost defeatist melancholy. Again Varric felt that chill, like someone had just walked over his grave…

… "Are we going to play or not?" quipped Merril.

Varric shook himself, coming yet again out of his musings. Here he sat, amongst his friends, friends so close he thought of them as family. And worried about them just as much. Fenris and Hrodwynn, in love but unable to love. Hawke and Anders, doomed before they started. Merril and her child-like innocence lighting the dungheap corners of Kirkwall. Sebastian, the most vengeful Brother in the history of the Chantry. Aveline, newlywed and still wearing the pants in the family.

The door opened one last time, and a woman walked quietly into the bar.

His mind still thinking of family, Varric was hard pressed to keep the smirk from his lips. There was always the black sheep in the family, he thought as he looked up at the movement; every family has one, even Varric's slipshod one gathered around the table. And there his stood. "Isabela?" he questioned, wondering if she was truly there, or if his wistful thoughts had conjured her image. Despite the music and rivalry in the tavern, his voice sounded loud in his ears; at least it was loud enough for everyone at the table to hear him and look up. He hadn't wanted to draw their attention to the newcomer, not until he was sure she was real, at least.

Yet, apparently, it wasn't an apparition or a flight of fancy, but the real flesh and blood, and flesh, a lot of flesh, of Isabela. Perhaps it was absence making the heart grow fonder, but Varric found himself admiring her buxom build—purely on a professional level, one impressive masculine chest admiring another impressive, though feminine chest. He would have made a welcoming gesture to her, inviting her to the table, but she wasn't a woman who wanted—nor waited—for invitations. She strode boldly forward, swaggering slightly as if she had been on ship for a few months and was still trying to regain her land legs.

"'Lo, Hawke," she nodded to him first, "Anders, Varric, erm," her eyes swept the table clockwise, "Everyone."

"You have a lot of balls, showing your face here," Anders hissed, "After what you've done!"

She sighed, unfazed by his ire. As she walked around the table, she slowed to run a hand across Anders' shoulders, the other snaking around to steal his mug, "I've been accused of a lot of things, love, but never of having balls. If you'd like, I could prove it to you…"

"That won't be necessary, Isabela," Hawke intervened, in both the argument and the theft, firmly removing the mug from her fingers. "If anyone here has a right to have a grievance with you, it would be me," he touched his nose, and the scar, a lasting memento from the Arishok. "And I don't, so the matter's settled."

Her eyes narrowed as she stood up straight and tall, somehow accentuating the curves of her figure even more. "I don't need your charity, Hawke, or your forgiveness. I did something stupid; I'll live with that."

"You admit it," Anders pressed, not believing her capitulation, "That stealing the Book of Koslun was stupid?

"No, giving the damn thing back!" she fired, strolling around now to Varric's side. "I had it. I was free. I should have kept running." She flopped down on the seat next to the dwarf, and tried not to notice him push his mug a little bit closer to her. "But I didn't. Anyway, I'm not apologizing for anything. I'm definitely not admitting I'm ashamed of what I did. And I don't need yours," she paused to look around at them all, "Or anyone else's forgiveness. I am who I am. Love me, or not; I don't care." She pretended to steal Varric's mug and down half of it in one go.

Right, Varric thought to himself, she didn't care, and that's why she came back, just to show them how much she didn't care. He didn't say anything out loud, however, knowing it had taken a lot of balls for her to come back to Kirkwall, much less to walk into the Hanged Man and face them all. He allowed her what was left of her pride, and made a small sound of protest, pretending to have just realized that she drank from his mug.

"Looks like we're all here, Varric," Hawke said, also allowing Isabela to save face. "I think now you can deal the hand."

"What are we playing?" Hrodwynn reached down to her pouch, carefully counting out a few coins, trying to hoard as much as she could for her upcoming trip, while also hoping to win a bit more. It would have been easier if Isabela wasn't at the table, but that's the way the cards were dealt some days.

"Wicked Grace," Varric answered, a corner of his mouth curling into a private smile, "What else?"

Isabela was quiet for all of five seconds, staring at Hawke's profile, before she turned to speak to Anders. "You know, you should thank me. About the scar, I mean. It's done nothing to mar his features. In fact, I think it gives him a bit of a devil-may-care quality. Fairly alluring. I imagine he's had more offers…"

"Isabela!" Hawke barked, fighting to keep the heat from his face. He coughed, covering his outburst, and added, "It's your turn to place a bet. Are you in, or out?"

She put her cards down, toying with a couple of coins, eyeing him up and down like he was a side of beef. "Oh, I'm in. I am most definitely in."

Hawke rolled his eyes while Anders huffed and glared. She laughed, a merry sound, and tossed her coins on top of the growing pile on the table.

Varric added his own coins and dealt the next round, feeling very pleased with having his family whole and sound, at least for one evening.


A few hours later, a few very short hours in Hrodwynn's opinion, she knew it was time to leave. Fenris must have sensed it as well. He touched her elbow, a mere brush of fingertips, but considering their current situation with intimacy, her skin was instantly covered in gooseflesh. She shifted slightly, wanting to lean into his warmth, but kept her promise to allow him to set the limits of their physical interactions.

"Are you ready?" he breathed, barely heard over the tavern music.

"I…" she couldn't look at him, knowing he would disapprove of what she was going to say next, "I can't, Fenris, I just can't leave without telling him something. I'm sorry."

"It's none of his business," his voice growled low, like the warning of a Mabari before it barks.

"I won't tell him what I'm doing, or why," she glance up and immediately wished she hadn't. His eyes were hard, cold, staring with deadly intensity at his cards. "Or even where I'm going. But I have to at least tell him I'm leaving. Otherwise, he'll blame you. He'll take it out on you."

"I can manage it," Fenris' voice continued to rumble like distant thunder.

"But I couldn't. The whole time I'm away, I'm going to be worrying about him doing something terrible to you. Please, Fen, let me speak to him. For my peace of mind? Please?"

He didn't nod, but neither did he shake his head. He merely stared broodily at his cards. Yet when she made to stand up, he tossed his hand down and made to go with her.

"You're not leaving now, are you, Button?" Varric asked, "And without saying goodbye?"

"Leaving. Goodbye?" Anders repeated, bewildered for a moment. The night was young, after all, and there was still plenty of money to be won. But Hrodwynn was standing, and Fenris with her, and he only just now noticed there had been a pack hidden on the floor between their feet. She picked it up, twisting the strap in her hands, and looked at him with her bright emerald eyes.

"Anders, could I speak with you for a moment?"

He swallowed past the lump in his throat and pushed his cards facedown, his eyes flickering back and forth between her and the accursed elf. "What is it?" he asked, nearly tripping over the bench as he hastened to his feet. "What's wrong? What's happened? Where are you going?"

"Nothing, nowhere, it's not, never mind," she sputtered to a halt. Damn, but this was harder than she thought it would be. But she couldn't just up and leave, not without telling Anders something, not without giving him some sort of explanation or reason.

Not without trying to keep him from getting even more mad at Fenris. "Just come with me for a moment."

Fenris watched them intently, his eyes never straying from their forms, as Hrodwynn led Anders to a quiet corner of the tavern. They talked, Hrodwynn barely keeping herself calm, Anders' face growing redder and hotter by the moment. Fenris had known that it was a bad idea, that it would do no good, that Anders was going to hold him responsible no matter what they said or did. But Hrodwynn was stubborn, and blind, and couldn't see the man she had known, the Anders of old, was gone. In his place stood a haggard, haunted creature filled with bile and spite.

"What's going on?" Hawke asked, moving to stand next to Fenris and joining his gaze. "Do you and Hrodwynn have some sort of little adventure planned? And without me?" He tried to keep his voice light, humorous, mimicking the personal affront, but Fenris could tell it was strained.

Before Fenris could be forced to answer, however, Anders stalked up to them. He saw the mage's eyes blazing with fury, that flicker of Justice's light shooting across them, and wondered yet again why he seemed to be the only one who noticed the danger Anders was in, the danger he was becoming. "You put her up to this!" Anders stabbed at Fenris' chest, his finger a dagger, his words a sharpened edge. "Didn't you! No, don't deny it! She's blind whenever it comes to you! Blind and fearless and reckless…"

"Anders!" Hrodwynn gasped, grabbing his arm, trying to get his attention, to get him to stop, to keep him from making a scene.

"…and foolish and stupid! She's going to get herself killed one day because of you!" He shook his arm, hard, dislodging her annoying tugging. Hrodwynn was thrown off balance, hard and fast, and found herself falling backwards. She slammed into a table, bounced, and crashed into a chair. It didn't break, amazingly, but it did topple over and took her with it to the floor. The clatter that was made was loud, but the silence that followed was deafening.

"Anders?" Hrodwynn's small voice drifted up from the floor.

He didn't move, he couldn't, transfixed, staring in consternation as Fenris walked around him, as Fenris reached down to her, as Fenris lifted her to her feet. She didn't look at Anders, her eyes only for the damned elf. And when that tattooed, moral-less, bastard touched her cheek, she closed her eyes in a slow blink and leaned into the gesture.

It made him sick!

"You've seduced her," he ground out, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. "You've warped her mind, tricked her into doing this job for you. It's something dangerous, isn't it? Far too dangerous for you to do it yourself. So you've coerced her into doing it for you."

"No one's forcing me, Anders, I want to do this."

"Shut up!" he yelled at her, a flicker of brilliant bluish-white light seeming to try to burst out through his skin. He felt Justice's call, that allure to allow the spirit to take over, to take care of matters, it would be so easy to simply step aside and allow Justice to prevail…

He wrestled for control over himself, keeping the spirit's siren-like call at bay, and focused on the girl before him. He had to make her understand, he had to keep her from making this mistake, he had to protect her. He took a step forward, and saw her take half a step back.

He saw her movement and paused, and his expression suddenly changed. It was as if a veil was lifted from his eyes, as if he could only now see her, not the half-starved waif he'd seen that first night all those years ago, but the young woman she had become. As well as the mussed hair, the redness on her cheek, the tears in her eyes, as if someone had just roughed her over slightly. But he couldn't see himself as the cause of her pain; that was someone else—it was always someone else. Determined to reach her, he softened his voice and tried again. "You don't know what you're saying, Wynnie. You're not in your right mind. He's taking advantage of you, using you, making you do things you normally wouldn't do."

"He's not making me…"

"Wynnie! Listen to me," he interrupted her, desperate to make her understand, before Justice could convince him to let him have a go. He took hold of her shoulders, pulling her out of Fenris' hands, pulling her around to face only him. "Please, Wynnie, please, whatever this is you're doing, don't. Don't do it. Don't help him. Make him do it himself. Make him clean up his own mess. Please, Wynnie. You know this isn't you. You never wanted to leave Kirkwall before. You were nervous enough that first time, remember? You told me about the sky, how wide and open it was, how it made you feel, like it was going to fall down on top of you, with nothing, no buildings or awnings, to hold it up. The sea won't be any different. No trees. No hills. No birds. Even less to hold it up there…"

"Stop! Please," she squeezed her eyes shut, unable to keep the vision out of her head. Fenris was right; she should have just left. But it was too late now, and she couldn't leave Anders like this. Forcing her eyes open, she tired one last time, "Please, Anders, please try to understand. Fenris can't do this. And I want to do this. I want to help him. It won't be long; I'll be back before the end of the month. But I am going to do this."

"Do this. Do that. You won't even tell me what it is. Can't you see why I think it's something wrong, something sinister, something you're ashamed of?"

"I'm not ashamed of it," she glanced to the side, towards Fenris, "But… I can't talk about it. Not because I don't want to, but it's not my place to say. Anders, please, try to understand…"

"I understand," he glared at Fenris, who coldly glared back. Everything had become brilliantly clear to him, leaving only one course of action left. "I fully understand. And I'm sorry, too, Wynnie," he turned back to her, squaring his shoulders, stealing his heart for what was to come, "But I have to do this. For your own good. You're not going. I forbid it."

A pair of vibrant emerald eyes blinked at him. "You… what…?"

"I forbid you to do this. If you do, if you walk out that door," he let go of her and pointed at the critical portal, looking down his nose at her, "Then I wash my hands of you."

"…Anders…?"

"I'm sorry, Wynnie, but I have to be harsh. I have to make you see! He's using you! And the only way I can get through to you, is to make you choose: him, or me."

Somewhere in the background, she knew the tavern music was still playing off-key. Somewhere in the background, she knew patrons were still talking and laughing round the bar. Somewhere in the background, she knew the others were staring at the two of them. But all she could see at that moment, was a stranger standing before her.

"I'm sorry, too," she whispered, stinging tears springing up to her eyes.

He didn't speak. He didn't rise to the bait. He had to be strong, for her sake, to make her see the danger and the wrongness of what she was doing. He had until she went through that door… But it was already too late. He stood immovable, watching her turn away from him, pick up the strap of her pack in one hand, take that damnable alien elf's hand in the other, and walk out of the Hanged Man.


Hrodwynn was quiet most of the way to the docks. Fenris allowed it, only because he didn't want to speak of Anders, he didn't want her whole trip to be tainted by this memory. He had other plans, other hopes, and those were going to be difficult enough to surmount without bringing Anders into it.

"You've been quiet," she said at last, as if her thoughts had been mirroring his, "Even for you."

"I… have a lot on my mind." He gazed out over the ships, finding the one she would be sailing on, unconsciously slowing his steps.

She hummed a sound, somewhere between agreeing and regretting. Her steps, too, began to slow, even more than his. Her eyes, like his, also took in the sight of all the ships, gently bobbing on the waves. The masts stuck up into the night sky, blackened sticks punctuated by the occasional lantern, looking like tree branches swaying in an unfelt wind, the lanterns blinking in and out behind other masts, as if to make their own starry canopy. "You know something," she began, squeezing his hand a little bit tighter, "I don't think I've ever been back here, to the docks, not since…"

Her voice stopped, suddenly, harshly, as if the breath in her lungs had vanished. His steps stopped in answer, and he turned her towards him. His free hand reached up to cup her face, mindful of the sharpened tips of his gauntlet. He saw her press her cheek against his warmth, felt her soft skin brush against the lyrium brands on his palm, and savored the sting.

Tonight WAS going to be different.

"Forgive me, amatus," his voice was a husky whisper, "We've been so focused on getting my memory back, making plans and tracking down my sister, that we've done nothing about your own blank past."

She smiled sadly for a heartbeat, perhaps indulging herself in some private little moment of self-pity, before her chin lifted and her eyes glistened like the stars above them. "There's nothing to forgive. My memory hasn't been trying to come back, not like yours. And I don't have a single clue about my past or my family, where you have a sister. A sister who, by the way, is expecting me to meet her at a particular tavern by the end of a particular day. A deadline I won't meet if I don't get on that ship over there before it sails." It was a strong hint, but Fenris wasn't quite ready to let her leave.

"I'll see you onboard, and settled into your cabin."

"Fenris," she hedged, giving her lower lip a quick nip, "I don't want this to be a long goodbye…"

"Please, amatus," he shifted closer to her. "There are a few hours yet before you set sail." His voice held the emotional promise of what they had yet to achieve. Yet her heart was aching already, after all that had happened that evening, and the thought of sailing away from Kirkwall—from him—was close to the surface and threatening to break through and send her spiraling into hysterics.

"Tonight's been hard enough. We should just say something quick and…"

"I'll only see you to your cabin," he insisted, knowing it was a lie, knowing he had much more in mind than that. He swallowed, feeling slightly nervous, and then quickly squelched the feeling. There was nothing to feel nervous about. He'd been practicing lately, pushing the limits of his strange anxiety, testing the boundaries of how far he could go and what actions he could do before it triggered. And tonight, at long last, he felt willing and able to see matters through to the very end.

If only he could keep her from talking.

She must have sensed his need, because without a word she nodded, gave him a brave little smile, and started them walking once more towards the ship.

They boarded without incident, checked in with the purser, paid for Hrodwynn's fare, and found her assigned cabin. It was small, cramped, and brought back memories Fenris would rather not acknowledge.

"I've seen water closets larger than this," she sniffed, looking around. There was a small stool nailed to the floor in the corner near the door, and a strange sort of netting hanging from a hook in the next corner. Diagonally from the stool was a small shelf with a wash basin secured into it, and a chamber pot tucked away underneath. "And better equipped. But it's… cozy," she decided. She set her pack down on the stool and turned back to face him. He was still in the doorway, within arm's reach of her, and with a strange look on his face. "Fenris?"

He swallowed, suddenly thinking this wasn't such a good idea after all. But they had been stymied back home, in the mansion, all their failures piling up on top of each other, a stack of remembrances as intimidating and inhibiting as his amnesiac memory troubles. Tonight could be different. With a different location. And different emotions. And, hopefully, just different enough to allow for things to work.

"I'm remembering the last time I sailed. I stayed in a cabin about this size." He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

"When was that?" she asked, curious, looking for any excuse, any reason, to delay his departure. So much for not wanting a long goodbye, she thought sarcastically to herself.

"After I ran away from Danarius," he swallowed; he seemed to be doing that a lot tonight. Pushing away any unsavory thoughts, he quickly ended it with, "I'd stay away from anything fishy to eat if I were you, at least while out in the open water."

She smiled, thinking she knew now why he hated fish so much, the smell, the taste, the texture, all if it bringing back memories of the open sea, large waves, maybe a little motion sickness… But she wisely decided not to press for details. "I will."

He cleared his throat, looking for a reason, an excuse, anything that would keep him there just a moment longer, just until he could muster his flagging courage and make his attempt. He gazed around the cabin for inspiration, but she was right; it was not much larger than a closet.

"So, erm," she felt her heart begin to race, knowing the moment was drawing near, the moment when he would leave and she would stay and embark—literally—on her adventure. Desperate to keep him there just one moment longer, she cast about for an excuse for him to stay. "You've stayed onboard a ship before, so, um, any idea where they hide the bed? Or do I sleep on the floor?"

Fenris felt as if she had read his mind, handing him not only an excuse to remain there a little longer, but also a segue towards what he wished to accomplish tonight. He moved further into the cabin, really taking no more than a single step, and placed himself a hair's breadth from her. The lantern hung from the ceiling off to the side of their faces, casting their features half in light, half in shadow, half in familiarity, half in mystery. "Have you ever slept in a hammock before?"

"A… what?" she asked, bewildered, but glad she had found a reason for him to stay just a little longer. She watched as he reached around her, his nimble fingers—when had he taken off his gauntlets?—reaching towards that strange netting in the corner. He lifted one of a pair of metal hoops, the netting hanging between the hoops, and stretched the mesh diagonally across the cabin to a hook in the opposite corner. The mesh stretched between them, but somehow it didn't seem like it was cutting them off from each other, instead offering a sort of neutral ground for them to meet upon.

"Your bed, Messer," he teased, flourishing his hands in a grand gesture.

"You're joking," she countered. "I'm supposed to sleep on that? A fish net? Where's the pillow? Where're the blankets? Or the mattress, for that matter."

"The netting is the mattress. As for bedclothes, you're meant to bring your own, or do without," he answered. "Here, I'll show you. Hop up."

She stared at him another moment.

"Go on. I'll hold it steady for you." When she continued to look like she wouldn't budge, he insisted, "You're going to have to get used to this, sooner or later, might as well start now while there's someone here to show you how."

Her expression changed, hovering somewhere between disbelief and indulgence, but she gave in to his silly offer. "Alright, how do I, erm, mount it?"

The corner of his mouth twitched at her choice of words. "Easiest way, is to back into it. Turn around, there you go, and spread your arms out to either side, holding the hammock between your hands, spread it taught, very good, now," he leaned in close behind her, so close she wondered if he were already on the hammock himself, and wondered how he could have managed that. "Sit down."

She obeyed. The netting wobbled, back-and-forth, or side-to-side, whatever, but it wobbled and shook and reverberated up her arms, making her shake, throwing her off balance, and she gasped with alarm.

Then he was there, his hands over hers, steadying the swaying netting, allowing her to shift around until she found her balance. "Not bad," he hummed into her ear, and she felt the first shudder of desire sweep her body.

"Fenris?" she breathed, not sure what was happening, but fearing she knew and fearing it wouldn't work like all the other times and fearing they would part with this void still between them and fearing…

"Don't speak." His front was pressed against her back, his hands covering hers, entwining her fingers within the netting, his chin hovering over her shoulder, his hot breath fanning her cheek.

Don't speak, she repeated silently inside her head. But…

A thousand and one emotions were bursting inside her skull. Not the least of which were all those anxieties, all those failures, all those frustrations. Every time they had tried to make love, they had failed. For three years. Every time they let their emotions gain control, every time they let themselves feel, every time it was personal and loving and desirable, one or the other or even both of them had wondered and worried and questioned…

Blessed Andraste, she cursed herself. They had questioned, they had doubted, they had spoken and… what, ruined the mood? Created those doubts? Compounded them? Perhaps there might—just might—be something to that, some sort of self-fulfilling prophecy, that as soon as the doubts were voiced, they were real. But, if instead, they were left unsaid, if she and Fenris only focused on each other, on their movements, on their sensations…

She stared over her shoulder at his lips, still parted after his last words: don't speak. Asking a woman not to speak was like asking the sun not to shine, or the wind not to blow. But she sensed his motives, and trusted his plan.

Tonight. Here. In this new place, without anything around to remind them of past difficulties. Tonight they could remain silent. Tonight they could leave the doubts to rest. Tonight they could focus on the strangeness and the newness and the unexplored.

She lifted her gaze upwards, just far enough to catch his eye staring at her with animalistic intensity in the swaying lantern light. It was now, or never…