Chapter Thirty-One: Surrender
"Leave it, elf."
The words were spoken softly, without malice, but with an air of command that could not be ignored. Fenris, however, still gave it a half-hearted attempt. His steps may have hesitated as Isabela carried Hrodwynn through a doorway and into the bowels of her ship, but his eyes refused to leave her form, not even after the darker interior swallowed them and the door closed solidly behind them. It was only after a sailor, accidentally jostling him in his haste to prepare the ship for setting sail, that the elf came to his senses and—reluctantly—turned away.
Varric and Hawke exchanged a look behind his back, but didn't speak out loud.
Fenris hadn't noticed the silent communication. He was looking around the deck of the ship, not really registering what was there, simply seeking a place that was quiet and out of the way where he could stand and… do what, exactly, he didn't know. He couldn't know. He couldn't fathom what was happening, what had happened, what would happen. He only knew…
He only knew… that, truthfully… he didn't know shit.
Some solid object found it's way to brace against his shoulder, and he relaxed against it as his thoughts sunk even deeper into their mire of despair.
Always before in his life—the life of Fenris, not Leto—ever since he had run away from Danarius, ever since he had stolen his freedom from his master, ever since he had been on his own and answered to no one but himself. Ever since then, he had had no direction, no supervision, no advice from a friend or family member to rely upon when difficult situations arose. And at that very moment, he genuinely could not imagine a more difficult situation: the love of his life, abused so badly, and by someone who had impersonated him, that the merest sight of him must instill within her the darkest anger and the bitterest disgust and the most insurmountable fear and an unendurable pain.
He should run. That's what he had done before, when things grew difficult. He ran. Oh, sure, he convinced himself that he was simply staying ahead of Danarius' hunters, or indulging his curiosity for what lay beyond the horizon, or following a lead that would result in employment with a new patron. But, to be brutally honest with himself—and he deserved to be the one suffering a bit of brutality for a change!—he had always been able to find an excuse to run.
He should run. Now. Before the gangplank was raised. Before the ship set sail. Before they left sight of land. A rogue waved rocked the ship, and he swayed with it, or told himself that he had swayed with it, that he was not shifting his stance before taking that first step, that he was not flexing his fingers in preparation of gripping the rail as he vaulted over it, that he was not estimating how deep the water would be on that side of the ship, or how far to the shore, or…
His machinations were interrupted, his inner prison cell broken into and expanded to include the outside world, when the heat from two other bodies was suddenly felt to either side of him. He knew who would be there, who would dare to approach him in his current state, but he could feel no gratitude for their timely intervention of his self-torture. He didn't speak—there were no words—but he did return to resting his aching shoulder and back once more against the outside of the aftercastle. And waited, waited and prayed and hoped that someone would come along with an answer or a piece of advise on what he should do or how he could fix matters. Until then, he could only stand there.
Varric cleared his throat as he came up beside Fenris. He probably shouldn't be doing this, was undoubtedly risking his life should the elf's current state of mind prove to be tetchy or violent, but he didn't want Fenris to think he was alone—he or Hrodwynn. The dwarf took up a stance next to him, close but not crowding, and stared out over the foredeck of the ship, watching the sailors finish setting sail, waiting in silence as well.
Hawke didn't want to be left standing alone. He approached on the other side, though far more cautiously than Varric. He had no idea what to do, what he could do, what he should do, or even if there was anything for him to do. However, he could follow Varric's lead, trusting the dwarf had more insight into this situation, undoubtedly due to his storytelling skills and people-watching pastime. Besides, Fenris hadn't killed either one of them yet for interrupting his brooding. So somewhat reassured, Hawke also stood and waited, in a very bored silence, for someone to make a move.
"And this is the captain's cabin," Isabela kicked open the door with her boot. Merril, who had been inside sitting on the single chair, gave a startled squeak and jumped to her feet, as if feeling guilty for having been caught in Isabela's cabin, not to mention using her chair. Upon seeing Hrodwynn, however, she quickly forgot her own discomfiture and started fussing over the girl.
"Oh! You found her. I was worried when you didn't come back right away. It was taking a bit longer than you said. 'Lo, Hrodwynn. I'm so glad you're safe. And wearing Hawke's new cloak. That was nice of him. You must have been chilled or something."
Hrodwynn lifted her head and gave the effusive mage a small, and tight, little smile. "'Lo, Merril."
"How's that leg?" Isabela asked, with only a teeniest bit of solicitousness that was out of character for her. "Think you can stand yet?"
Hrodwynn didn't want to answer, she didn't want to talk, she didn't want to deal with people right then. But she had to, and so she nodded, once, and began to pull away from Isabela. The lady pirate obliged, setting her gingerly on her feet, one arm around her shoulders, the other prepared to catch her if she proved too unsteady. Hrodwynn, however, had endured enough embarrassment and humiliation for a lifetime; she was determined to regain a bit of her pride. She stubbornly kept her feet and, for good measure, took first one step, then another, from Isabela's side towards the chair Merril had just vacated. It wasn't that she felt like sitting; it was just that once having started, she needed a destination, and the chair proved a handy target.
"I suspect you'll want a bath," Isabela continued, her eyes narrowing with a bit of concern over Hrodwynn's lack of verbalization, while inwardly her chest swelled with pride over Hrodwynn's newly rediscovered strength.
"Oo, a bath would be lovely, wouldn't it? With soaps and scented oils. And bubbles! Do you think, Isabela, that we could make bubbles for her? Loads of them. And hot water, too, but not too hot. Just hot enough to let you get a nice long soak and work all that grime and muck out of your hair." Merril tsked her tongue as she hovered over Hrodwynn. "Ugh, what a mess. But don't you worry. One good soak and you'll be clean again. Well, maybe a rinse or two afters, for good measure. But we'll get you clean, never worry about that."
"I'll have someone bring in the tub and the water," Isabela agreed, "After we set sail. Merril, you'll see to it, won't you, that she has everything she needs? To feel like herself, again?"
There was some sort of undertone to Isabela's voice, but if Merril heard it, she gave no sign. "Of course," she absently peeped, her main focus on the comb in her hand and working on breaking loose some of the larger chunks of, erm, detritus.
"There's a chest over there," Isabela nodded her chin off to the side, and both the other women took note of its location. "It used to belong to the last captain of this ship. I already took out anything of value and stowed it in a more secure location. But there are some clothes and the like still inside. Help yourself to whatever you'd like."
"Oh, we will, thanks," Merril readily answered for both of them, and just as readily dismissed the other woman. "Now, the bath's only the first step. You'll be wanting clean clothes next, that will feel so nice. And then we'll have a nice hot meal, nothing too heavy, but something warm and filling, like a stew with biscuits drowning in gravy. And for afters…"
Isabela didn't hear any more of Merril's plans, closing the cabin door to leave the two women alone. She gave a silent sigh before turning to head up on deck, thankful that Merril—for once—had taken the hint. After only two steps she paused to tap a nail against a tooth and wonder if maybe Merril hadn't caught the hint after all; it was always a bit difficult to follow the path of the flighty elf's thoughts. Yet Merril must have realized that Isabela wanted her to talk with Hrodwynn, to keep her occupied, to help her get cleaned up, to distract her with chatter and prattle and silliness. Then again, perhaps Merril hadn't understood her clue about making Hrodwynn feel like herself again, but was simply Merril being Merril. Isabela let go of the mental conundrum and started forward again. Regardless of whether or not Merril had caught on, she was doing and acting exactly the way Hrodwynn needed her to, so Isabela left them to it.
After seeing to it that the bath would be delivered as promised, she set her sights on Fenris. Not a pleasant task, but then again, none of this was pleasant… well, alright, may be the treasure was a bit pleasant, she allowed, a smirk tugging at her lips as she thought about it. But what really mattered were the two star-crossed lovers; their current situation was anything but pleasant. Quite the opposite, in fact. And knowing Fenris as she did, or Hrodwynn for that matter, Isabela also knew they'd need someone to help steer them through the coming storm. That was something she could do—perhaps only she could do.
She hated it. She always hated it when men took advantage of women. When masters took advantage of their slaves. When the strong took advantage of the weak, the rich of the poor, the healers of the sick. It was her own personal—and private—quest to right those wrongs, to set the two opposites on even footing, or to even turn the tables when possible. She especially enjoyed effectuating the revenge herself when no one else could. But she hadn't been able to do any of that this time. SHE hadn't been able to exact retribution for Hrodwynn's dishonor, and the frustration felt like a sort of metaphorical cock-block, leaving her itchy and more than a bit snippy. Never mind that the arse who had abused Hrodwynn was dead, blown to a dust that clung to their skin like a sticky, staticky soot—Isabela hadn't been allowed to take her own shot at making him pay, so she was pettish.
She was fully into this pouty and sulky state by the time she stalked out onto the deck of her ship. If she took a moment to notice, she would have been pleased with the way her crew was readying the ship for sail, but that would also have spoiled her mood. Instead she focused on the three men slouching idly across the front of the aftercastle that held the captain's and officers' quarters, loitering like three petulant boys who'd been told to stop playing and go home. Her booted footfalls echoing and shuddering through the boards alerted them to her approaching presence, Varric and Hawke guiltily coming to attention, though Fenris continued to impersonate a statue. Yes, she was going to have her hands full, getting those two love birds back on track.
"Alright," she sighed angrily, a feat that briefly impressed Varric, and posed with her arms crossed beneath her bosom and one hip cocked. "Alright, all three of you, stop that right now."
There was a moment of silence as two pairs of eyes blinked at her. "Stop what?" Hawke asked, bewildered, thinking that they had done nothing other than standing around and waiting.
"Shut up!" she silenced him, her eyes flashing hard like twin daggers in the sunlight. "I'm not finished talking yet. She doesn't need this, you know. She doesn't need any of this."
"Any of… what… exactly?" Varric tremulously took his turn at asking for clarification.
"Any of your acting," she answered, removing one hand to flap at them, "Your… moping and… brooding. You are walking on eggshells around her, trying to imagine what she's feeling, what she's thinking, what she needs or doesn't need, what she wants or doesn't want, what might set her off or remind her of what happened or of who did this or… any of the sort!"
"We're not…" Hawke's futile denial died on his lips, cut off by Isabela's skeptic expression and the fact that he, at least, had been doing exactly what she was accusing them of doing.
"Yes, you are. And I'm telling you right now: stop it!" She stepped closer, nose-to-nose with Hawke while managing somehow to keep Varric in her glare along with the Fenris' profile. "Hrodwynn was raped. Repeatedly, I'm guessing. And I'm also guessing it was by this 'other Fenris' you told me about, the man who also had lyrium markings and could phase through matter. The man you blew into dust before I could get my hands on him," she aimed this last bit at Fenris, who continued to show her his cheek. "And now you're all thinking about this 'other Fenris,' and what he did to Button, and how she's going to react, and what you should do or not do to make things easier for her. Well, guess what, gentlemen: it doesn't matter what the fuck you do!"
Hawke's eyes widened and his jaw dropped. Varric tried to take a half-step back before he remembered there was a wall behind him. But the most dramatic reaction came from Fenris—a single swallow.
"It's already happened," Isabela bored on relentlessly. "Hrodwynn was raped. Nothing can change that. It's done, in the past, a fait accompli." She stepped closer, moving past the other two to reach out and touch Fenris' shoulder, mindful of his markings and spiky armor, her voice growing as soft as her touch. "So accept it. You want to know what you can do to help her? Accept it. Yes, it happened. Yes, it was ugly and evil and cruel and it's going to have lingering effects for a time. Yes, things will randomly remind her of it. And yes, she will grow upset." Her fingers squeezed just a little bit, "And yes, she will hurt and she will cry. And she will get mad and she will yell. And she will grow scared and she will scream. Let her. She needs that, Fenris, she needs to face it and accept it and feel it. Then, once she realizes that it's a part of her, that it will always be a part of her, but only one part of her, one small part of her whole self—then she can move on. Let her feel."
He closed his eyes and bowed his head, a mere fraction of a degree, the minimal gesture flooded with all his guilt and pain. "It's more than what he did to her that haunts the two of us. Matthias made himself look like me. Not just the lyrium markings and the armor, but he died his hair to match mine. He called himself by my name. Now every time I invoke my lyrium… every time she looks at me… she can't even speak my name without…"
"Without feeling," Isabela finished for him, calmly and matter-of-factly. "She will feel, Fenris. She'll be reminded of this Matthias and what he did to her and she will feel. And she will continue to feel more emotions than can be defined and categorized. But there are other things she could be feeling, worse things, like suspicions and doubts and worries. Acting oddly around her will only reinforce these other, negative impressions that things have changed, that perhaps things have changed so much that it can never be right once more between the two of you." Her other hand gripped his other shoulder, almost but not quite giving him a little shake. "But don't give in to it. Don't let the doubt get a foothold. Fight, Fenris; fight for the woman you love. Act as normal as you can. Make small talk. Treat her like always. Don't let her suspect that anything has changed between the two of you."
"Ah, you might want to rephrase that," Varric said drolly, "Considering how for years he used to make her think he hated her."
Isabela smirked, letting go of Fenris but not leaving him alone, "Well, one or two of your old shouting matches might not be out of order, if done in moderation, just to let off a bit of steam now and again. But I was referring to those sappy, timid displays of affection, like how you'd touch her elbow with only your fingertips, as if she were made of porcelain or fine crystal."
It was a quip, a gentle one, done out of friendship and compassion, but it unknowingly held a potent barb. He remembered the reasons why he had touch her so timidly, how he was so afraid of stirring up those suppressed and overwhelming feelings within his self that he dared only show her the most minimal physical affection. Now the tables would be turned, now she would be the one with the overwhelming feelings, now she would be the one fearing the signs of affection and what it might do to her.
Fenris' gauntleted fist clenched so tightly the talons threatened to leave gouges in his own flesh. Fight, Isabela had said, fight for Hrodwynn. But this was not a normal fight. He would be up against, well, against nothing—nothing physical, at any rate. Not a battle-hardened knight nor a studied mage nor even an unpredictable wild creature. What he was about to face had no body to pierce, left no footprint to track, gave off no scent to follow.
Yet he was going to fight, of that he was certain: he would fight for his love, for their love, even if what he had to fight against held no form and carried no weapon and felt no wounds. He would never give up on Hrodwynn, even if it took them years to move past this, even if they could never move past this, because she had already fought this battle. She had already fought for—and won!—his love. So he had no other choice but to fight…
Fenris took a breath, lifting his chin and opening his eyes, and endeavored to respond in kind to Isabela's jibe. "That's because I wear gauntlets; I always have to be careful of the talons. Case in point." He lifted his hand, showing the pricks of red on his palm.
Isabela rolled her eyes. It was a feeble, though somewhat dark, attempt at humor, but the fact that he made the attempt was what mattered. She dared to allow herself to begin feeling slightly encouraged for the two lovers.
Then Varric took up the challenge, "Don't forget how you're always hovering next to her, real close. It's as if you're hoping she'll turn around too quickly and your lips can 'accidentally' kiss hers."
"I have no such intentions when I stand so close to her," the elf sniffed, "I am merely offering her the protection of my presence. Besides, I happen to find lewd and public displays of affection distasteful. Though I assure you, Hrodwynn and I have kissed. Thoroughly. Passionately, even. In private."
Before Varric could pounce on that juicy little tidbit, Hawke finally caught on and added, "Don't forget those puppy eyes. Honestly, every time her back is turned, you stare after her with such longing, such sweetness it's sickening. Bleh. I want to vomit whenever I see it. In fact, I might vomit right now, simply imagining it." He placed his hand in front of his mouth, long fingers acting as a shield before his lips. "Ew."
There was a huff from the elf, not an actual laugh, but a harsh exhale of air from his lungs that might have been, under other circumstances, the prelude to a mild chuckle. "I've said it before, but I won't say it again: There. Are. No. Puppy. Eyes."
The door to the aftercastle opened, and Fenris' eyes automatically shifted to look there, to define the motion and assess the situation. Seeing as it was not Hrodwynn but a sailor coming out of the doorway, he relaxed.
Varric and Hawke exchanged knowing smirks, the dwarf letting go with a chuckle that rumbled deep inside his gut. "You were saying…?"
Beneath Fenris' swarthy skin tone, a slight blush of pink flushed the tops of his cheeks. But he didn't comment. Instead his olive-green eyes flashed at Varric, challenging him to continue.
Hawke's hand went from hiding his pretend vomiting, to hiding an actual smile. Isabela was a little more practiced at concealing her reactions, her face a perfect reflection of matronly tolerance as she continued. "If you boys will excuse me, now that matters are back on course here, I have to go pirate, erm, I mean, pilot my ship. Gentlemen."
"Milady Pirate," Varric acknowledged, adding a very low mock bow at the end. He watched appreciatively as she sauntered off to command her crew, her hips swaying in rhythm to the waves. "Ah, I don't like it when she gets mad at us and leaves, but I do like to watch. So," he turned back to the others, one not interested in women and one only interested in a particular woman, "What's next? Grab a bit of something to eat?"
"I was thinking…" Fenris began, unsure of his intended action, but remembering Isabela's advice to do what would be normal, and what he had in mind was very normal—and very necessary—to his nature. "I was thinking I'd check in on Hrodwynn, see how she was doing." He didn't want to, he thought he probably shouldn't have, but he couldn't stop himself. He turned and looked at the other two, hoping to see approval and agreement in their faces. What he saw instead was skepticism, with a little bit of disgust. "What? Isabela said we should act normal, and wouldn't it be very normal of me to want to see her? See that she's alright? Talk with her and…"
"I'm not arguing that," Hawke held up his hand, not really wanting to know what Fenris might intend. He supposed that, no, they wouldn't be doing anything of THAT nature, but he didn't even want the slightest mention of the thought. "It's only that you're still covered in essence of, what was his name, Matthias? Don't you think it might be prudent to, oh, I don't know, take a bath? Clean your armor? At least knock the 'dust' out of your hair?"
Fenris paused, not sure if Hawke was kidding or serious. But the look on Varric's face made him reconsider. He dropped his gaze, tucking in his chin as he looked down at himself. He did look a bit dusty, and though he wiped at the grime that was clinging to his skin and armor, it did not come off easily. "Perhaps you're right. But it's going to take hours to clean my armor properly."
"We'll do that for you, won't we, Hawke." It wasn't an offer, but a command, from Varric. "Why don't you and Hawke find a place to wash up, and I'll scrounge around with the crew and see if there isn't a spare tunic or something for you to wear for your date with Button?"
"Er, we will?" Hawke hummed, but when Varric's elbow dug into his hip, he changed his tone. "I mean, come along, Fenris, I think there's a water closet or something this way, next to our cabins."
"I, ah, appreciate the offer, Varric," he began, even as Hawke started pulling him away, hand on his upper arm, "But it won't work. I have to wear my armor. All the time."
"Why's that?"
"Because if I were to invoke my lyrium, while wearing anything besides my armor, the markings would show. Right through the fabric. And, of course, there's the whole part where the clothing won't phase with me."
"Really?" the dwarf's eyes lit up, his little mind whirring with the possibilities. "That's… kinda cool, actually."
"Just, agh," Hawke made a disgusting noise, "Just find him something to wear. And you," he shook a finger beneath Fenris' nose, "No phasing."
Isabela was above them, approaching the wheel that was housed on top of the aftercastle. She was still close enough to hear the exchange, the typical usual banter between the three, and felt another knot of tension ease from between her shoulder blades. Normal was good. Normal was exactly what Hrodwynn would need right then, from all of them, as much normal as they could manage. That, and some time, would do Hrodwynn more good than a dozen healing potions. Isabela felt encouraged as she took the wheel, so encouraged that she started whistling through her teeth a little shanty, something light and energetic and peppy. Very soon her crew around her began to pick up the tune, and by the time the sails had caught the wind and they were underway, the whole deck was in full voice, singing about the wind and the sea and the freedom and the joy of life.
The tunic itched.
Fenris resisted the fifteenth impulse to rub at the collar, or to pull it away, or to tear off the sleeves—venhedis, but he wanted to strip! Not that he would have admitted this to Varric, but every lyrium tattoo the borrowed clothing touched was alive with fire. He did have some relief wherever the tunic billowed out, leaving most of the irritation at his shoulders. The leggings, too, were loose and short, ending just below his knees, a colorful though tasteless pattern of pink and orange stripes. Bleh, he through to himself, looking down at his slapped-together outfit; he looked like a jester.
He wanted his armor. Hawke had been adamant, once he'd seen the state of it, about giving it a thorough cleaning and had sent Fenris on his way to see Hrodwynn while he worked on it. He supposed it was for the best; he really didn't want to have bits of 'Matthias dust' ruining his armor, filling up the creases, mucking up the buckles, clinging to the straps. He also didn't want Hrodwynn to see—however minutely or accidentally—any lingering bits of the bastard; the two of them were going to have enough to deal with already.
But damn it his skin itched!
He lifted his hand and hesitated for a moment, unsure of where he would reach, but instead of tugging at the fabric he rapped his knuckles against the door of the captain's cabin.
He heard it, like the squeak of a mouse, a startled "oh!" that popped out before the source could control it. There was a bit of shuffling inside the cabin, then total silence. He could only wait for a count of ten before he had to know what was wrong; the hairs on the back of his neck standing so straight, he could feel them pushing the collar of the tunic off of his skin. His hand turned the latch, the door swing inward on the roll of the waves, and he quickly followed after.
The interior was lit softly, the lanterns swinging from the ceiling turned down in consideration of eyes that had grown too used to darkness. In the middle of the room was a small copper tub, barely knee height but larger than the one he had used to get cleaned up. There was an empty bucket of what must have held rinse water, several used towels puddled and discarded on the floor not too far from Hawke's new and permanently stained cloak, and an open chest with clothing strewn and draped about it. On a low table next to a chair there were several handkerchiefs of various colors piled up next to a comb and scissors. Bits of red hair, almost dull and brown in the muted light, lay fallen like a dusting of snow about the chair. A tray sat on the bed, a bowl of stew covered with a napkin and a pair of fresh baked rolls beside it, all of the food steaming the air it was so freshly served.
But there was no Hrodwynn.
He took a bold step further into the cabin to come up next to the bed and picked up the rolls in his hand, soft and warm. The door swung partway closed on the swell of another wave, and he heard the startled sound again coming from the corner behind him. He spun, ready for any trouble, his free hand curved like a talon, half a heartbeat away from invoking his lyrium.
"Oh, Fenris," Merril chirruped, "I'm so sorry. I don't know. I honestly don't know."
"Don't know what?" he pushed for clarification, barely able to relax his hands and keep from crushing the rolls, much less control his temper. After everything that had happened, the very last thing he wanted to deal with right then was a blood mage—an openly practicing, unrepentant, flagrant blood mage.
"That's just it; how can I tell you, if I don't know."
"Merril," he growled, his voice made darker and more gravely due to his stress and exhaustion and now frustration. "Start at the beginning, with what you do know. Isabela said she left Hrodwynn with you, to get cleaned up."
"Oh, yes, she did. And we did, I mean, I helped Hrodwynn into the tub. She wanted to do it herself, but she was so unsteady on her feet, that I was afraid to leave her alone. But we managed that well enough, and we found something for her to wear," she gestured unnecessarily at the chest. "Then we, well, I, really, I was the one who did it, she certainly couldn't have done it herself, but we went to work on her hair. Poor thing," she paused to sniff, "There were chunks missing. Ripped out. In little tufts and spots all over her scalp. Some of it looked like it was growing back already, thank the gods, but I wanted to do something nice for her, to make her feel better about her hair, until it was full again. So I gave her a trim," she gestured to the scissors, "Evened it up a bit. Not too much—I know she likes her hair short, but not shaved certainly, so I just cut off what seemed overly long to me, and brushed it about trying to cover the bare spots, but there were too many. So we picked a scarf for her to wear. She looked so much like Isabela; they could be sisters," Merril paused to reflect on the memory. "It was a little strange, though. She agreed with me, how she and Isabela looked alike, but I don't think she even once glanced at her reflection in the mirror."
Fenris hadn't wanted the whole story, but Merril was on a roll, so he muttered, "I'm sure she peeked when you weren't looking. What happened next, after you fixed her hair?"
"Right, well, we'd gotten her cleaned up, and looking nice, so I asked her if she was hungry for anything. And she said she was, so I told her I would find her something to eat. I said I would be right back. And I was. I promise you, Fenris, I just popped over to the galley and right back! But…" Merril looked away, unsure of what to say, or how to tell him.
"But she wasn't here when you returned, was she."
It wasn't a question, but Merril nodded. "I remember, she asked me, as I was leaving, if I would please not lock the door. I thought it an odd request, asking me to leave the door unlocked, because she knows how to pick locks, doesn't she. But I told her, the door only locks from the inside, it would be entirely up to her whether or not to lock it. She smiled at that, and I thought it was a good thing that she smiled, so I smiled back and left to get her somewhat to eat. Only when I got back…"
He nodded. "It's alright, Merril."
"I didn't mean to lose her, don't know how I did manage it, but I'll find her, Fenris, I promise…"
"It's alright!" he repeated, a little too forcefully, but he wasn't in the mood to deal with hysterics, and the harsh command stopped Merril before she could get started. She hiccoughed into silence, a hand over her mouth to help with that, and stared at him with wide eyes filling up with tears. He sighed, not so much feeling remorseful as simply tired, and turned away. "It's alright, Merril," he tried yet again, this time a bit more softly, attempting to ease the other elf's guilt. There certainly was enough guilt to go around for everyone, but he didn't want to share. It helped not to look at her. He busied himself with wrapping the rolls safely in the napkin, wrinkling his nose at the contents of the stew, as he continued, "Hrodwynn probably just wanted a breath of fresh air. She has been cooped up in a dungeon for the past several weeks. Undoubtedly she got bored, waiting for you to come back, and stepped out for a moment or two, just to clear her head." He leaned back from the bed and faced the door, "Don't worry about it; I'll find her."
He tried, he honestly tried to smile, setting his hand on her shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting manner, but the only reward for his efforts was a timid flinch and shudder. He quickly dropped his hand away and took his first step towards the door.
"Fenris, you're mad at me, aren't you? You always are."
He stopped, twisting his neck just far enough that he would have been able to see Merril bouncing anxiously from foot to foot—if he had bothered to look. "I am not." He managed another single step before she stopped him again.
"Where is she, do you think?"
He couldn't bring himself to even turn his head this time. He needed to get out of there, he needed to find Hrodwynn, and Merril's incessant need for forgiveness and reassurance made his teeth ache. That, or he was grinding them too hard. He unclenched his jaw and answered, "Not too far, I shouldn't think. We are on a ship, after all; not too many places for her to go."
He made it to the doorway this time before she piped out one last question, "Could she have fallen overboard?"
"No," he answered, not bothering to break his stride, "There are too many sailors on deck. Someone would have seen her and called out an alarm. She's on board, Merril, safe and sound, and I'll find her."
"Oh, I do hope so…"
Her last words were muffled by the distance and the blood pounding in his ears.
Fasta vass, Merril had a point. He didn't want to think about it, but it was a very distinct possibility, if Hrodwynn was feeling trapped and claustrophobic and had tried to escape the ship, only to jump overboard into the icy and uncaring waters of the sea… No! That had not happened. She was still here, on board somewhere, quiet and safe and…
Yes, that was it. She had been imprisoned in a windowless dungeon for weeks, dark and cramped and silent. That's probably the type of place he would find her, something similar to what she had grown familiar with, some sort of enclosed cubby or small cabin or…
He almost snapped his fingers, suddenly figuring it out, the answer so obvious that finding her would seem an afterthought. His pace quickened as he started for the very bowels of the ship and nearly yanked the door off it's hinges as he entered the main cargo hold.
As he suspected, there was very little light. It was already evening outside, and the only source of light was the grated opening high overhead. Distantly he could hear sailors calling out to each other, see their shadows pass over the squares of darkening sky, but otherwise their movements, their existence, did not intrude this far deep into the belly of the vessel. He dropped his gaze from the ceiling—Hrodwynn would be as far away from that as possible—and scanned the interior.
It was a mess, a jumble of crates, chests, bags and cases, anything that could be used to carry items, tossed about willy-nilly without a care for ballast or the shifting that might be caused by the force of the waves. He sniffed, knowing Isabela would have a fit when she saw this, but left that mess for her to clean up. He had his own agenda, his own purpose for being there, and to accomplish that, he would have to find a way to search the whole hold. Phasing was right out, even if he had been wearing his armor, as Hrodwynn had already expressed an aversion towards seeing him glow—damn Matthias and damn him again! Fenris was going to have to do this the hard way, and he was fairly sure he would need a better vantage point than the doorway.
It was mostly silent. There was the odd sound of something alive, scurrying in the darkness, like a small rodent or a large insect. The creaking of timbers was a different sound from the popping of sap on distant torches. An occasional voice cried out, so distant and muffled that it was hard to tell if the sound was one of fear, or pain, or even joviality.
The smells were a bit odd too, a lot more wooden, though not the carefree and sun-warmed wood of open forests. There was damp cloyingness too, which was nothing new, but this damp was overrun with a salty tang that seemed to settle on the area like a film. It permeated the nostrils and all but overrode every other smell—other than that of wood.
The air felt warm, nothing like the coolness of being under earth, more like the stuffiness of being locked inside a sweat box, or a coffin. And everything near at hand, every reachable surface, was wooden or metal or fabric, not the cold and heartless stone she had become used to.
Hrodwynn opened her eyes but it was too dark; she couldn't see much more than she had with her other senses. She sat on her haunches with her back braced against a crate, a row of wooden crates stretching out before her on one side. The other side of the narrow walkway was built with messily stacked satchels and odd bits of purloined treasure, one of which had shifted and partway fallen free. It lay mostly stretched out, its long pleated body dangling towards the floor. The bottom end held a row of black and white keys, swaying with the rocking of the ship, and creating an airy bemoaning with each swing. What value the contraption held, or what one could do with such a device, she had no idea, and she wondered which of Isabela's crew had decided to plunder the odd looking, bellows-like contraption.
A new sound reached her ears, a heavy plopping, like a pair of bare feet slapping the floor after dropping from a respectable height. The next moment, a shadow fell across the mouth of the tunnel, long and lean. She didn't smile, but the corner of her mouth did twitch—just a little. Of course he would seek her out.
"'lo, F…f…"
It might have been an attempt to say his name, but the sound died to a sigh before it could pass her lips.
"Hello, Hrodwynn," he answered, apparently ignoring her slip, or inability, or just plain awkwardness. Whatever he sensed from her, he refused to give it a name, instead kneeling down just beyond the end of the makeshift hallway. "I've brought some rolls. Are you hungry?" He pulled out a napkin and unfolded it, setting it down on the floor. Then he moved back, away from the food, and sat down against a crate to wait, as if trying to tempt a kitten out of hiding.
It was a silly analogy, really, and she had no idea why it had popped in her head, she wasn't hiding like a frightened little kitten, after all, and she was about to open her mouth and tell him so, when her stomach chose that moment to make a rather opinionated gurgle.
She snapped her lips closed, feeling the heat flood her cheeks, more so when a nervous sort of sound burst from her chest. It wasn't laughter, it wasn't even a giggle, more of a skittish bubble of clumsy sound that staggered out of her to plop onto the floor somewhere between herself and the rolls.
Yes, she was nervous.
Yes, she had been hiding like a frightened kitten.
And, yes, she was very definitely hungry.
"Thanks," she mumbled, ducking her head, staring at her hands, even as she crawled down the narrow pass and emerged from her cubbyhole. She cradled one of the rolls in her twisted right hand, and picked at it with the fingertips of her left hand. The bread was warm, the crust thin and easily giving way to the soft dough inside.
"One usually doesn't get bread onboard a ship; the dough is too time-consuming, making biscuits and other quick breads the standard fare. However, the cook must have grown bored while the rest of us were away, and busied himself with kneading and shaping and baking."
Hrodwynn savored the homemade taste, feeling her mouth water around it. Briefly an image popped in her mind, and she found herself thinking of the maggot-ridden, stale, moldy bread she had been subsiding on for the past several weeks…
Mentally she slapped herself. This was nothing like what she had been eating. This bread was good. Fresh. Healthy. And halfway through the first roll, she was already beginning to fill up. "Aren't you having any?"
"I, er, brought these from your tray, the one Merril fetched for you." If he noticed the shameful reddening on her cheeks returning, he didn't make mention of it. Nor did he scold her for leaving Merril in the lurch or escaping the cabin or running off to hide or making everyone worry. His tone was mellow and conversational as he continued, "There was some stew as well, but that wasn't worth bringing with."
"Oh?" she made a slightly curious sound, but still did not look up from her hands.
"Yes, quite. I think I mentioned that the cook had a bit too much time on his hands? Apparently, he took to fishing while he was waiting for his dough to rise. And, apparently, he's quite good at fishing, or catching rather."
She could imagine the shudder she heard in his voice, and though she knew exactly what he meant, she had to confirm, "Fish stew."
The half-gagging sound was her only answer.
"Then you better have the other roll," she offered again, "Here."
Her hand, her good hand, reached out to pick up the second roll, and she extended it towards him. She hadn't intended to, but her gaze lifted far enough to see him, to see his leg at any rate, and the ugly striped pants he wore. The strange clothing caught her off guard, having rarely seen him anything but his armor, and she had to look further, to the billowy blouse that draped around his narrow frame. The clothing was odd on him, strange, even alien, and more than enough to break through her timid reluctance. Then her eyes flickered up to his face.
He was staring at her. He was staring with olive-green eyes, muted in the dark, but seeming to glow with a life of their own, to pulse with the warmth of a half-vowed promise, and yet to wait there patiently to be whatever she needed him to be.
Words burst from her once more, nervously, with a touch of panic or of trying to hold something else at bay, "You don't look yourself." Which was entirely true, and perhaps a bit more helpful than she wanted to admit. If he didn't look like Fenris, or like the 'false Fenris,' she could almost pretend he—they—the Fenrises—were someone else.
"Neither do you," he almost smiled as he returned the sally.
"I, um, well, no," she dropped the roll onto his lap and reached for the dark green scarf covering her ruined scalp. She wanted to pull it down over her face, but instead settled for returning to her roll. "Merril, that is, we decided, yes, we thought it might look better, I mean, the potions are working and all, my scalp is healing and my hair will grow back, but potions won't make my hair grow any faster, so until it does…" She picked up another morsel and shoved it in her mouth, mostly to stop the inane chatter falling from her lips. Bloody shite, why couldn't she stop talking?!
"Don't get me wrong, you look quite fetching in the scarf," he tilted his head, possibly trying to peek at her face, she wasn't sure. "Like a lady pirate."
"Merril said I looked like Isabela's sister."
"Yes, you do," he said so matter-of-factly, she could almost believe him.
"We're not, sisters, I mean, we look nothing alike, she's all tan and tits, and I'm so pale and…"
"I meant in spirit," he clarified, cupping his hand over her wrist, the touch so light she more felt the heat from his body than the callouses of his skin. "The two of you are very much alike, indomitable wills, strong opinions, and an unending endurance. Neither one of you has it in her to surrender, no matter the odds, no matter the cost, you continue to fight." He picked at his own roll, but didn't take the bite until he finished speaking, "That's one of the things I love about you; you never give up fighting."
He prayed, merciful Maker how he prayed, that this was true and she hadn't given up fighting. And this evening, the normally uncommunicative deity was listening.
"I couldn't, Fen," she sniffed, feeling her heart break, feeling her eyes burn with tears, feeling the words ram their way past the blockage in her chest. "I couldn't help it; I couldn't stop fighting. Even after what Laconus said to me, I couldn't do it. Laconus was the guard who had the task of keeping me alive, of making sure HE didn't kill me—He could do whatever he wanted to me, but not that. And Laconus told me," she didn't even pause as she rubbed at her nose with the sleeve of her tunic, "He told me how fighting would only make matters worse, how much the other one enjoyed it when the girls fought back. Laconus said that I should just lie passive and then he'd lose interest in me, and he wouldn't hurt me as much. But I couldn't do it. I had to fight him. Every time. Even knowing how much it would hurt, how close HE would come to killing me, how it would end the same anyway whether I fought or not, I had to. Like you said, it just isn't in me to give up."
He'd heard all this already, knew the basics at least, but if she needed to talk about it, if she needed to get it out of her system, then he'd listen—it would be his just penance. "Matthias was like that," he admitted, not knowing if he was helping her heal or fueling the flames, but he continued, "He'd always been like that. Even when we were younger, Matthias always enjoyed making others bleed, making them afraid of him. He enjoyed it a little too much."
"When… when you were younger…?" she asked, wonderingly, curiously, even slightly desperately as if eagerly seizing on another topic of conversation. "Do you mean… you… you remember… him…?"
"I remember," Fenris answered simply, yet profoundly.
Again, her world was upended, the floor becoming the ceiling, fact becoming fiction and vice versa. "…how…"
Fenris didn't want to talk about his problems right at that moment, but he supposed he shouldn't try to hide it from her. It was a goal they had been working on for several years now. "It was Varania. When she arrived in Kirkwall… when I saw her… it all… started… to come back. Not all at once, of course, but I found if I thought about something, or saw or heard something that reminded me of something, it could trigger a memory of before, a memory of Leto's."
"Leto?" She popped the last crumb into her mouth.
"That was my name, before. But it's strange," he shifted, feeling itchy once more, but this time it wasn't from the tunic or the lyrium, but from within. "I can remember Leto, what he liked to do for fun, that he loved apples but hated blueberries," he lifted his eyes to hers, to see her FINALLY looking at him, staring straight at him, with no aversion or disgust or fear. She was seeing him, Fenris, not the 'fake Fenris'/Matthias. "But I, erm, I don't feel like, I mean," he paused to clear his throat and take moment to gather his thoughts, to let himself feel hope that Hrodwynn was coming back to him, before returning to his explanation. "I'm not Leto, not any more, probably never again. I can remember him, yes, I remember his dreams and his hopes and his fears. But he is not me. Leto is just…" he shrugged, "…like a character in one of those books Varric used to have us read. He's another person. Someone I am very familiar with, certainly, but not me. Too much has happened, too much has changed for me to ever be Leto again. But I do remember."
Whether Hrodwynn at long last realized she was staring at him, or whether she started to feel jealousy over his memory returning while her's continued to remain veiled, he wasn't sure. But she dropped her gaze once more to her hands. He tried not to fee disappointment, he hadn't expected her to be able to look at him all tonight. But she had, and she had seen him, Fenris, not Matthias.
It was a start. A baby step to be sure, but a start.
"Did, um," she gave her lower lip a brief nip before stealing a quick peek at him, "Did Leto like fish stew?"
"I, ah, never thought, really, I…" he mumbled, the words triggering memories of various dishes, foods Leto liked or disliked, "You know, I don't know; I don't think that he'd ever tried fish stew."
She smiled, or it might have been the playing of a shadow in the moonlight coming from above. "Well, I just thought, it would be weird, wouldn't it, if Leto liked something but you don't. Just curious. I… Maker's breath, but it's weird calling you by another name, I mean, that you had been this Leto person, but you're not now…"
"Any stranger than another wanting to call himself by my name?" He leaned forwards, not to crowd her, but to be nearer to her. "It's only a name, Hrodwynn. A certain set of sounds making syllables that we associate with a person or thing or act. Nothing more. You can name me, Amatus, you can call me Fenris and it will not conjure any demons to destroy your soul. Neither will naming him Matthias."
She swallowed, her lips pursed together, fighting to keep the sounds within, but knowing they would come out eventually.
Fighting. Blessed Andraste, how much fighting had she been doing this past month? How much more did she have to do? Could she ever rest, or would she be forever fighting this memory, this taint, this fear?
Fight. That was her greatest problem, and her greatest source of strength. It wasn't in her to give up. She would fight, and she would keep fighting long after it was good for her. "Fen," she began, almost in a choking sob, spittle threatening to pour out with her tears, "Fen-n-n-n-n-ris!"
She had been right; once she started, the pain and fear and rage and impotence and humiliation all came pouring out of her. She wept, forcefully, her muscles tensing and twisting her body out of control. Before she could strike the floor, however, arms were around her, strong and lean and gentle and compassionate, cradling her like fine crystal, like a broken favorite toy, like a long-lost treasure. She wept, unable to stop, unable to fight it any longer, and in her surrender she realized: she hadn't been fighting against the hurt; she had been fighting against the healing. In surrendering, she found strength. In surrendering, she found a balm. In surrendering, she began to let go of all the angst and torment.
Surrendering was her most momentous victory.
Fenris fought against his own surrender even longer, though perhaps not, as he'd been battling it only for a few hours where she had been battling it for weeks. But he, too, at long last quit struggling. He shed a fair amount of his own tears, losing them in the fabric of her borrowed scarf as her tears soaked his tunic. His grief shook his shoulders even as she trembled within his arms. They clung to each other and shared their mutual pain, not that their embrace was intimate—certainly not in that nature—but they were still close, intimate on a level that wasn't physical, wasn't emotional, wasn't definable. It merely was.
Together, in this emphatic commune, they spent the rest of the night.
Author's Note: I am sorry, my dears, so very, very, very sorry for my long absence. I cannot even begin to tell you all that has been happening to me these past several months. I've always thought: Courage is not the lack of having fears, but the act of doing what must be done in the face of those fears. And I… I am a coward.
I have come face-to-face with several of my deepest, darkest, most secretive fears. That I have survived these encounters is obvious, but it wasn't without earning my own scars. Scars, and emotions, which have held me in a suspension of writer's block, far too afraid of putting words on the page lest these overwhelming emotions take over and leave me shaken and broken and blubbering.
It took more than two months before I could even look at a story, much less tap into my muse and open up that Pandora's box of emotion within me that I feared would have no bottom and which might lead to me expelling far too much of my self, my emotions, into the aforementioned words.
But writing is cathartic for me. Therapeutic. Even as necessary as air and food and water on occasion. And though it pained me to write, I discovered a strength inside me, an ability to fight and overcome my fears… and I know I have finally started to heal.
Thank you, all of you, for your patience with me, for your reviews, for simply reading my stories and being there and reminding me that I'm not alone. I know I am stronger for having survived, but I am even stronger for having you. *HUGS*
