.friends.
Hawke hesitates. If this is truly an illusion, it has been very well done, very convincing, nothing like she's ever seen before. If it isn't, then someone's life hangs on her response...
Varric offers his hand. "I know you don't completely trust us. But if you just see him, maybe you'll remember."
He's insistent, but if he's not lying it's understandable. And if a life is truly at risk... can she allow herself to stand idly by to ensure her own safety? Even if she can't remember all she was, she knows she is not the kind to stand back and let another take the fall, not if there's something she can do...
"I'll go," she assents, taking Varric's hand and accepting his help standing up. Her legs wobble beneath her, and her head feels light, like it any moment it could detach from her body and ascend through the ceiling, but she keeps a firm grip on his warm hand and moves ahead.
"Through here," Isabela directs, sashaying with ease through the narrow passageways, past ship hands who watch with silent interest. Hawke doesn't pay attention to them, just moves forward, trying to swallow her hammering heart.
"Here, with Merrill," Isabela says, taking her arm from Varric and helping her down three small stairs into what appears to be a makeshift infirmary. The only patient is being tended to by Merrill, who is twisting water out of a damp handkerchief. "Hawke!" she starts, standing quickly, almost upsetting the bucket of water beside her. "You're awake!"
"Merrill," Hawke repeats, and the word brings forth more memories, I can handle this, you are a good friend, may the dread wolf never catch your scent Merrill. "I remember you now."
"You do? Oh! That's wonderful!" The small elven girl quickly crosses the short distance between them and wraps her arms around Hawke. "I knew you would! But we were so worried, we were too slow and-" Merrill jumps back, minding Hawke's arm. "Elgar'nan. Does it hurt, terribly?"
"Tingles a little," Hawke shrugs, a bit of an omission, but no one seems the wiser.
"I'm glad your awake and not hurt too much and- oh! Are you here to heal Fenris, then?"
"Not until she's comfortable," Aveline reminds. "We promised her it would be on her terms."
Hawke moves past them as they talk, carefully slipping from Isabela's supportive grasp. The one she's supposed to heal, Fenris, lies in a cot, brow spotted with sweat, and face twisted with pain. White lines, lyrium, she recognizes, run from his chin to his fingertips, much like hers, but far more, as far as she can see. White hair lies sodden on the pillow beneath his head. He flinches and grasps at the light blanket covering him, lips moving faintly, though she can't catch what he's saying, and it's not a language she recognizes.
She waits for the recognition that has come with seeing the rest of them, but nothing happens.
Nothing.
"Is this him?" she asks for clarification, but it is evident that it is. Why can't she remember him? Another trick?
Carver looks at her with confusion. "You... don't recognize him?"
"I know that he is Fenris."
"But you don't remember him?" Varric further asks.
What can she do but shake her head? "No. I don't."
Isabela lets out a low sigh. "That's... odd. Swelling, romantic music and a tearful reunion was more the direction I was expecting."
"I'll do it."
They look surprised as she gets down on her knees next to his cot, pushing back the sleeves of the thin under-tunic she wears. It may not be wise, but she's going to find out one way or another what the truth is. She can only hope she's making the right choice.
"You're sure, Hawke?" Varric asks. The touch of concern strengthens her determination.
Gently, she pulls away his blanket, exposing the wound. It has bandaged well, but even now he's still bleeding. His pallor shows as much, his eyes are sunken in dark hollows.
"How long has this been going on?" she asks, undoing the bandage as carefully as she can, though the ebb and flow of the craft they're on does not exactly help with a steady hand.
"We haven't exactly been keeping record," explains Aveline. "We had to get out of port before more idiots threw themselves at us, and Fenris was wounded. We focused on getting out of the immediate danger. Once that had passed, he lost consciousness."
"He wastough about it," adds Isabela. "Muttering about "Not coming this far to die at the hands of these scum" and so on."
"Hand me that bucket," Hawke directs, confident in nothing but her own skill, which still comes to her easily despite the haze around everything else in her mind. "And give me that cloth." The bandages drop to the floor and she inspects the injury. Her stomach flips when she sees it; bloody tissue surrounded by a deep yellow purple bruise. She dabs at the edges, trying to wipe the excess blood away. He flinches at the contact, gritting his teeth, but doesn't awaken.
When it's clean, she falls back on instinct: she raises her hands, her fingers hovering just a hair's breadth away. She takes a breath, and lets go. Magic swirls up out of her, floating through her skin and settling on his. It feels like taking a deep breath of fresh, cool air after holding your head under water. Immediately, the wound begins to close, faster than she had expected. Fenris gasps, back arching, fingers driving into the material of the cot, but she keeps pushing. The magic feels so strong she's almost afraid she can't control it, but before she can doubt, or begin to pull back, the bruise is fading from his skin, and not even a scar is left where the fatal tear used to be. She quickly pulls her hands back, the brands along her arm still thrumming with the use of her power.
"I've never seen you patch anyone up that fast," Carver says, his face somewhere between astonishment and pinched displeasure.
"It's the lyrium," Merrill points out. "It must be making her more powerful."
"Remind me not to piss you off, Hawke," Varric murmurs. "I'd hate to be on the receiving end of a strike of lighting more brutal than the standard fare."
They're not descending on her like rabid pack animals. That's good. The danger she had feared is not present, which means... she's safe. The realization makes the tension drop from her body. But after several quiet moments, Fenris doesn't move.
"He's not waking up," Hawke says, laying the back of her hand across his forehead. He doesn't react to her touch.
"Maybe it will just take some time..." offers Merrill, though she doesn't sound very sure of that.
"I'll stay with him. Until he wakes."
Aveline nods, and at length the others begin to go, though she lingers for a moment. "Then we'll leave you for the time being. Am I to understand that you no longer think we're demons?"
Hawke smiles at her friend. Much is still missing, but she's sure now. This is real. They're real. And she's safe now. It's such a relief she could almost cry, if she wasn't so tired. She grasps Aveline's hand, giving it a squeeze. "Yes. Sorry to mistake you. You're much prettier than a demon."
Her friend looks surprised, and then breaks into a full fledged grin. "It's good to have you back. You've no idea how you've been missed."
"No, I suppose not. But I'm sure I'll find out."
Aveline lets out a quiet bit of laughter. "You will. Keep an eye on him and call out if you need us. We'll be nearby." With that, Aveline giver her a last nod and leaves the small room on the heels of the others.
Hawke turns back to Fenris, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, much smoother than the erratic breathing from before. Fenris. Now if only she could remember him. There's no question that she knows him, there is something tugging at the back of her mind, resting on the tip of her tongue that she just can't quite grasp, but it's there.
"Fenris." She says his name, though she's not sure why. The desire to wake him up? To find out who he is and why she can remember the rest of her friends but not him?
She studies him, thick black lashes and strong jaw, bow shaped lips that still occasionally move as if he's speaking to someone. The more she watches his eyes trace patterns along the insides of their lids, the more she finds herself captivated by the way he looks. She almost jumps out of her skin when he speaks, aloud, lips forming a work she can understand.
"Hawke."
Her heart stutters a little. "I'm here, are you in pain? Do you need anything? Is your wound-"
"I'm fine," he assures, though his voice sounds weak. "You're not trying to kill me. I... appreciate that."
She laughs sheepishly. "Right. Sorry about that. I don't usually kill the people trying to save me. I think."
"You think?" His eyes move to her arm, and she feels the overwhelming urge to hide it, especially when he lunges up, straining himself, and grunting with the exertion. And he doesn't look happy. In fact, he looks completely murderous, if she's completely honest with herself, and it's both impressive for a near fatally wounded man to be so terrifying. "Your memory... is it- How much can you remember?"
Her mouth is already forming the answer when she realizes she's not entirely sure, something about Danarius? Perhaps it's better that she doesn't let him know how much she remembers, if his face is any indication of how grim the situation is.
"I don't know," she says, and it's not a complete lie. "I... didn't recognize you all, at first, I just remembered demons. Fear. Like, like I had to be on my guard, I had to fight." He stares at her unwaveringly. "At first!" she is quick to add. "I'm remembering more, now. Not everything but-"
"Like what?" He asks, and his voice is sharp, she almost starts at it. Is he always this curt? "Just, people. Things about myself. I know my name. I'm from Ferelden, but I live..." Damn. Another blank spot.
"In Kirkwall," he supplies patiently. Hawke gets the feeling that she's irritating him, something she would rather not do. "What about your family?"
She frowns. "Aside from Carver?"
"Your mother?"
Mother, streaks of graying hair and worry, love, strength, Oh my little girl isn't so little anymore. It's not the full picture, like she's gotten from seeing the others, but she can recall something. "Yes! She must be worried about me! She worries too much for her own health."
Fenris stares at her. "Hawke, your mother... She's gone. I'm sorry."
She blinks at him a few times, mystified. And then she forces a laugh. "Very funny. I remember when I last talked to her. She told me she was interested in being courted. She said no one would ever replace my father-" The laughter stops. Heis gone. But, that can't mean- not her mother too? "She isn't really dead, is she?"
He doesn't answer. Her heart drops. "Oh. What- why? What happened?"
More silence. He won't even meet her eye.
"We can save this talk for later," she announces resolutely, standing up and searching the room for fresh water, masking her fear of the answer, and partially of him. "You need something to drink, and probably something to eat as well, if you've the stomach for it. You lost a lot of blood." She pushes the thought of her mother from her mind because it makes her legs even weaker than they were before.
He probes his side with his fingers, searching for the wound. "You healed me? How...? There isn't even a scar." She lifts her arm and her sleeve falls back to reveal the dormant lyrium lining her arm. "Merrill said this probably made me more powerful." His jaw clenches, eyes roving her arm with dark intensity. She struggles to find something to say to lighten the mood. "It looks like we match! Though magic friendship tattoos seem like the kind of think you'd get done when drunk or-"
"Don't."
Her mouth snaps shut. Inwardly, she chides herself for making light of something he probably takes very seriously. Foolish to be so insensitive. Is she always this boorish? Or something born of her inability to remember this man?
Not knowing how to make the uncomfortable moment pass, she dips her head. "I should go... get you something-"
He bolts forward and takes her hand, brushing against her brands. It hurts, but they also reverberate in time with his for a moment, a strange feeling. "Don't leave." His eyes are so striking! And his voice... "I didn't mean- I wasn't," he shakes his head in frustration. "Please, don't go." Belatedly, he lets of of her hand.
What can she do but follow his request? He gingerly slides aside so she can sit on the edge of his cot, alternating between watching him and avoiding his eyes. He does much the same, staring intently when she averts her gaze, and pretending not to have been doing so when she looks.
"Do you-" he begins, just as she starts to ask "Are you sure-" and they both stop abruptly.
"Oh! I'm sorry," she smiles. "Go ahead. What did you want to say?"
"You," he frowns, "Do you... remember me?"
Ah, damn, she knew that question was coming. Briefly, she tries to find a polite way to say no.
"I'm sorry," she offers, trying to ignore the way his shoulders drop a fraction at her admission. She doesn't dare look at his face.
"I... understand."
"I am sorry, but if you can, please tell me what I should know about you. We were friends, weren't we?" She immediately regrets opening her mouth because the words sound so stupid and for a moment it looks like he might say as much, but he smiles, actually smiles! And it brightens the room. "Yes. Friends, of a sort."
Finally she's said something right! "Fantastic! Well, then, I would very much like to recreate that." She offers her hand in greeting. "Hello, I'm Ava Hawke. Pleased to meet you."
His smile disappears as quickly as it came. "What did you say?"
"Hello, I'm Av-"
"No, Hawke, that isn't your name."
Her heart sinks in her chest. Just when she thought she was starting to get her mind in order. "Oh. Messing up the basics. How foolish."
"When I was... branded," he says, "I was given a new name. I didn't know what it had been before. That's the point of the process. To make you a mindless slave. When your master has all the answers, you don't look for them elsewhere. It's not your fault. Your name is Aleka Amell Hawke."
She repeats the words, the name, and it feels right, not like Ava. Where could she have possible gotten that from?
"I was close," she shrugs with a half grin, hiding her disorientation at claiming a name that was not hers. "Anything else I should know? My age? Favorite color, possibly?"
He doesn't answer her snipe. "I think it might be better to wait for a while. Remembering everything at once can be... difficult."
"I take it your speaking from experience?" An innocuous question, but he looks pained again. Every time she says something that makes him make that expression it makes her heart clench in her chest. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't-"
"You're right," he admits. "I... can tell you more, later."
Accepting that she'll get no more out of him for the time being, and already weary of probing for answers to questions she's not sure she wants to know, she stands. "Alright then, I'll just go get you that food you needed. I hope you have an appetite for pickled eggs and salted meat because that's all's on the menu, as far as I can tell."
"I suppose I'll have to make do."
"Ah! You're the stalwart type, then! Good! Pickled eggs, with a side of pickled eggs, coming right up." She offers him a hearty smile, previous awkwardness quickly forgotten in the light of levity.
"Hawke," he calls, just as she's reaching the door, and she tries to ignore the strange fluttering she feels when he says her name. "I'm glad you're back."
"I am too, Fenris."
...
Hawke settles into her chair with an exaggerated sigh of ease, her Mabari (Galahad, she'd remembered him the minute she heard his barking and seen him bounding to her across the Docks, tongue flopping and tail wagging) curling up at her feet. Quick flashes of memory hit her, settling in on rainy days where there was nothing to be done, and shoving her cold feet under his belly while she read and he snored on the ground; playing fetch with him; getting him out of all those Maker-forbidden places he always managed to end up in... It's good to remember. Until what had happened in Tevinter, she had never realized how precious her own memories were, how priceless every piece of information she held was. Now she writes things down, keeping a record of her work, play, and thoughts. Her memory is as good as ever, but a little of the paranoia of having lost her very self lingers.
It hasn't all been pleasant, though. The pain of remembering the loss of her family, and her culpability in each one of their deaths, is something she would like to have never remembered, sometimes, but their deaths, and her responsibility, makes her work harder to protect as many people as she can.
It wasn't long after her return that she started receiving letters asking for her help in all manner of situations. It had been intimidating at first, especially with so many people demanding her assistance, and so many others demanding that she stay home to recuperate (surprisingly, Orana had been the most adamant about her staying put, the elven waif had threatened to physically restrain her if need be), but in time she fell back into the flow of work, of being the Champion, of helping people. It was her, and she fell back into her role, her responsibility with ease. It was good to have something to return to, a defined place, a purpose, something to keep her from wavering in uncertainty.
After only a few weeks back in the city, it almost felt as if she had never left. Patrolling with Aveline, spending time re-memorizing stanzas of the Chant with Sebastian, drinking with Varric and Isabela, practicing spells with Merrill, and even secretly helping Anders escort runaway mages out of the city, it all seemed to fall back into place, as if the last few months had never happened. The only lasting marks were the ones on her arm, and the ones in her mind.
Nearly all of it. Even after this much time, learning everything she could about her life, about what had happened while she was serving Danarius, there is still one memory she can't bring forth...
"Lost in thought?" someone asks from the doorway, and she nearly jumps out of her chair.
"Fenris! Are you in the habit of sneaking up on people?" She feigns irritation but he obviously knows better than to take that seriously.
"You once accused me of hiding in your houseplants," he smirks, striding across the room and taking a seat in a chair near hers. In his hands he holds a book, faded and dog-eared. When he catches her looking, he holds it up for her inspection, and she takes it, looking over the cover and pages. It's almost as if she's seen this book before...
"Do you remember that?"
"I might," she says, squinting at the title. "'The Life of Shartan'? Andraste's Shartan? This sounds interesting. Did I like it?"
"You gave it to me," he says, flipping over the front cover and pointing out an inscription done in looping hand. "'To Fenris, You are meant for great things'. Did I really write that? Sounds a little mushy to me."
He laughs, taking the book back from her. "You did. And you taught me how to read it as well."
She still feels guilty that she cannot remember him, or anything having to do with him. And worse yet, the more time she spends with him, the more she wants to remember, the more she wants to know everything she can about him. There is something special about him, something singular, more than the shared bond they have over missing pieces of a life, and the daily struggle of dealing with the lyrium brands they both carry.
"Did I? You must have been in dire straits to have asked me to teach you. I taught Bethany and Carver their letters when they were young. That's the extent of my experience."
"You did a good job," assures Fenris, setting the book down. "I had hoped it might spark something." Subtle disappointment flits across his usually stoic face. He is hard to read, but she knows the knitting of brows and slight stoop of shoulders well, whether in him or others, she can't tell. What she can tell is that she hates to see him react in such a way.
"It does! Does... spark... uh, something. Ah..." she fumbles for a convincing memory. "I thought for sure I saw it before when you showed it to me!"
He smiles grimly. "It's... something."
She resists the urge to defenestrate the nearest table. Or herself.
"It will come back," she says, "I'll remember you. I don't know why I can't, right now. But I want to. I will."
A slight nod. He draws a metal fingertip around the edge of his book. "The desire to know isn't enough to bring everything back. For a long time I wanted to know, but I couldn't."
"You did, though, didn't you? You remembered? What happened? Was it going back to Tevinter?"
For a moment, Hawke doesn't believe her eyes what she sees happen is so incomprehensible, but Fenris turns his head stifles a cough, a false pretense to hide the scarlet blush spreading across his cheeks. "No, not quite."
His abashed, vague answer piques her curiosity. "Oh? What was it, then?"
He looks like he's debating bolting from the room. "It was you who... helped me remember much of what I had lost. I," he frowns, "it was difficult, after all that time. I was less than kind to you."
"Not ringing any bells," she shrugs, leaning forward and setting her elbows on her knees. "Tell me about it?" Almost immediately, he goes from scarlet to blanched.
"I- that's not-" jerkily, he stands, pacing to the fireside, fingers flexing nervously at his sides, though he keeps his face emotionless. "Perhaps it is better that you do not remember."
"I think I should be the judge of what I do and do not remember." she says, standing and walking over to him, frustrated by his caginess. What could be so bad that he would refuse to tell her? He isn't the type to pull punches. "Tell me, Fenris. I need to know. It certainly can't be as bad as you're making it out to be." Hoping to make him relax, she smiles brightly at him.
His look makes it obvious he thinks differently, but he speaks anyway. "We were-" the tendons in his neck move as he works out the words. "We were together."
Oh.
"Oh," she dumbly murmurs, unable to think of anything else to say. "Oh." Part of her is delighted. She had hoped, suspected, and basked in every half a moment longer than normal glances he spared her, but... were? Past tense? Risking a glance at his face, her heart clenches as she wonders if he perhaps regrets it. Maybe that's why he hadn't wanted to remind her.
"As I said, I was less than kind. We, there was," it seems like he doesn't know quite how to quantify it, "I ran. I couldn't..." In a detached sort of way, Hawke finds it a little ironically funny that a man so talented with words can't seem to draw together more than three or four, though she doesn't do much better, mumbling, "Oh."
"It's in the past now, I will leave you to-"
"Don't! You don't have to leave."
He looks at her curiously, like she's just said something she shouldn't. Then he sighs, shaking his head. "Would you believe that isn't the first time you've said that to me?"
"Well, I must have meant it then, and I mean it now. Don't go, please. I'm sorry if I did something to push you, or force you, before-"
"It wasn't that, Hawke."
"Then why?" She can't be the only one that feels it. The pull between them, the insatiable desire to be around him...
He sighs, sounding more frustrated, as opposed to his previous weariness, and presses a palm to his forehead. "We never spoke of it. I assumed you preferred pretending that it didn't happen. So I didn't say anything. But..." he finally meets her eyes. "That isn't what I wanted."
"What is it that you want?" Hawke asks, coming closer, The edges of her vision get blurrier the more she focuses on him.
In answer, he lifts a hand and runs his fingers down the side of her face, her neck, her arm. "Hawke."
Part of her mind tells her to stop. What if she pushes him away again? She can't remember what happened last time, any of it, but the thought of not being close to him is frightening, to say the least. But her fear is lost on the roaring in her ears. He's so close, lips slightly parted, and the feeling of his hand resting on the curve of her waist is too much to ignore.
"I want to remember you," she whispers.
He kisses her like she's glass; gently, pressing his lips to hers slowly, maddeningly restrained. And when she kisses back, hard, hungry, he gives as good as he gets, backing her up against the wall beside the heart and holding her like she'll disappear if he takes his hands off her.
She holds on too, like a drowning woman- this is what she's been missing. This is the piece that's been eluding her for so long, him. The warmth of his skin and his breath on her neck.
Time slows. Suddenly, she's aware of everything- the crackling flames to her side, Galahad's steady snore, faint movement outside the door. For a moment she stops confused. Why-?
And the memories come crashing down.
Possessive hands wrapped around her throat, "My little bird." Pain, fury, desperation.
She jerks away, viscerally trying to escape the feelings, but they don't stop, the burning images flash in her eyes.
"You are the only other person I have ever considered a friend."
So fast, it all comes so fast. Dimly, she's aware of someone calling her. She tries to answer, tries to call for help, but she's paralyzed by the onslaught.
"You won't even remember you made that promise."
Hawke upends a side table on her way down to the floor. Fenris' voice pushes through the deafening haze of voices and pictures, and they cede for a moment allowing her to speak, "Fenris, I-"
Another wave of memory. She fights through it with gritted teeth.
"Hawke! Hawke! I'll get Anders-"
"No," she rasps, grasping for him, for an anchor. "Don't. I'm fi-"
"Command me to leave and I will go."
Her head feels like it might burst. And then all it once, it stops. The world stops spinning, the past ceases to assault her, though the voices still reverberate in her mind. The images... Danarius.
Praise the Maker he's dead.
"Hawke?" Fenris asks, kneeling beside her, supporting her in the awkward position she has fallen into. Her fingers are clasped around his upper arm, knuckles white. Immediately she lets go, afraid of hurting him.
"That was exciting," she jokes, trying not to wince at the throbbing in her head. "It all came back. Everything I was missing, I think."
"I'm sorry. I should have warned you. My assumption is, the longer it takes to recall, the harder it is to do. I shouldn't have come."
"Fenris," she says with exasperation, earning herself a faint look of surprise, especially when she takes his hand. "Thank you. If it hadn't been for you..." she can't force herself to be serious, it's too heavy. "I wouldn't remember that time I accidentally set Carver's hair on fire. Now that's a precious memory."
He actually smiles. She can tell him what she really remembers later. Later when she's strong enough to speak it.
Fenris helps her to her feet, and Galahad wuffles at her knees worriedly. "I'm fine boy," she assures him. She assures Bodahn and Orana too when they come running as well, having heard the commotion. They seem to reluctant to believe her assertions that she's alright, but eventually they assent to leave her be.
"Are you sure you don't need the healer?" Fenris asks again, when she's reoriented herself and things have calmed down.
"No, thank you. Leave him be. He needs his rest. And I'll be fine after a bottle of... something." Absently, she traces her the skin around her lyrium brands.
"If you want to be alone, I understand."
"You had better not," she says, wagging a finger at him. "I've been waiting a long time for you. Don't make me wait any longer."
He doesn't. Galahad leaves the room, huffing indignantly as they fall into each others arms, clothes falling to the floor.
"I love you Fenris," she whispers into his neck, so quietly she's not sure he's heard. Panic. Was that the wrong thing to say?
"I am yours, Hawke."