Nemesis
Chapter 2- Repercussions
"I assure you, I am not conflicted."
Fenris
Fenris woke suddenly, instantly alert. His dreams were quickly banished from his consciousness as he snapped back from the Fade, a leftover habit he'd developed as a slave and never felt a compulsion to shed- not that he was sure that he even could. He assessed his surroundings straightaway, he was not in his quarters at Starkhaven's Circle nor was he outdoors staring up at the stars. Danarius and Hadriana were nowhere to be seen… because they were dead… he needed to remind himself of that fact at the start of this morning as he'd had to do every morning since he'd killed them. Annoyance twitched at his eye; it irked him to no end that the deceased magister and his evil bitch of an apprentice still plagued his first waking thoughts even after all these years. Those two refused give him a clear day even after their much-deserved deaths.
He filed his irritation away in his mind as he recognized his surroundings, promising himself that he'd deal with it during his morning meditations. This was the farmhouse he'd spent the last few days in, preparing for his meeting with Hawke. It had taken weeks to get correspondence through to her and he'd been utterly shocked when he received a reply, asking where and when he'd like to meet. The feelings he'd buried so thoroughly threatened to surface as he scrutinized her letter, recognizing her flowing script and familiar choice of wording. The hint of moonflowers and verbena and other strange aromas that tended to linger from potion making haunted the paper, an odd perfume he associated with only her and her magic. He'd quashed those feelings back down and began forming a plan to end the madness Hawke had fallen into as he'd errantly thrown her letter into the fire, refusing to acknowledge the sick pounding of his heart as he inadvertently created a woodsy incense that permeated her scent through his room and belongings.
His dreams that night had been pure torture. He replayed every kiss he'd shared with her, relived the ecstasy of being inside her when she buried her hands in his hair and threw her head back as she keened softly at his ministrations. In the Fade, he'd drank the slickness from between her thighs the night he'd laid with her and kissed the tears from her face the night her mother had been murdered. Every touch and smile he'd filed away in his mind had been prominently featured along with every moment with her he'd ever promised to remember. It was as though she had been there with him, both as the fearless leader who had warped the entire land and the shy, even timid, lover he alone had known her to be.
He'd changed rooms the next day, not that anyone noticed in the nearly empty Circle, and thrown the windows open to let the fresh air and sunshine purge his belongings of her. But it was futile. Those scents lingered… as did she.
Obviously, she had a way of dredging these feelings right back to the surface. Now he lay naked save for a thick blanket covering his form. The memories of the night prior flooded back to him- her touch, her kiss, her gasps- everything. It felt like ages since he'd seen her, even longer since he had touched her. But that wasn't why he had come. He was supposed to arrest her, to detain her. Instead he'd fallen into intoxication at her voice and her skin like a drunk taking up the bottle again- and it had been glorious.
Impulse had pushed his lips against hers- that and a fierce desire to prove to himself that he'd driven her from his system, which he clearly had not if his reaction to her was any indicator. His infatuation had kept him at a disadvantage, left him unable to stop touching her; even the collision of her hand against his face had bordered on euphoric… because for the first time since the Gallows, he had felt something… anything other than that oppressive apathy that had ruled his life the last year, revealing itself only when he saw her again. Each touch shattered through the numbness until the headiness of her had caused him to buckle and succumb to her again.
What the fuck was this all supposed to mean?
Reaching for her, the total awareness of his solitude hit him. She wasn't in bed with him. Where had she gone? Not even bothering to search for his clothes, he rolled from the blankets and winced as he put weight onto his sore ankle. She'd gotten him good with that hit and the suspicion that he'd be nursing a slight limp for the next week or so did little to introduce regret into his present emotional repertoire. Even as an amused smirk stole across his face, one of his vicious bruises sang in pain. Fuck, these bruises hurt. He couldn't be sure if she'd been subtly using healing magic on him last night or if her mere presence had superseded the pain. He would have to commend her for her rather inventive creation of telekinetic punching, there's no way the mage could have done this sort of damage with simply her fists. With another grimace, he conducted a quick mental assessment of his injuries and was pleased to find that his angry witch had inflicted no lasting damage.
His? He paused as he filtered that thought through his mind and decided it was inappropriate, pledging himself to purge such possessive thoughts from his mental vocabulary. Such thoughts accompanied a painful clarity. This couldn't be a repeat of his behavior in Kirkwall- she'd not wait around for him to work up the nerve to face her. He needed to face her and talk, not about the war… but about them and whatever it was that had happened last night; but he also needed to think on what it was that kept him devoted to her even when he wanted to beat her to death in anger.
He needed to speak her but damned if he knew what to say or where to even begin.
He commenced to slowly stalk the house nude, hoping to find her but also postponing the encounter. Dismal panic covered him when he saw her clothing gone. Perhaps she was in the kitchen, he thought but the mage had not lingered there either. His heart sunk with the realization that she'd left. Regardless, he continued searching for her on the off chance that he was mistaken. It felt painfully familiar, except this time he was the one who woke alone. He wondered if she'd been as conflicted when she left as he'd felt all those years ago when he fled from her, and himself, into a different cold night.
The thought that she'd retreated from him caused a painful lurch in his chest. It was all wrong, he thought, the events of last night had exploded into being without any forethought or reason. Hawke had to be just as confused as he. Before the Gallows, he and Hawke had been trying to take it slow. The memory of the night before Thedas had crumbled came to the forefront of his mind. They'd raided the wine cellar of the Amell estate and settled into one of the many subterranean libraries, sharing stories and drinking wine and mocking the ridiculous poetry Marian had found addressed to her mother from the Comte de Launcet. He practically groaned when he recalled how the night had ended with Marian, in only her short dressing gown, sitting astride him while he'd kissed her senseless and massaged her thighs; he'd swallowed her whimpers, letting his fingers tease dangerously close to the joining of her legs and occasionally stroking a thumb over her damp smallclothes- that was about as physically slow as they'd managed to get but there was something to be said for at least trying.
How that had turned into betrayal followed by nearly a year apart followed by attempted murder followed by hours of sex was beyond his meager understanding of relationships… but he was fairly certain that particular progression did not adhere to any typical modes of courtship. As little as he liked it, he could understand her need for distance from him, he likely needed the same despite wanting noting more than to fall into bed with her again. He deserved no less than her escape all things considered.
His eyes fell on a folded sheet of parchment resting by the door. Heart pounding, he rushed to it and lifted it to his face to let her scent wash over him again. Was this a note she'd left for him, he wondered? Had she decided to leave him an explanation or an apology for her absence? Could this even be a note promising to return, asking that he wait for her? Shaking fingers opened the letter, revealing it to be the one he'd sent to her, bidding her here to the Frostback Mountains so they could discuss the urgent business of hers. She must have dropped it, blast it all.
He barely repressed the urge to howl.
He'd meant to hear her out but she had a way of overriding his system until she was the only thing left in it. Rather than giving into his weaker instincts with her, the desires to hold and comfort her, he'd swung his fists instead. His sword had remained in the corner during their fight- where he deliberately left it, knowing that if he hit her with it, the battle would be won but she would be lost to him forever. He'd touched her and been unable to stop, every moment he wasn't touching her felt like she was being ripped away from him all over again. Her skin left him drunker than any wine. Curses spilled from his mouth as regret finally found him; he should have listened to her, talked to her, or at least thought to tie the damned girl to the bed to prevent her escape… although he couldn't even pretend that knotting her wrists to the headboard would have resulted in much conversation regardless of how exhausted he'd been.
Now there was an idea his groin could agree with.
He cursed himself a thousand times as a fool for falling asleep before he could talk to her, to try and sort out the mess they'd found themselves in. But more importantly, she'd wanted to talk about something as well- it had been her whole reason for meeting with him; but perhaps what happened between them last night had said it for her.
He glowered at himself- that wasn't true and he knew it. His identity had been secret to her until she'd seen him. She'd wanted to meet with him as a Knight-Captain, risking her life to convey something important directly to a senior Templar. He'd let his anger get the better of him and they'd attacked each other until they'd exorcised the fury from their bodies. They'd fought, then they'd fucked, then they'd made love, then he'd fucking fallen asleep. Now he had lost both the woman and whatever information she had. Sebastian was going to kill him if he ever found out how.
The prince had already questioned Fenris' motivations for meeting with Hawke. At what Sebastian had interpreted as an insufficient answer, he made sure Fenris was clear on his opinions regarding Hawke- reciting her offenses for the elf once again. She had cared nothing for the people who died in the Chantry, turning a mass-murdering abomination loose into the world and joining him in the singular vitiation of the Circles and the Maker's divine will. She had tried to kill Fenris, had not cared when he stood in her way. But now more than ever, those accusations felt false. She told him that she cared and Fenris, against all rhyme and reason, found himself believing her.
Unsurprisingly, Sebastian tried to talk him out of going- offering to send another, offering to trap her, but then he'd refused to even consider it. Then without any further prompting, he'd simply consented to Fenris' wish and the elf had set out with grim determination in his mission- Find Hawke and bring her back to Starkhaven or find Anders and turn him over to the Chantry. The prince had been adamant that Anders be executed by the courts and Hawke be tried for her crimes. Unbidden, his last conversation with Sebastian played through his mind.
"I know you were intimate with her before her betrayal, Fenris," the former prince had informed him as he'd watched the elf prepare his horse for the trek south. Witchduck had been a gift from the former Knight-Commander and as much as Fenris hated to admit it, its given name was growing on him. Witchduck obediently lifted his hoof and allowed Fenris to pick clean the debris from beneath. They both ignored the prince as Fenris continued grooming the animal, finding no small comfort in tending to the steed's rather simple needs.
Sebastian had sighed loudly, causing Fenris to cease his task and rise to look at him expectantly. The horse stamped his feet against the hay to express his dismay at the cessation in his grooming until Fenris began stroking his coat. "I'll be candid," the prince continued, shuffling through Witchduck's tack to help the elf finish before the horse got more irritated, "I fear her to sway your loyalties."
"I assure you, I am not conflicted," had been the Templar's quick reply. Before he'd seen Marian, the words had been easy to say to the man. They had not been a lie. He'd truly thought he could keep his head straight around her. Now it could not be further from the truth.
"Then what is it you hope to accomplish with this meeting?" Sebastian had asked, ducking down and handing the elf the curry comb from his tack. The question was simple enough and only yesterday his answer had encompassed that same simplicity. Now… now Fenris was no longer so sure.
"She needs to understand what she's done," was the answer he'd offered the prince. Then he'd returned his focus to brushing the stallion, knocking loose the dirt and giving the horse a decent massage in the process.
Sebastian had let out a bark of bitter laughter and leaned against the stable door, "It seems unlikely that she's somehow missed the consequences of her actions, Fenris. Hawke is many things but even her blindness for the abomination hasn't rendered her completely stupid."
Fenris dropped the curry and ran a bare hand over the steed's coat, drawing a strange sort of calm from feeling the heavy muscles bunch and flex beneath his fingers. "You knew her as well as I, Sebastian," he'd said finally. "I believe she can be persuaded to abandon Anders."
"No, Fenris, I did not know her nearly as well as you," the prince had sighed wearily as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "But bring her back here and we will see what can be done."
"That is my intent."
Fenris had ignored the prince again at that point and Sebastian decided to remain silent as he observed the elf quietly tend to the stallion, which glared at the man as if daring him to interrupt his grooming again.
"Love is a powerful weapon in the hands of your enemy, Fenris," had been the prince's final plea to him as the elf saddled Witchduck. "Remember that."
The elf had shaken his head and asserted, "I do not love her."
Sebastian had shot him a long, serious look and replied, "Love is like faith, it's not something that's made true or false through declarations - it's something you simply do."
"Anything I felt for her died when she tried to kill me," he'd reassured the prince, ignoring the heaviness that suddenly fell in the pit of his stomach.
It had been a lie… he had known that much even then.
Looking back, he realized that he hadn't come here to convince Marian to return to Starkhaven. He was no longer sure exactly why he'd come. All those simplistic mantras he'd chanted to himself about justice and retribution and the determination that he was entirely in the right now felt hollow and false.
He had been so determined that Hawke would answer to him for what she'd done, prepared to drag her back to the Starkhaven Circle kicking and screaming if he had to. He'd been ready to pin her down and make her see reason- to scream that this battle was futile, that she was making everything worse by fighting against the Chantry. But after last night, more than anything Fenris just wanted to understand what it was that she was trying to do. The Imperium couldn't reign across the land; he knew she believed that. Her expressions of disdain and hatred for magocracy mirrored his own. So why was she fighting against them? He should have asked her these questions when she was still here.
The spirit hide armor was donned quickly, his fingers flying over the buckles and toggles in motions born from years of essentially wearing the same thing. He could fully dress in under three minutes while still half-asleep, a skill he'd honed while on the run through the Free Marches. A sigh escaped him as he fastened the Templar insignia pendant around his neck, displayed for the world to see his allegiance; and with a heavier breath he clasped the Lost Memory and slipped it beneath; it was her gift to him, resting against his skin- a token of things lost but not forgotten, the private memento he carried of her since the night she'd given it to him. It's significance had shifted as time passed and now it was his daily personal punishment he inflicted upon himself for his blunder… for failing her when she needed him to save her from her own poor judgment.
If he had been stronger, he could have saved her. One surprise blow could have knocked her out and he could have dragged her unconscious body away from the mayhem. But she deserved better than that… she'd given him honor and he simply couldn't attack her back.
A frown stole across his features. He could still save her. Regardless of what Sebastian may believe, Fenris knew now more than ever that Hawke could be redeemed in the eyes of both the Maker and men.
With his head bent down he sat on the bed, crossing his fingers between his knees as he recited the Canticle of Shartan silently. Sebastian and Petra, the former Knight-Commander of Starkhaven, had been surprisingly accommodating to the former slave and offered him this position for prayer, usually regarded for the ill or invalid and certainly not a pose a Templar would use even in injury, after he'd voiced his apprehension at prostrating himself on his knees. Fenris was also the only Templar permitted to use the dissonant verses in his morning routine, which Sebastian had in fact encouraged, claiming that if Shartan's versus brought Fenris closer to the Maker then he should be permitted to meditate to them.
His short career as a Templar was already peppered with such oddities and exceptions. Danarius' lyrium brands had rendered him into the only Templar in the Order who was completely self-reliant. Not only did he have no need to dose his blood with the doping effects of lyrium, the lyrium had no effect on his capabilities whatsoever. His lyrium infused abilities and seasoned fighting skills allowed him to complete in mere months what would have taken years for others. Some of the training he took to, some he had not. Petra had thoroughly explored the elf's talents and sought to push him farther than he had ever thought himself capable with each training session. Outside of those brutal sessions with Petra, Fenris' primary education within the Starkhaven Circle had been the Chant- and Sebastian had personally overseen much of that training.
He was grateful to the Sebastian, who had not only saved his life- heaving his limp near-corpse over his shoulder and storming from the Gallows after Meredith had been defeated- but he'd also given the elf a purpose, a god and a brother in the ruler himself. The man had put so much faith in him… how the Blight was he supposed to explain what had happened here?
He pushed those thoughts from his mind and refocused on the Chant, the words playing across his mind as he sat in quiet contemplation of his life and the Maker. The worry and discomfort that had been clouding his mind slowly lifted, as he began the painful task of accounting for his sins- the ones he was responsible for and the ones he merely supervised. He forced himself to think on Danarius and Hadriana and prayed that one day he'd have the strength to forgive them for being so painfully flawed but even after all this time, he still hoped the Maker would deny his request.
And Marian…
Her betrayal had sucked the color from his world so he'd thrown himself into prayer, hoping to regain some of what he'd lost when she'd single-handedly destroyed his faith in mages more thoroughly than even Anders could have.
The last year had been spent in singular focus- nothing would detract him from his goal of seeing the Circles reformed and mages captured safely again. He'd had moments of joy, Sebastian was an excellent verbal sparring partner and a better friend than he could have expected or hoped for, but everything had felt… subdued and unreal. In more than a few ways, he'd felt a slave again- that mindless disregard for his future or his past that fell over him as a slave resurfaced when he chanted his evening prayers until he went hoarse, reciting the verses hoping that perhaps this time they'd provide the answers that he needed.
The feelings Hawke evoked in him couldn't be denied any longer, he'd known it the moment his eyes fell on her again and he'd reached for his anger because it was so much more comfortable than acknowledging the sweet ache in his chest. Even then, he hadn't been able to maintain his fury, not when she looked so sad. Whatever it was that stood between them had passed the test of time. Sebastian had been right, he could not purge the mage from his system merely by declaring that he didn't care.
He finished his mental inventory and completed his prayers, coming to the conclusion that he was indeed extremely conflicted regarding Hawke and simply accepting it rather than fight. It was something Sebastian and Petra had already known but he'd refused to acknowledge because he'd confused the constant numbness with dispassion. That was all right. The Maker would accept his mistakes so long as the elf was willing to work on them. What was important now was taking the long trip back to Starkhaven and think about what he should do next both in terms of Hawke and his status as a Templar.
Rising to his feet, he paused before he went to his pack and pulled her red handkerchief from it. He'd worn it since their night together all those years ago, when she'd trailed the soft cloth over his face and naked body in playful pre-coitus, only removing it last night so she would think that his affection had faded. Clearly, it hadn't and he wondered amusedly if she had noticed. Knotting the cloth around his wrist again, he tucked his belongings into his pack. Her family crest remained in his pack, it would be suicide to display a token of allegiance to her.
Hopefully on the way to Starkhaven, he'd be able to think of a suitable excuse for why Marian was not with him. It hurt to do it- to let her run and not give chase. But he'd promised Marian that he'd let her escape and he meant to keep his word. He'd go back to Sebastian and try to drag Hawke back to Starkhaven another day. Satisfied with the calmness of his mind, he prepared for his departure, gathering his supplies together and packing them away neatly.
It wasn't until he saw his sword in the fireplace- the blade glowing a dull red against the dying embers- and the dull realization struck him like a cudgel to the head. He openly and loudly cursed himself for every kind of fool as he carefully pulled the blade from the fire and winced as the red blade scarred the floor from its heat. This wasn't the same rondo they'd danced to in Kirkwall. She wasn't running away from him the way he'd run from her. His bird was on a flight for safety. She was afraid of him. He hadn't really done much to dissuade her of that, either, recalling almost painfully the bruises he'd laid upon her before succumbing to her siren's call.
The girl had run. And rightfully so. He would have to chase her, to apologize, to tell her the words he should have told her too long ago… after he'd figured exactly what those words were.
Maker, he'd fucked this up. He'd fucked this up badly.
The peace that had fallen over him dissipated in a sharp flash. He couldn't let her go. Not again. Not like this. He left his sword and darted from the cabin into the cold snow, unarmed as he readied his horse and cantered into the wilderness to find her. He'd hear her out and he'd make this right, even if it killed him.
He took off in a fury after her, the letter he'd sent her tucked into the scarlet ribbon on his sleeve. Not because he hadn't memorized the note… but because the paper smelled of her again. More snow had fallen between her escape and his awakening from slumber, obscuring her trail but not masking it entirely. With Witchduck, he'd have a better chance of catching up with her again. He followed the lopsided gait, observing the places she must have lost her footing and slipped. This sort of trail was commonly found in hunting when the prey was desperate to escape.
He slowed Witchduck to a trot when he saw Hawke's trail veer into a small running stream where it promptly ended. For whatever faults the woman had, she was certainly skilled at stealth but she was an amateur rogue at absolute best. Unfortunately, his tracking skills were comparable. He could only hope that in her flight, she'd committed a few fatal errors. He followed the creek for a half-hour upstream with no success before doubling back in the other direction, hoping he'd be able to pick up some sign of her.
Fate and the Maker saw fit not to smile upon him. He returned to the cabin an hour later, cold and alone. Hawke's escape left a cold feeling like a rock sitting in his throat. Stabling Witchduck again, he hefted a stack of grain to feed the horse. Guilt had him reaching for the sugar cubes he kept with his tack but the horse seemed determined to bear a grudge for a few minutes while Fenris tried to entice him with the treat before he gave in, forgiving him for neglecting his breakfast.
After he'd made proper amends to his horse he returned to the cabin, its warmth rapidly receding with the fireplace empty. He stormed through the rooms and began a methodical search of the area, hoping to find something, anything, Marian could have left behind that would indicate where the frightened Mage was headed. There was no trace of either of them, save for a few remorseful blood spatters- nothing that would reveal to him where the Blight she thought she was going.
He growled as he snatched up his letter to her again. Another cursory scan indicated that she had not doodled in the margins or inked her own missive upon it. After months of planning, all he had to show from his meeting with his former lover were a startling number of bruises, a sore ankle, the scratches on his back and this damned letter, which was thrown unceremoniously onto the floor. Then something about the letter caught his eye. He stared dumbly at it for a moment, trying to divine exactly what it was that had caught his attention. A moment of inspiration had the elf lifting and angling the letter so the light from the window skimmed across the note, Fenris could detect faint depressions on the paper that had not come from his quill.
He grinned. The mage had written a letter with his pressed beneath and she'd clearly used a cheap, lightly weighted paper, which was understandable for someone who had been on the run without a financial benefactor for nearly a year. He'd noticed the state of her stationary when he'd received her correspondence, the paper had been so thin he was surprised her quill hadn't gone straight through it, knowing the firm strokes she used in her freehand- like she commanded the ink and paper to do her bidding. With some care, he could have a copy of that letter. He shoveled ash from the fireplace and waited a moment for it to cool. He sprinkled the ash liberally over her forgotten manuscript and dusted it off carefully with his breath.
Like a dark demon, the papyrus' past came to haunt the surface and Fenris, like a greedy glutton, read its secrets as his eyes twisted the ink from the ash and deciphered the jumble.
H,
Things are bad, I won't lie, but we have the support of several unexpected friends who continue to believe their job is to help us. At my insistence, your son has sought the counsel of one of these friends and he has informed me that while Francis has a long road ahead of him, he is clearly on the right path. He believes your son's good heart will see him through- and trust me, he's not one to mince words.
I'll be through L. at the end of the month after I've conducted some business outside the city. The Harvest Festival will provide ample cover for a quick visit. If you'd like to meet, hang the blue lantern at the front of your inn.
Your son believes you can be trusted. If you've any friends concerned about their loved ones, I invite you to bring them to me provided you believe they can be discreet or can take proper measures to insure my safe passage out of Orlais.
-H
He quickly pulled his map from his bag and covered the small table with it. Hawke was going into Orlais? Was she mad or just suicidal? He'd selected the Frostback Mountains as a meeting place primarily because of their proximity to Orlais, where he suspected he'd readily be able to find help should the mage put up too much of a fight. But to actually traverse into the belly of the beast?
If she was determined to risk her life, he had to admit she at least picked her timing well. The Harvest Festivals were a week-long celebration in Orlais, inviting masked revelers to disregard wealth and station to mingle with each other in anonymity. Based on their current location alone, he was sure that Hawke would be unable to travel too deeply into Orlais by the time the Festivals began.
L… which city began with L?
He disregarded the smallest villages and farming communities. Marian would know that she couldn't expect any sort of sizable crowd there and she'd stick out like a sore thumb, as her countrymen were prone to say. She'd also likely stick to the outskirts, not foolhardy enough to dare trekking too far into the Grand Divine's territory. Templars had managed to keep their greatest hold in the Orlais. He estimated how far she'd be able to travel and skimmed the map until a small city along the Imperial Highway caught his attention.
She was headed to Lydes.
It was small enough so she'd have no difficulty finding this H character she was looking for and large enough that its festivities would attract the nearby smaller communities to make the journey… thus giving her a crowd to hide in. He gathered his few belongings and made his way to the stable. He tacked the horse again with fierce but gentle precision and saddled up, cantering away from Hawke's footprints and toward the road. Now that he knew where she was going, the sense of urgency left him. She was gone for now but he would find her again. It was just a matter of time.
Weeks passed before he entered Lydes on the first day of the Harvest Festival, stabling Witchduck at the inn he'd taken just outside the city. His presence needed to remain undetected if he was going to find Hawke- the mage would run at the slightest sign of him. So he took painstaking means to ferret out where she may be, leaving behind his signature armor at the inn and donning an elegant dark doublet and simple tailored pants along with a mask so he'd blend seamlessly into the festivities. Fortunately, the Orlesian autumn was unusually cool so he did not have to fear overheating beneath the heavy fabric.
Orlesian festivals were renowned and reviled for their luxurious extravagance and he could see why. The celebration would go nonstop for a solid seven days- people would return to their homes when they were too drunk or exhausted and would return back to the party as soon as they slept, washed up and righted their clothing. All the shops had moved into the open-air market at the center of town, offering merchandise at ridiculously low costs and a wide range of foods and wines free for the taking. He'd never been overly fond of Orlesian wine; it was far too sweet for his tastes. If the Tevinters' wine was made from the blood of elves, as Fenris had once quipped to Hawke, he was afraid to learn what fluids made up the Orlesians'.
He moved from the various food stands to study the market's perimeter. In the darker corners at the market's fringe, the brothels, too, had their best wares on display- men and women wearing their intricate masks and little else. He paused for a moment and watched one of the women pull a male hand to her heavy breast, the masked boy couldn't have been more than fifteen; his shaking hand reached into his pocket to find the coin he pushed into the prostitute's hand before she turned and led him into the dusty storefront behind. Technically, both the whore and the boy were committing crimes, the boy was clearly underage, but they could both plead ignorance and the guard would overlook the indiscretion. These masquerades were a security nightmare, literally every person he saw wore a disguise- even the guards. Fortunately, although they were masked, someone in charge of the guard had at least exercised enough good judgment to decide that they at least needed to be identifiable, so they were all forced to wear their armor- something many of them were grousing about.
He saw dozens of places where Marian could hide, most in plain sight. In addition to the face-obscuring masks, the elaborately embroidered cloaks and dresses bore strong resemblances to finer mage robes, which the mage would certainly be wearing if she were looking to blend in to this din. While the Orlesians could doubtless recognize the difference, Fenris doubted his knowledge of current fashion would allow him to do the same. He took stock of the market and noticed there were limited entrances into the city square as he pushed through the bustling crowd that had begun spilling in. This was where the bulk of the festival would happen. He needed to learn the lay of the land.
It was absolutely imperative that he find Hawke and immobilize her quickly. If she were to make it into this inundation, it would be nearly impossible to find her. He aimed away from the celebration, and began wandering the city, mapping the streets and alleys in his mind so he'd be able to navigate them later- yet another habit leftover from his days of running. As he strode over the cobblestones, he strongly considered asking the guard for help… but he couldn't risk other Templars being brought in. If there were an increased Templar level, she'd certainly run, and he had no leads to follow from here. This could be his last chance to find her.
As dusk descended, he made his way back through town, passing the brothel again as he inspected the inns, finally finding one near the whores that sported a single blue lantern atop the post bearing the sign that simply said Hugh's Inn and Tavern. This Hugh must have been the cryptic H Marian had written to.
A smirk took his face as he entered the building, seeing a rather dapper gentleman bowed over a ledger and scrawling something in the margins. Fenris was unaccustomed to the working class dressing in fabrics of such rich colors and textures but it was customary in Orlais. He felt slightly out of place and frowzy even dressed as he was. The inn itself was pristinely clean with bouquets of flowers decorating coordinating vases throughout and an even greater number of potted plants. An imposing bar stood next to a swinging door that Fenris assumed led to the kitchen. Several tables sat empty, the patrons opting to eat and drink at the festival rather than the inn. Huge windows bathed the room the light from the city square and overlooked the crowds ambling outside.
"There's quite a crush of people out there," he commented casually to the man as he approached the counter and removed his mask.
The man jumped, looking clearly startled as he noticed the elf and spilled his inkwell onto the counter and barely missing his brocade vest, "You snuck up on me, messere!"
Fenris did not bother mentioning that he'd been standing in front of the man for nearly a full minute before he spoke, instead offering a quick, "I'm sorry. I did not mean to startle you. I was hoping to enjoy the quiet a bit myself."
The man gifted Fenris with a wide grin. "I understand completely. It's utter mayhem out there. Come, take a seat," he said as he gestured to one of the empty tables.
Fenris thanked him, instinctively taking the seat closest to the wall and keeping his back to it. The man disappeared for a moment, allowing the elf more opportunity to look around. There was no separate entrance for the tavern, if Marian were to try and escape, she'd have to leave through a single exit if she used a door. Before he could give further thought to it, the man returned with a platter of bread accompanied by sapid meats and cheeses.
"I have nearly forgotten my manners, messere. My name is Hugh, I am the owner of this fine establishment," he said with a short bow. Good, Orlesians were generally a bit too free with touching for Fenris' tastes, even the men. It seemed Hugh understood that foreigners preferred a little distance and adjusted his actions accordingly.
"I am Leto," Fenris offered, deciding quickly that his former name evoked more benign elfishness than the moniker Danarius had bestowed upon him. "I imagined you'd have more patrons right now with such a large celebration. I confess I did not imagine it to be this massive."
Hugh cocked his head as he took a seat with the elf, breaking a loaf of bread and drizzling it with some sort of fragrant oil. "You're not from around here, yes? Your accent… it is Tevinter, yes?" he asked, taking a small slice of the bread and consuming it.
He nodded and took a slice of his own. "I was raised in Tevinter but haven't been back in over ten years."
"Bah! Tevinter is a filthy place. My uncle took me there once on a business trip. But what am I saying? You're an elf, I'm sure you know," Hugh said knowingly before popping a slice of cheese into his mouth. "Well, my inn is full but my tavern is more or less closed during the celebration with all the vendors giving away food. But I appreciate the need for quiet, so what can I get you?"
Fenris stammered for a moment at the unexpected invitation before replying, "Nothing for me but thank you."
"Nonsense! It is the Harvest Festival! As a foreigner, I do not expect you to know this but during the Harvest, it is only slightly more gauche to not offer food or wine than it is to refuse it. Only slightly. And nearly everything is gratis; it would be a poor celebration if we were not all willing to share the bounty. Even my rates are less than half of what they usually are. So what would you like? Wine? Ale? Mead?"
"Wine would be nice, I suppose," Fenris offered, unsure how to interpret this strange custom.
"Good!" Hugh exclaimed as he rose to his feet and hurried to the bar, searching the cabinets and clattering bottles together. "My friend Jean is a vintner in town for the festival. His wine is unlike the typical Orlesian variety. It is light and airy but has a bit of the bite that you Tevinters like in your wine."
"Tevinters are not my people," Fenris snapped.
Hugh looked genuinely abashed as he hurriedly apologized, "I am truly sorry, messere. It was not my intent to offend. I did not give a thought to whatever could have driven you from that wretched place- even if it was your home. Please forgive me."
Fenris sighed, pulling his hated temper back under his control. He would get nowhere if he couldn't keep his manners in check. "The offense is mine- I am being a poor guest. The Imperium is a difficult subject, if I may leave it at that," he offered, grateful when Hugh nodded emphatically and brought a goblet of wine over. The elf gave it a taste and nodded his approval to Hugh; the wine was an odd combination of sweet and dry- still not to his taste but infinitely better than its syrupy brethren. "Tell me more about the Harvest Festival. Giving everything away for free seems like it would be bad for business."
"Well, we have the people from all the neighboring villages coming through to celebrate. We dance, sing, mingle, celebrate. It is the height of celebration in Orlais!" He beamed, "And innkeepers and merchants are the only people who can make any money during the Harvest- although we all drop our rates considerably so everyone can partake. At harvest time, there is so much food and wine that everyone just gives it away. It is good advertising and good will. So we lower our prices by at least half to encourage more buying and flow more money into the city. I doubt it would work outside Orlais but it is a delicate system that has been in place here for years. It keeps merchandise fresh and the inns booked."
It still made absolutely no sense to Fenris but it was just another strange Orlesian custom he'd just have to accept. "Could you perhaps squeeze in one more for the week?" he asked politely, hoping to procure a bed in order to watch for Hawke's arrival.
"I'm so sorry, serah, but I'm fully booked, even my sofa and my cot have bodies on them. We cannot possibly fit in another. Have you tried Lafayette's place outside of town?" the innkeeper offered, taking a long drink of wine before cutting another slice of bread for himself.
That was the inn he was currently stabled at, too far away to keep watch on Hugh. "Do you anticipate all your customers will keep their reservations?" he asked before taking a slice of whatever meat was before him. Some sort of ham, he decided as the flavors danced over his tongue.
Hugh shook his head sympathetically, finishing off his wine with a satisfied sound. "Everyone has already claimed their room, serah. Lafayette should still have a few beds left, though. So tell me, what is it that brings you to Lydes?"
Fenris smirked at the innkeeper with amusement, feeling the wine start to go to his head. "Why do you think I am not here for the festival?"
"Well, typically foreigners will travel to Val Royeaux or one of the larger cities if they want to see the Harvest Festival at its height," Hugh explained. "Here, the celebration can dwindle a bit in the wee hours but at the capital, it is a non-stop carnival from beginning to end. I went there once as a youth- did not sleep for five days straight. That is where I met my beautiful wife, Colette."
"You two could recognize each other during the celebrations?" Fenris asked incredulously. Between the masks and the elaborate clothing, he doubted he would have recognized himself if presented with a mirror.
"Ah, no," Hugh looked slightly embarrassed. "We met and kissed on the last night of the celebrations and I tried to follow her home…"
"I found him passed out in the alley next to my mother's hat shop the day after the festival ended," a middle-aged woman laughed easily as she whirled into the room. She paused for a moment as she took in the strange markings leading down the elf's neck before snapping her eyes back up to Fenris', seeming to decide to ignore them as she continued, "Fortunately, we were both still half-drunk from all the wine and Hugh is so very charming. He even apologized to my mother before puking into her violets."
"Colette," Hugh groaned playfully, "you wound me!"
"I tease, I tease," she smiled and smoothed her fingers over her husband's hair tenderly. Fenris felt awkward witnessing such easy affection, unsure which direction he should look.
Hugh entwined his fingers with his wife's and smiled at the elf, "Leto, this enchantress is my wife, Colette. Colette, this is Leto. He's happened to come through town during the festival. He's never seen an Orlesian Harvest before!"
"Oh! What a shame your first isn't in Val Royeaux!" she languished with a smile. "Don't you worry, you'll have a good time here."
Hugh scooted his chair back and rose to his feet. "If you could see to our guest, love. I've got to tend to a few things in my office. It was delightful meeting you, Leto. I hope you enjoy our city."
"I'm certain I will," Fenris replied. A twinge of guilt hit him as the innkeeper turned and made his way from the tavern and into the inn. These were good people and if he found Hawke, he'd have to arrest them. He found himself hoping that Marian wouldn't show, the lies were beginning to feel a bit heavy.
Fenris assured Colette that he needed nothing and she left him to tidy the tavern before disappearing into the kitchen. A young girl appeared from the kitchen and flounced over with the wine, splashing a little on the table as she refilled his glass. She smiled nervously as she grabbed a rag from her belt of her apron and wiped the slick from the table.
"I am Brigitte. Hugh is my father. If you have need of anything, you let me know." Her words were genuine and kind as she batted her eyes cutely at him, blushing slightly in the way that young girls tend to do. She couldn't have been older than twelve and the shy flirting was adorable rather than enticing.
He gifted her a small smile back, nodding in thanks for the wine she'd brought before taking a long drink of it. "Well, your father was just sharing a glass of wine with me and telling me where I can stay the night," he replied as he set the wineglass back on the table.
Brigitte perked up immediately with a small bounce to her step. "Why do you not stay here? We have warm meals, cold drinks and hot baths; and the festival is so close you could spit on it!" Her accent was considerably thicker than either of her parents', her mouth lifting her soft palate for her soft trilling r's and dropping her h's entirely. He'd always found thick Orlesian accents to be a bit grating but had noticed in his journey here that the accent in its native setting was far less phlegmy and pretentious than it was when voiced by the displaced faux nobility he encountered in the Free Marches.
"Brigitte! Language!" came the loud rebuke from her mother in the next room. Brigitte turned red at the reproach and carelessly shrugged at the elf, smiling timidly.
Fenris nodded sympathetically at the awkwardness of youth before he took a long drink of his wine and replied, "I'd love to stay but your inn is fully booked."
"Who told you that?" she asked guilelessly as she walked behind the counter and pulled out the huge ledger Hugh had been scribbling in when Fenris arrived. Brigitte beamed and called sweetly, "Mama, we have one more staying for the night!"
"We do not, Brigitte," Colette replied easily as she flitted into the room with an elegant watering can and began watering the flowering plants. She shot an easy smile at Fenris and said apologetically, "We are fully booked, messere. I am sorry my daughter is mistaken."
"It says here we have one room open! The last one on the top floor."
Colette froze for a second, determinedly staring away from Fenris. "A man came in and took that one this morning," she stuttered nervously. Her hands clenched around the handle of the watering pot so tightly he was surprised the wood did not splinter in her hands. Tension invaded her small frame as she struggled to look at ease- her movements now looking just slightly jerking and mechanical. He observed her subtle nervousness curiously with narrowed eyes. What was happening here?
The youth cocked her head thoughtfully, "Are you sure? It was empty when I cleaned it before lunch."
"He's…" the woman stammered, a look of panic twinkling in her eyes, becoming utterly still, "he's coming later. He just reserved it for now."
But hadn't Hugh said that all the reservations had already been fulfilled?
His large elven eyes narrowed as he stole a long glance at Colette, who was stubbornly avoiding his gaze. The watering can began to tremble and Colette set it down on a table with a clang, jumping at the sudden loudness and spilling more than a little water.
"You did not write it in the ledger," Brigitte pressed, innocently exposing her parents' careful lies further.
Colette yanked a rag from her apron and began attacking the spill, focusing her attention on what must have been a wholly invisible spot of filth that she attempted to scour from the table. "I must have forgotten," she averred with a soft quake in her voice.
"Silly Mama. That is not like you. You never forget to mark the ledger," Brigitte hummed in her singsong voice, completely oblivious to the tension hanging between her mother and the branded stranger.
Colette shot a glance at the elf and froze again, a deer in the hunter's sight. They regarded each other- Fenris with a curious inquisition and Colette with an anxious suspicion. The apprehension was clear on her face and her eyes darted down quickly; it confessed her sins to him. She knew. She knew he was looking for Hawke here.
Colette saw the realization cross his eyes and croaked out, "Brigitte, you should go to Emma's now."
The girl fluttered over again, twirling a lock of hair around her index finger as she hovered behind her mother. "But you said I was supposed to wait until after supper."
"I've changed my mind. Go ahead and take a few coins from my purse. See if that mask you wanted is still at her mama's shop." Colette said quietly. Without any further prompting, Brigitte bounced behind the counter and carefully counted coins from her mother's purse before bounding back over and thanking Colette a dozen times, gifting her mother with a kiss on the cheek for each, before bidding her goodnight as the young girl whirled out the door.
"There are free masks all over the festival," Colette began awkwardly as she collapsed to sit with Fenris. "But she's had her eye on one… her papa and I thought it was too expensive but it's her first Harvest Commencement without us. Emma and her mama are taking her tonight. We have to work. She's so excited." The woman dropped her head with an expression approaching a wince as she said with a restrained sob, "They grow up so fast."
Fearful tears welled in Colette's eyes as she fidgeted her hands nervously and Fenris understood instantly that she'd sent Brigitte away so as to not see the altercation her mother was dreading. Brigitte was going to buy the mask she'd desperately wanted and celebrate the entire night then come home in the morning to find her family in ruins. Then the thought of their son, Francis, entered his mind… a dangerous mage who in his parents' eyes would always be a scared little boy, his mere existence a taboo of which they could not even speak.
Templars had already shattered this family once, the elf realized. These were good people; and he would not be the one to destroy them again.
"When will she be here, Colette?" he asked evenly.
The woman's shoulders began shaking as she choked out, "Sometime this week, messere. We do not know when or if she'll even come."
"Keep the blue lantern up." He cleared his throat, regarding the woman's avoiding gaze as she dropped her head pathetically with another sob and she painfully wrung her hands together before burying her face in them. Fenris, loath to touch but feeling it necessary placed a firm hand on her shoulder and slowly said, "I believe I will go to this Lafayette's and take a room for the night. If you see her, I hope you will send word to me there. It is a Templar's duties to protect innocent families from being duped by a mage's lies."
Her eyes shot to his questioningly, wide as saucers as a single fat tear fell onto her cheek. He nodded at her seriously, hoping he had conveyed his intention to leave their involvement in Hawke's debacle of a rebellion out of his reports, as he pushed his seat back began heading down the hallway he'd seen Hugh retreat to. "I will bid my farewells to Hugh," he finished. "I doubt I'll recognize him at the festival."
He sighed as he left the weeping woman and walked deeper into the inn to find the innkeeper, dismayed not to find the man on the first floor. The elf was more than a little irritated with the man as he turned to find the stairway and began climbing it- Hugh had lied to Fenris from the very beginning. Prejudice against elves was almost expected as a reason to be refused a room but not with the clear kindness that Hugh had shown him. There was only one logical explanation- both the innkeeper and his wife had known that Fenris was a Templar from the moment they'd seen him and begun lying at the start…
But there was no way Colette and Hugh could have known that just by looking at him, Fenris realized as he came to a full stop on the stairs.
He glanced down, confirming that his Templar pendant was still safely hidden beneath the thick doublet he wore, it was the only Chantry identification he possessed. No skirt that could have peaked from beneath his cloak, no crest's outline that could be divined through cautious observation, all he had was the enchanted silver pendant that hung concealed flatly beneath his cloak. He was not even wearing the spirit hide armor. That could only mean one thing, he realized as he made his way to the third floor, bypassing the second entirely, and storming toward the supposedly empty room where he knew Hugh to be.
Hugh had been warned… and Fenris did not need to search for Hawke.
She was already here.
Author notes- Thanks so much to everyone who sent emails and reviews. It really means a lot to me. This chapter was a little exposition-heavy, mostly trying to get Fenris' rather confused state of mind down. Sooo... onwards and upwards!