Neither Sebastian nor Amelle were prepared for Hawke's appearance at the top of the stair. Amelle, for her part, just managed to steady the tray of drinks she held when the sight of her sister made her startle, and though her face betrayed nothing, Sebastian heard the way the glasses clinked softly together.
From the looks of things Hawke hadn't expected to see them, either. Her eyes darted between them for a moment before her lips parted. Had this been any normal chance encounter, Hawke might have been preparing to utter something as mundane as, Excuse me, or Beg pardon, coming through. As it happened, though, she only got as far as drawing the breath for whatever she intended to say. Amelle's face went carefully blank as she swept to the side of the stairway, tacitly giving her sister the room she needed before she could speak a word.
Never before had Sebastian seen so much exchanged on so little said. Hawke's expression was patently bland, but her hand clenched the railing. Amelle's angled her body away from her sister, her shoulder raised slightly. Almost protectively. They scarcely looked at each other when Hawke passed Amelle upon the stair.
Before she could pass him, however, Sebastian cleared his throat. The sound was by no means great, but it was more than enough to catch Hawke's attention. She came to a sudden stop and simply looked at him, as if she wasn't sure it was he who'd made the sound to begin with.
"Leaving already?" he asked in what he hoped was a light tone.
"Headache," came Hawke's curt reply. "I need some air."
"As it happens," Sebastian said, sending Amelle a brief look he could only hope was pointed enough, meaningful enough, "so do I."
Hawke barely had time to look dubious before she blurted out, "You need air?"
"Aye. It's too loud and close in here by half."
"Then maybe you shouldn't have come."
She was trying to push him back, trying to push him away, but he'd been here before. He found he didn't want to let her. "Perhaps, but it seemed more important at the time that I come along. Could I importune you to walk me just as far as Fenris' home, Hawke?"
"The place Fenris lives can hardly be called a home," she said. And he couldn't help noticing as sharp and unwelcoming her tone, she hadn't refused him outright. He knew her well enough to be certain if she truly did not want his company, she would have told him so. Possibly in more than one language.
There was a soft sound upon the stair and out of the corner of his eye he saw Amelle ascend the stairway. Hawke waited for her sister to disappear completely before speaking again. "Fine. As far as Fenris'."
In this, too, Sebastian heard the unspoken sentiment: as far as Fenris' and no farther, and we'll say not a word during the trip.
The walk to Fenris' mansion was slow going. Frustratingly slow. And silent. But with every step, Sebastian grew more certain Hawke would speak, if only he allowed her the opportunity to do so in her own time. When they'd traversed Lowtown, walked the stairs to Hightown, and stood poised to cross what had once been the chantry courtyard, she paused. "I—you lost more than any of us, didn't you?" she asked, and even though the words were spoken softly, the eerie silence sent them echoing back around them over and over. He felt, just for a moment, as though he were hearing a hundred voices. Ghosts.
"We all lost. More or less matters very little in the face of grief."
"I've been avoiding you."
He swallowed hard, and chose honesty. "I know."
"Is that why you're going to Fenris'?"
"No." Even in the twilight, he could see the sudden flash of her eyes as she turned, and he could see she didn't believe him. Sighing, he realized he did not entirely believe himself. "Not entirely. I lost my home. I lost… what I thought would be my future. I am not certain what will take the place of those things, but that is… not for you to bear. I see you, Hawke. I see you and know you have lost something even less tangible than the things I have lost. Your faith, perhaps. I do not know if it's your faith in the Maker that is shaken—and would not blame you if it were—but I know… I know what I said, what I did, shook your faith in me. In those you trusted."
Her voice held a trace of scorn. "You take a great deal on yourself, Sebastian Vael."
Shaking his head, he amended, "It is a small part, perhaps, of what hurts you, but I am well enough to… remove myself from your concern. I cannot change what is done. I cannot undo or unsay those things that have wounded you. But I can leave you in peace."
"You think that's what I want?"
He did not reply at first, because he wasn't certain he could read her tone. The question seemed simple enough, and, indeed, it was what he thought she wanted. Her home back, without the constant reminder of betrayal under her nose. But something didn't sit right with him—he felt as though her question held a test, and he was afraid of failing it. "I haven't any idea what you want, Hawke," he finally said.
"Neither do I," she replied. Then, in a smaller voice, a more haunted voice, she added, "I… broke something I don't know how to fix."
So did I, he thought. But what he said was, "You are family. It will heal."
"Will it?" she asked, sounding very much as though she didn't believe it was possible. "I don't know if it will."
"She loves you. You love her. You have been through… you have been through so much together. It will heal."
Hawke's eyes narrowed, and she regarded him with such calm shrewdness he fought the urge to shrink away from her. "Is that enough? Love?"
"Hawke—"
She silenced him with the brief, cutting motion of one hand. "I think she'll always see the point of an arrow when she looks at me now. That is what I think. And I don't know how something like that gets healed."
"Time," he offered.
Folding her arms over her chest, she turned the same thoughtful gaze on the abandoned courtyard. Heaps of flowers and mementos covered the stones, now, silent testament to the loved ones lost. "I thought the names would never end." Her voice hardened, turned dark. "I wish I could carve each one of those names into his skin, and force him to live with them haunting his flesh. I wish I hadn't let him go."
Sebastian remembered the anger he'd felt, staring at Anders—shoulders hunched, face resolute, waiting for the blade of Hawke's knife to slide between his ribs. He remembered waiting, too: waiting for Hawke to act, to move, to do what needed to be done. He remembered all too clearly his impatience and anger rising through the cold numbness as she did nothing.
He'd felt much the same way Hawke looked now.
She took a step back and glanced up at the sky streaked with the setting sun, a riot of blues and purples and pinks, with the barest glow of gold touching the clouds. And yet, as glorious as the sunset was, as unutterably beautiful, it was scarred by the absence of the chantry tower. "I didn't realize it, you know. At the time. Didn't realize how… how many—"
"None of us knew." Sebastian had guessed. Oh, he'd guessed. And even those guesses had barely scratched the surface of the reality. "None of us could have known—"
"Anders knew," she cut in, flatly. "He knew what he was doing and he did it anyway. He chose it. He bloody well orchestrated it. Sela Petrae. Drakestone. A potion to help separate him from Justice. That's what he said. Just exactly what he knew I wanted to hear. Just exactly what he knew would make me help him." Shaking her head, Hawke wrapped her arms around her body, warding off a chill only she could feel. "How could he?"
"He had his reasons. I daresay he thought them good, if he was willing to go to such lengths to see his idea of justice done. But he was working under his own agenda, Hawke. And it was one that did not include you. It included none of us."
"It may not have included me, but he bloody well dropped enough hints," she spat. "Everyone must choose a side, he told me. He wanted to push the city against a wall, he wanted to shove it into a corner and force everyone's hands. And by the bloody Maker, he got just what he wanted. He got what he wanted, and… and we're left to pick up the pieces. He left the city in his bloody blaze of bloody glory,Sebastian. He got his grand gesture, and he'll never see all the blood on his hands."
Sebastian had no answer for her. "Hawke," he said, his brogue thick with emotion he did not care to name. "You cannot hope to understand the motivations of—"
"Of an abomination?" She shook her head. "The demon made him do it? No. Anders did this, just as he accepted the bloody demon into himself in the first place." Hawke turned suddenly, hair flying as she flung out one arm to point at the wreckage. "This was not justice." Then, suddenly, clenching both fists, Hawke took a stumbling step and tipped her head back, screaming at the heavens, "Do you hear me, you bastard? This is not justice!"
And then she began to cry.
Sebastian felt his heart twist in his breast at the sound. His hands twitched at his sides, anxious, desperate to do something to comfort her, but he knew very well how unwelcome such an overture would be. From him. Now.
Still, when she fell to her knees, bending under the weight of sobs he felt certain she'd been suppressing for weeks, he could not stop himself. He sank down beside her, not quite touching, but close. Close enough she wouldn't have to feel alone. She hardly seemed to notice him, putting her hands flat on the ground before her, grinding her fingers into the dust and rubble still marring once-pristine flagstones.
"I'm sorry," she sobbed, her words hardly recognizable, her shoulders heaving. She curled into herself as though making herself physically smaller might somehow reduce the magnitude of her grief. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
He didn't say anything. There was nothing he could say.
But he knew exactly how she felt.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
And he hoped that, wherever he was, and whatever he was doing, the Maker would one day rain down true justice on Anders for this. For all of the lives, all of the names, all of the brokenness he'd left in his wake.
When her weeping subsided, though broken sniffles still hitched every other breath, Hawke sat back, wrapping her arms tightly around her knees. She didn't look at him. She stared at the sky, where the first stars were appearing, and said so softly he almost didn't hear it, "Thank you."
He had nothing to say to this either, so he merely sat next to her, mimicking her posture as best he could with his still-pained left side. After a moment their shoulders brushed briefly, and he was almost certain the gesture had not begun with him. Sitting together as the moon rose, they were enveloped in a silence that could almost, almost have been called companionable.
#
"I'm out," announced Amelle.
The chair scraped loudly across the floor as she stood, rolling her shoulders. It was hardly a surprise, Fenris thought — Aveline and Donnic had left not long before, looking exhausted. He suspected it wasn't remotely coincidental Amelle had waited just long enough to give Hawke a reasonable head start.
He glanced up in time to see Varric looking closely at Amelle, brows drawn together, as if she were a thing to be puzzled out.
"You sure about that, Firefly?"
She waved a hand at her cards. "No amount of magic is going to fix those cards. Though you're welcome to them if you like."
Varric's answering smile was a strange one, both rueful and calculating, but he shook his head. "No thanks. I'll make do with what I've got."
"What about you, Merrill?" Amelle asked the elf. "If you're ready to head back—"
Merrill never looked up from her cards as she shook her head quickly, her dark hair swinging back and forth. "No, no. No, I think I'll… stay a while longer."
Amelle arched an eyebrow. "Stay a while longer?"
Still, Merrill didn't look up. Instead, she rearranged her cards, murmuring, "Mmhmm."
Amelle's lips twitched in a badly-concealed smile. "You're quite sure?"
"Oh, yes," Merrill mumbled. It could have been a very bad hand capturing her attention so raptly, but Fenris suspected not.
Amelle's grin widened as she said, "Probably for the best. I heard a stampede of rabid bunnies was let loose in Lowtown. The stairs are nigh impassable."
"Mmhmm."
"Fluffy bunnies everywhere."
"Of course."
"And on that note—"
Merrill's head shot up, her eyes wide. "I'm sorry, Amelle, what were you saying? Something about bunnies?"
But Amelle was already leaving the room. "I'm afraid you'll never know, Merrill."
"Careful, Daisy, there's always going to be one who tries to break your concentration," Varric cautioned.
"Maker, please," said Isabela. "You couldn't have broken her attention with a sodding mace."
"Not touchy because you've got a crap hand, are you, Rivaini?"
"I do not have a crap hand, thank you."
"Oh, so you've got a good hand." Varric looked back at Amelle, who had crossed the room and was lingering on the threshold. "Sounds like you're leaving just in time, Firefly."
Amelle cast another look around the room, with all its empty chairs, and a rapid flicker of emotion crossed her face. "I'd have said not a moment too soon," she murmured. Then she gave herself a shake and shrugged, waving one last time.
"I never have crap hands,"Isabela muttered darkly as she raised the bet again.
"Because you keep so many cards up your sleeve, no doubt," Fenris said.
"I don't even wear sleeves, Broody."
"Which only leaves one to wonder where it is you hide those cards." He glared again at the hand he held and grimaced, setting them face-down on the table. "I fold."
The way Merrill brightened told him hers was a very good hand. Fenris wondered if Isabela was going to let the elf win. She would if Varric had anything to say about it — the dwarf had been trying to convince Merrill to join the card games at The Hanged Man for too long now. If letting her win would draw her out of her house more often, Fenris had no doubt Varric would work those circumstances to the best of his ability. His considerable ability.
Fenris had no doubt Merrill would be bringing home the purse tonight.
"Leaving us, Broody?" Varric asked.
"I think it best. Sebastian is staying with me for a time."
"And you want to make sure he doesn't trip over any of the corpses. Smart idea."
Fenris did not dignify this with a response. Once he was free of Varric's suite, he took the stairs to the taproom two at a time, and walked—walked, certainly didn't run, but walked very quickly—until he saw Amelle's familiar back. The mabari kept pace with her, but for a moment he frowned, unhappy at the blatant risk she was once again taking. She shouldn't be so unprotected, not so late, and not so soon after what the abomination had done. It wasn't safe.
"Amelle," he called out, not wanting to frighten her into retaliating with magic if she suspected someone was following her. Her pace only quickened, and this startled him a great deal. Ever since he'd agreed to watch over her in the Fade, and certainly since he'd become Sebastian's only other bedside visitor, he'd felt they'd reached a sort of… detente. On good days it almost felt akin to friendship. It unnerved him to see her walking away from him so rapidly, and with such purpose. "Amelle, wait."
Her shoulders stiffened, but at last she slowed. Without facing him, she muttered, "Let me guess. My bloody sister put you up to this? When I was downstairs getting drinks? I can walk on my own, Fenris. I don't require one of my sister's babysitters. Cupcake will see I make it home okay. Won't you, boy?"
Her voice was thick with tears. The mabari tilted his head toward Fenris and gave a low whine.
Fenris crossed the last of the distance between them rapidly, wanting to reach out and holding back at the last moment. "Your sister said nothing to me."
"Oh, please. What do any of you do that isn't because she wants it?"
It was Fenris' turn to stiffen, swallowing hard against the sudden rise of anger. "That is both unfair and untrue."
She flung a hand up in a gesture reminiscent of shooing a pest away, but midway through the motion she froze, and her arm dropped heavily. "I… forgive me, Fenris. It's not your fault."
"But there is something troubling you," he said. It was not a question, and it was enough to finally bring her about to face him. He had obviously caught her weeping, if the blotchy skin and freshly red-rimmed eyes were any indication.
Reaching up, she scrubbed her palms down cheeks still damp with tears, and then she looked at her hands as though they'd somehow betrayed her by coming away wet. "Of… course," she said feebly. "It was a… hard day. With everything."
But something about this felt strange to him—something in the way her words quavered, and the way her green eyes wouldn't quite meet his. "It was not only the memorial," he said, "or what the abomination did. I am not entirely unobservant, Amelle."
On a sigh, she said, "Would that you were."
"We needn't speak of it, if you do not wish to do so."
Bowing her head, suddenly very absorbed in the stones beneath her feet, she asked softly, "What did you… observe?"
"You are troubled, as I said. And your sister equally so. You argued?"
"That's one way of putting it. Probably the most understated way, but it is a way." She let out another deep sigh, still looking down at the stones. "Was it that obvious?"
"It was evident something was amiss between you." As he spoke, Amelle wrapped her arms around herself, head still bowed. Finally he understood what she was really asking him, and said, "I… suspect they noticed things were strained."
"I doubt we did a good job of hiding it."
"It has been a… difficult day."
She lifted her head a fraction, offering him a crooked attempt at a smile in the half-light. "You do have a talent for understatement, Fenris." At his shrug, she let her arms fall as she exhaled deeply. "Everyone seemed tense tonight. Even Varric. And with everyone… everyone downstairs at the tavern— they were… they were laughing and telling funny stories, remembering the lives those people had lived. They knew names and stories and— and it brought them all a little closer, you know. In their grief, they found… something. Something good. Comforting. But we were just sitting upstairs not looking at each other. Pretending everything was fine." She made a face suddenly, as if recalling some private, unpleasant memory.
The question left his lips before he'd truly decided to ask it. "What is it?"
"It's nothing," answered Amelle with a shake of her head, but something about the way her lips had pressed into a pensive line suggested that wasn't entirely true. Fenris remained silent; if Amelle wanted to fill that silence, she would do so at her own pace. Soon her features twisted into a grimace and she shook her head, walking again. Fenris fell into step beside her. Several seconds passed before Amelle spoke once more.
"It was… suggested to me that my sister wasn't trying to pretend everything was fine, but that she was… trying to put back together something that was… broken."
He sent her a slantwise look. "Sebastian." When a strange mix of embarrassment and something almost akin to shame crept across her features, Fenris reminded her she had not spoken to a great many people that evening. "In any event," he went on, "I do not think he is entirely wrong, but neither do I think he is entirely correct."
Amelle said nothing, only walked on by his side, and Fenris remembered what Hawke had said about her sister: silent as a rabbit. She was giving him opportunity to fill the silence with an explanation, just as he had; something about this realization surprised him and he allowed several more seconds of silence as he gathered his words.
"The damage the abomination wrought is irreparable. It is not surprising Hawke would wish to make an attempt to fix that which is broken. It is, for good or ill, what she does. If she pretends, it is because she wishes to project confidence, but what she fails to realize is that Hawke is the only one whose confidence in Hawke is dwindling."
"Maker, Fenris," Amelle murmured after a long silence, "it's almost as if you know her." They went a few more steps before she said, very, very quietly, "She didn't think I should go to the memorial today."
"And that is where the argument began?"
"It went straight downhill from there." She chewed on her lip and Fenris saw her blink rapidly, reaching up and dashing away tears before they had a chance to fall. "I tried to be reasonable, Fenris. I swear it, I did. I just— I don't know. I tried. I knew she was upset. I was too. But it went— it all went so horribly wrong, so fast. And then the things she said— the things I said…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "I wanted nothing more than to go to the memorial, but I spent the whole bloody day wishing I was home, in bed, under my covers instead."
"I suspect you are not the only one. It was—"
"A difficult day, yes," Amelle said, with just enough dryness Fenris was able to remember her usual good humor. Unfortunately it only served to highlight just how far from that good humor Amelle currently seemed. None of her usual spirit danced in her eyes.
"You have argued before."
Amelle gave him a look. "We're sisters. I think we spent whole years arguing when we were growing up. But this… was…"
She fell to silence, and much as Fenris wanted to press her for details—for anything that might help him understand the strange, shuttered look in her eyes—he did not.
"Fenris?" she asked, as they moved through the silent Hightown marketplace, "Do you think I'm… reckless? With my power?" He did not miss the way her hands twisted together, fingers clutching at each other until the knuckles whitened. Even with her shoulders hunched and her head ever so slightly bowed, he could see the troubled cast of her expression.
When he did not immediately reply, she stopped and turned, raising her head reluctantly. "I—I'd rather you tell me the truth," she said.
Fenris inclined his head. "Occasionally," he replied. The single word hit her with force enough to draw a wince, and though he regretted causing her pain, he did not regret the honesty. "Had you turned on those who attacked your sister today in the square, it would have been reckless. Even Hawke's uneasy truce with the Knight-Captain could not protect you if you worked magic in front of every remaining templar in Kirkwall. Not after the abomination's actions. You have admirable restraint, Amelle, and good judgment I have always found lacking in those with power… until someone you care for is in danger."
"Kiara accused me of—" Amelle snapped her jaw shut mid-sentence, and though she did not physically turn away from him, he could sense her retreating.
"You may speak to me of it, if you like," he said. She shook her head, briefly, reflexively. Fenris clasped his hands loosely behind his back to give them something to do, and swallowed his sigh. "You worry I might discuss this with her? I will not, if you do not wish it."
She looked terribly confused for a moment, and he found himself wondering what he'd said to cause it.
"You… wouldn't?" The words held only the barest whisper of a question, and Fenris shook his head.
"I would not."
"You're her best friend. You've always— you've— you're loyal to her, Fenris. I can't—"
He bristled slightly at the implication his loyalty to Hawke somehow made him untrustworthy in other matters. "Amelle," he said solemnly, "if you speak to me in confidence, I would not betray it unless you asked me to keep a secret from your sister that might cause her harm." Again, a strange series of emotions flickered across her face, but too quickly for him to identify; soon everything was locked again behind her eyes. "My loyalty is not blind."
More silence passed as they walked, and they were halfway up the stairs leading away from the market when Amelle stopped abruptly and sat down, wrapping her arms tightly about her knees. It was true she was shorter than her sister, but the way she curled in upon herself at that moment, she looked impossibly small. Her shoulders were rounded, hunched forward, as if the weight hoisted upon them by the argument was physically pulling at her.
"She didn't think I should go to the memorial."
Fenris sat down next to her, a little more than an arm's length away, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands loosely. "As you said."
Amelle swallowed hard, and when she spoke, it was haltingly, in low tones. "I… I understand why, Fenris. I do. I know she worries about me. I know she loves me." There was an ominous pause then; Amelle grimaced a little, as if she'd caught herself in the middle of a falsehood. She swallowed hard and shook her head. "And that's what makes it worse. That she— that I got so angry with her when all she's ever wanted was to keep me safe."
In truth, he had no experience in such matters, and he momentarily wondered why he felt himself qualified at all to speak with Amelle about familial squabbles. And yet.
He frowned, listening to her words, piecing them together with what he already knew of the Hawke sisters. What Amelle was saying wasn't untrue; Hawke did worry about her sister's safety, more so after their mother's murder. "You feel… ungrateful, then?"
It was a long time before she answered, letting out a deep sigh before saying, "I feel as if I ought to feel ungrateful. Mostly I'm just… frustrated. I'm frustrated that she— she gets to be the person she wants to be. No one stops Kiara Hawke, and those who try are in for a fight. But me… I'm always… protected."
There was no mistaking the bitterness in her tone, as if the word itself tasted foul. "You resent it."
"I'm— I don't resent it. But I hate how… how it always feels, being the one held back, kept away, kept safe. All I ever wanted was to feel useful. I wanted my sister to… to value me, like she values all of you. I wanted to be part of her… her life— no, that's not it. I wanted to be someone she could count on, I guess. But she was always a little too afraid of me getting hurt to let me really… be anything."
"That is untrue," he countered with a brisk shake of his head. "You accompanied your sister on a number of—"
"Because I fought for it," she interjected flatly. "I don't think she ever really wanted me along. She certainly never asked me to come. And… and I tried to prove I could be useful, but… you know, now I think I only irritated her. She always had to worry about keeping me safe. Better for her if I just… stayed out of the way, you know?" Amelle let out a short, hoarse bark of laughter. "She worked so hard to keep me out of the Circle, but sometimes I wonder if she wouldn't be happier if I had been brought there."
"You cannot mean that. If your sister truly didn't care—"
Amelle's head came up and she regarded him steadily, the moonlight catching her eyes and making them gleam oddly. "I didn't say she doesn't care. I think she cares too much." She sighed again. "And it's so bloody lonely. Always being kept aside, held back — no matter what I do, or how hard I try, or how many times I tend her wounds, I… I felt — I feel — like an imposition."
He frowned at her words; as he digested them, his frown deepened. "I was there after Hawke dueled the Arishok. I saw the condition she was in. Had you not been there—"
"She'd have died, almost certainly." When Fenris nodded, Amelle went on to say, "She only brought me along that night because it would have been too dangerous for me to stay locked up in the house by myself." She looked down at her hands, looking unaccountably sad as she murmured, "She wanted me somewhere she could keep an eye on me. Somewhere she could make sure I was safe."
"And do you not worry about your sister's safety in turn?"
"More than she knows. But…" Amelle turned her hands over and frowned at her palms. "From the time my magic showed itself, our parents drilled it into her. I was her responsibility. She had to keep me safe. I was her job. I love my sister, but sometimes I wish I could be her sister a little more often than just another sodding responsibility. And I know it would be different if I wasn't a mage. I know it would be. Sometimes I wish… sometimes I think it'd be better if I wasn't." Her voice broke on the last word and Amelle curled in on herself even tighter.
Fenris did not say anything for several seconds; he'd never heard such a sentiment before, and yet he did not doubt Amelle's sincerity. Her bleak tone left him with the unfamiliar urge to reach out and touch her hand, her arm — something, if only it might provide some measure of comfort; he clasped his hands tighter instead. "You… wish you were not a mage."
Those hunched, rounded shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Sometimes."
"Amelle, that is—"
"Don't tell me I'm wrong. You, of all people…"
He sighed. "You would not be who you are if that were the case."
"Yes, well. I'm not so sure who I am is anything to brag about." At his questing look, Amelle gave a guilty grimace. "I was so tired of being lectured. So tired of hearing some variation of it's for your own good, Mely. So tired of being reminded how much work it is to be my sister. I got angry, and I said— Fenris, I said some awful things. And I said them out of frustration and anger, and— and I'm not proud of them, and Maker, this never would've happened if I weren't a fucking mage."
"Sebastian would be dead." Her expression twisted into something like annoyance. Her annoyance melted swiftly into shock when he added, "A great deal more than just he would have perished if you'd not gone into the Rose on so many occasions to tend Kirkwall's wounded."
"I… didn't know you knew." She winced, shaking her head. "I was trying to be discreet."
"You were." His lips quirked into a very small smile. "As was I, evidently."
"As were… you're not saying…?"
He twitched an eyebrow at her. "To be honest, I did not expect it to be you. I expected your sister to chafe under the requests Aveline and the Knight-Captain made of her, and I thought to… aid her, if necessary. Aveline was quite troubled after the incident in the marketplace."
Amelle's expression turned incredulous. "Aveline asked you to keep an eye on my sister?"
"I took it upon myself to do so. And then, when it… became apparent I was keeping an eye on the wrong Hawke—"
Sourly, she interrupted, "You thought I needed to be watched over, too?"
Fenris regarded her levelly. "If I have learned anything in these years at your sister's side, it is the value of not being alone. I ran from Danarius for three years before I met Hawke. They were not good years. There is neither shame nor weakness in requiring aid, or accepting that aid when it's offered. You were doing a charitable deed, but the environment around you was hostile. I was able to deflect some of that… hostility."
She blinked at him. "Was there… hostility?"
"The occasional instance arose where someone had to be reminded to look in a direction different from the one they were looking in."
Her eyebrows dropped, furrowing anxiously. "But no… bloodshed?"
Inclining his head, he said, "No bloodshed. A few headaches, perhaps."
"I… had no idea."
Lifting one shoulder in a shrug, he replied, "It was evident how much you had on your mind. I did not wish to trouble you further." He stared hard at the stones between his feet for some time before adding, "Perhaps it is not said as often as it ought to be, but you are valued, Amelle."
When she did not reply at once, Fenris hazarded a glance in her direction. He was somewhat relieved to find her sitting up straighter, and though her gaze was still distant, and her brow still troubled, she no longer seemed quite so sad. That he—his words—should be the catalyst for such a change in her made him uncomfortable, just for a moment, until discomfort was replaced by relief.
Relief, however, turned into something else entirely when Amelle slid across the stones until her hip, her entire leg, pressed against his, even as she reached out, capturing his right hand in both of hers and squeezing warmly. She dropped her head lightly upon his shoulder, letting out a long, deep breath.
"Thank you, Fenris. I really needed… just— thank you."
He hadn't thought his words so moving as to elicit such a response; indeed, he hadn't expected such a thing at all, and could not quite help his own reaction. Amelle's hands, smaller and smoother than his, and so very warm, squeezing at his fingers — the magic in her touch once again called to the lyrium in his skin, or if it was not that, then something made his skin grow warm, prickling pleasantly at the base of his scalp. He went very still; Hawke's demonstrative displays were one thing, but Amelle had always been far more reserved around him, touching him only to heal.
But then she pulled away with a start, warm fingers gliding lightly across his knuckles as she slid back across the stone step.
"Sorry, Fenris," she said, shaking her head briskly. "I'm didn't — I… forgot myself. I didn't mean…" The hands she'd had wrapped around his were now clasped together, and the hunch of her shoulders looked distinctly embarrassed now.
"It was…" Fenris struggled for a moment, unsure what to say, how to proceed. "It was not an imposition, Amelle."
"Thanks," she replied ruefully, pushing herself to her feet. "I…" she trailed off and cleared her throat. "I… really didn't mean to fall apart on you like that." The mabari rose from the ball he'd curled himself into, licking at her hand. She scratched behind his ears absently, as Fenris followed her example and stood.
They were nearly at the Hawke estate when Fenris spoke again, almost against his will. "Your sister has never been known for holding her tongue. If you… if you spoke words you regret, I am certain she must have returned them in kind."
Amelle stiffened, nearly stumbling on an uneven cobblestone. Catching herself at the last moment, she turned to face him. "It was… a very unpleasant argument."
The hound whined.
"You're right, Cupcake." Amelle met Fenris' gaze, and though the distress had not entirely left it, she seemed more settled. Less desperate. "Tomorrow's a new day. I'll… I'll be by in the morning to check on Sebastian, if that's all right with you?"
Fenris blinked, dipping his head in a graceless nod. "As you wish. Are you… is his condition still a concern?"
One dark eyebrow arched for her hairline. "Seeing as he's walking around with the most stubborn wound I've ever tried to heal? Yes. But… perhaps it will do him some good, being away from—he needs to rest, Fenris. He'll only heal if he rests."
"I will see he does."
Her brief laugh heartened him. "I know you will. And I'll see you both in the morning. Perhaps with a basket of sweet buns." She lowered her chin and the moonlight threw silvery lights in her dark hair. He almost thought she was going to speak again, but instead she merely shook her head and offered him a smile that was almost natural, almost normal.
Not quite. But almost.
When she was standing at the doorway, he called softly, "Amelle?"
He saw her head turn in the dark.
"Sleep well."
"And you, Fenris," she replied, so softly he almost did not hear the words, before the door opened and she disappeared within.
Fenris was so distracted, turning his conversation with Amelle over and over—it's so bloody lonely—he very nearly ran into her sister. He'd not have thought it possible, but Hawke looked, in some ways, worse than her sister had. Even the moonlight and shadows could not hide the marks of tears that had not been present when he'd seen her at The Hanged Man. Her eyes were swollen, and her cheeks even paler than usual.
"Hawke," he greeted, startled.
Hawke raised her reddened eyes and stared at him a long moment before blinking and giving her head a brief shake. She did not reach out to touch him. Indeed, she took a step backward. "Fenris. Are you—has everyone left, then? Is—did—?"
He frowned. "I accompanied your sister home, if that is what you are attempting to ask."
The relief that overspread her face was almost as palpable as the vestiges of her tears. "Thank you. I—we—how… how did she seem?"
"Troubled," he replied. It was the truth, but he hoped Amelle would not consider it a breach of her faith. "You both seem troubled."
Hawke ducked her head, running a hand through her hair and then rubbing the base of her skull as though it pained her. "It's my fault. We… it doesn't matter." When she glanced at him again, her expression had gone almost sheepish, and Fenris found himself wondering about the details Amelle had left out. It took a great deal to make Hawke ashamed, and none of what Amelle had related seemed quite enough. "I'm going to talk to her. I… I am going to talk to her. It will be… I'm going to talk to her."
It sounded, for a moment, very much as though she was attempting to convince herself.
"And Sebastian?" Fenris asked.
She blinked again. "At your house. Baffled by the presence of the corpses. It has been some time since he was there, and I… think he thought we were exaggerating the mess."
"There is a clean chamber for him."
"Really?" Again Hawke raised her hand to her head. "That's… he has to rest."
"So Amelle said."
"Otherwise he'll hurt himself again."
"I understand, Hawke."
Her brow knit. "And if he hurts himself, you must send for Amelle at once. Do you understand? He should never have—but never mind that. Just… be certain he rests."
Fenris canted his head slightly. "And will you come with your sister in the morning?"
A shadow crept over her face. Fenris found himself wondering if it had more to do with the argument with Amelle, or with Fenris' new houseguest himself. "Perhaps. I'll—perhaps." She glanced over her shoulder, in the direction of her own estate. "I should—it's… it's been a long day."
"It has. Would you like me to—?"
She waved him off before he could finish. "I'm fine. Thank you, Fenris. I'll… I'll see you." Without saying anything more, she turned again and headed in the direction of her own home. He watched as long as he could, until her hunched shoulders and bent head disappeared, and then he opened his own door, wondering. And somehow more concerned even than he'd been before.
#
By the time Amelle reached her bedroom and began her evening ablutions, the events of the day clung to her, weighing her down like sopping wool. She was tired; she was beyond tired. And, when she walked into the small washroom adjoining her bedroom to find the tub filled with water — cold, but that mattered little — she breathed a quiet, heartfelt thank you to Orana for always knowing precisely what she needed.
Rather like Fenris' words, as they'd sat upon the cold stone stair. You are valued.
Even the memory of them lightened her heart.
And that such a sentiment came from Fenris. Fenris. Fenris, who wouldn't have lied to her about magic just to spare her feelings. Who'd given her an honest answer when she'd asked for it, even when the honesty of the answer stung. He had not placated, he had not patronized; those things held the most weight of all.
You are valued.
The pain of her argument with Kiara still remained. The memory of Kiara's eyes, icy and leaden like a winter sky, as she held her bow with its arrow trained on Amelle still lingered, still hurt. There was much to be healed between them, and Amelle hadn't the first idea where to begin, but the overwhelming hollowness that had swept in, leaving her heart and spirit achingly empty, had begun to subside with those three words.
With a flick of her fingers, a ripple of power shuddered through the water until it steamed, and Amelle's mana began to shift and settle easily once she'd done so. The pressure had been building and building and building throughout the day, her power surging up when least convenient and simmering too close to the surface for too long, and she never in a place or position where she could safely release some of that growing tension. Now, not only was the bathwater hot, she could breathe more easily. With another touch of mana she lit the fire in her hearth for good measure, closing her eyes and dropping her head forward as her shoulders and back further loosened and she sagged with relief.
From deep within the house, the front door opened and closed again. Soft footfalls upon the stair followed and, moving as quietly as she knew how, Amelle went to her door and watched the play of shadows across the floor. One such shadow moved past, then came back and stood perfectly still for several breaths. Kiara.
Amelle swallowed hard, reaching out and resting her fingers against the wood, watching the scant inch of space beneath the door, watching Kiara's shadow stand there, weight shifting from foot to foot before walking away, just as silently.
Not tonight, then. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps they'd speak then.
Very briefly she entertained the notion of flinging open the door and charging into her sister's bedchamber, refusing to leave until they'd spoken and cleared the air between them. But that was not an Amelle tactic. It wasn't even a Kiara tactic. No, that was all Carver.
Like so many other things, memories of her twin had hovered too close to the surface all day, and memories of him standing in front of her after they'd argued, using his bulk to block her way until she spoke to him formed all too easily.
"Ah, but that's not kit, is it, cub?" she whispered to the empty room. No voices replied, and Amelle didn't realize until just then how afraid she'd been to hear one.
Looks like I won't be going mad tonight, she thought, exhaling a deep, shuddering breath. With one last lingering look to the bottom of her door, Amelle returned to her bath, still steaming, and added several generous drops of scented oil to the water before shedding the day's clothes. If only it were so easy to shed sorrows, worries, and fears, pulling them off like a second skin at the end of the day to be washed clean and dried in the sunshine, coming back fresh and unsullied.
Alas, she'd have to make do with a hot bath.
Amelle lowered herself into the water, hissing first at the temperature, and then groaning a little as tense muscles continued loosening. Dunking under to wet her hair, she then leaned back and closed her eyes.
You are valued.
Fenris couldn't have known just how badly she needed to hear those words and know they were true, that they weren't just an empty platitude. He couldn't possibly have known about the voice jeering Lesser Sister over and over again until the words filled her head and echoed in her ears like a pulse. She'd lost hand after hand of cards because concentration had been so very far away as every one of her shortcomings curled and twisted through her mind no matter how hard she pushed against the intrusion.
He wouldn't have said the words if they weren't true. And the truth of them struck her with all the clarity of a bell.
Of course then she'd gone and forgotten herself entirely, practically collapsing on him in her relief. It wasn't until she realized he'd gone preternaturally still — didn't seem even to be breathing — that she remembered Fenris wasn't someone overly fond of being touched. Less so by a mage, she supposed. Occasional and necessary healing aside.
You are valued.
Yes, valued as nothing more than a friend, she told herself sternly. And that was fine; having a friend at all right now… helped. Or at least made things seem less bleak and insurmountable.
Maker help her, Amelle almost felt hopeful.
