Even after Amelle had awoken, Fenris continued visiting, continued indulging her requests to play cards, continued sitting by her bedside as she rested. And as he did so, he told himself it was what Hawke would have wanted, what she would have expected him to do. Every time he ascended the staircase at the Hawke estate, he assured himself he was doing precisely what Hawke had intended when she first asked him to watch over her sister. He did not listen to the soft, whispering voice suggesting it was not Hawke's desires, but his own that sent him to Amelle Hawke's bedside so frequently. That he sat with her, not because her sister had requested it of him, but because he wanted to be there. But that was still an uncomfortable, to say nothing of inconvenient, train of thought—they still hadn't spoken about any of what had transpired between them. And so once again, as Fenris raised his hand to knock against the front door of the Hawke mansion, he assured himself he was simply following through on his friend's request.
Orana appeared as the door opened and Fenris was gratified to discover the young woman did not seem quite so ill at ease when she spied him on the stoop. She smiled a little and bowed her head as she opened the door fully, which was a welcome change from the uncertain, wary looks she'd always given him before. He nodded in turn before coming in and turning his steps toward the stairs.
Fenris had barely laid one foot upon the bottommost step when Orana called out behind him, "Oh, I nearly forgot, messere — Mistress Amelle is in the garden this morning."
He turned, brows lifting in surprise. "She was strong enough to make such a trip?"
The maid smiled somewhat ruefully. "She was… very insistent, messere." But in her words, Fenris heard a different meaning — though he would not call Amelle stubborn to Orana's face; it was far preferable to deliver such a message in person. "I… I helped her outside," added Orana. "She's just on the bench underneath the yew tree."
Nodding, Fenris turned his steps toward the back garden door as Orana hurried back to her kitchen domain. When he stepped out into the garden, he saw Amelle curled up on the bench in question, her legs tucked up underneath her skirt. She held a piece of parchment in her hands; her head was bowed, and she was studying it intently — she hadn't even heard the door open. A small table at her elbow held a pot of tea, steam issuing from the spout. Two teacups and several buns took up the rest of the table's limited space, all untouched. The morning sun filtered through the tree's limbs, casting the garden — and Amelle — in a pattern of shadow and light.
It felt… wrong, somehow, to watch her unnoticed, though, and he let the door close heavily behind him. Amelle looked up with a start and she twisted around on the bench, but when she saw him, no hint of surprise registered on her face. Only a smile.
"Right on time."
"I had not realized I'd become so predictable," he replied, taking a seat on the other side of the bench and nodding at the tea set. Amelle didn't reply; she took a moment to pour two cups of tea and handed one to Fenris. The porcelain was warm against his palms and the scent of the brew reminded him instantly as one of the spiced blends favored in Seheron. "You've received something," he said, nodding at the letter and taking a drink from his cup.
"It arrived just now," she explained, folding the parchment and tapping it against her palm. "It's from Kiara," she said, but without any of the relief or happiness such news ought to have brought. Amelle went on, adding, "They arrived in Starkhaven. It… a storm delayed them. But that's where they are now. She says they're safe — which, as we both know, given Kiara's lexicon, 'safe' is a relative term when she's talking about herself. But… well, she doesn't know when they'll be returning." As Amelle continued tapping the letter, her expression grew pensive; though not quite a frown, the furrow between her brows came close to one.
"What else does she say?" Fenris asked, knowing there was more.
Amelle pursed her lips. "Well, on the whole the letter is… somewhat lacking in detail. But she absolutely does not want me coming to Starkhaven, that mages aren't welcome there. She told me to stay here." At this Amelle shook her head and exhaled hard through her nose. "As if mages are welcome anywhere. Honestly, Kiara."
"She said nothing else?"
Her answer came on a long, troubled sigh. "No, she did not." Fenris nodded, unsurprised, but Amelle only grew more pensive. "So," she began. She tapped the letter against her palm more rapidly. "I was thinking—"
"Amelle, no."
This time she did look up, eyes wide. "You didn't even let me finish!"
"You think we ought to ignore Hawke's missive and make our way to Starkhaven despite her clearly-stated wishes."
A faint scowl played about the corners of her mouth. Not a full-fledged one, and not one meant for him, he thought, but a scowl nonetheless. He'd grown accustomed, these past days, to seeing smiles in place of strain, in place of scowls, and he found the recurrence of the grim expression troubled him. "Hear me out, Fenris," she began, running an anxious fingertip around the rim of her teacup, forward and back, forward and back.
He took a sip of his own tea and settled back, regarding her steadily. She wrinkled her nose and was the first to glance away. "I will hear you out," he said. "But only if you will grant me the same courtesy, once you are finished."
She smoothed the already-smooth fabric of her dress down the contour of her thigh. He watched the progress of her hand with some interest, before raising his eyes back to hers. This brought a very faint smile to her lips, chasing away most of the glower. "She sent this after they reached Starkhaven — by the date of the letter, they'd been gone from Kirkwall about two weeks. Chances are they were drinking tainted water the entire voyage. Perhaps she only wished for me to remain in Kirkwall because… because she was still feeling the ill-effects of the lyrium in the water."
"Plausible," he replied. "But not reason enough to undertake a difficult voyage."
"She could be—"
"Amelle. If your theory about the water holds, it stands to reason she has been drinking clean water for some time. We are seeing recovery amongst the people of Kirkwall within days. There is every likelihood the lyrium has worked its way from your sister's system by now."
Amelle drank down too large a gulp of tea and set herself to coughing. Before he could think better of it, he'd set his own cup down, and snatched hers from her hands, turning her to face him. He rubbed soothing circles into her back with one palm, holding her other hand in his. "I'm fine," she gasped around her coughing fit. "Too hot." Then she flushed slightly, and shivered under his touch. He didn't pull away at once, but the circles slowed. Even when he stopped, he kept hold of her other hand. She glanced down at their joined palms and sighed. "She wasn't healed though. We put healing into the water here. Perhaps that's why people are returning to themselves so quickly."
Fenris nodded, giving her hand a brief squeeze, gratified when she did the same. "And if we leave, only to pass them? Only to arrive in Starkhaven to find them gone? It makes more sense to do as Hawke asked and wait for word."
Amelle shook her head. "One letter? In all this time? I feel like she should have sent something else. Something more. If only to keep me from haring off after her."
"I have traveled the overland route, Amelle. Things change rapidly this time of year, especially in the high passes. It is entirely possible another letter will arrive soon. I believe our best course of action is to wait."
"What if they're in danger? Fenris, what if they need us?"
"Then we are, at present, ill-equipped to offer them the aid they require."
"I'm ill-equipped, you mean. Because of… everything."
Fenris grimaced, remembering—and just as swiftly banishing the memory—Amelle deathly still upon the cavern floor. "You were unconscious less than a week ago, Amelle, near unto death. You must rest. You must give yourself more time to recuperate. I would rather not have to request the templar's assistance, but I will do so if I think you about to do yourself harm."
This time the scowl was a genuine one. She glared at him through narrowed eyes and shook her head. "Threatening to smite me—or to fetch Cullen to do so—is awfully low."
"And yet I am all but certain he would agree the last thing you ought to consider at the moment is a journey to Starkhaven. By land or by sea, it is arduous."
The scowl abated not at all as Amelle exhaled hard. "How can you say we should just wait? I'd rather get to Starkhaven and find out Kiara's already left than sit and wait for a letter that won't come because Isabela cheated at cards in the wrong bloody tavern and they found themselves arrested."
Such a thing, Fenris knew, was only likely if they ventured to Hercinia, but he was sure Isabela was a seasoned enough raider to avoid such a problematic port.
"And," she added, "you're forgetting that I'm healing. Every day I feel better and better, Fenris. Stronger."
He shot her a disapproving look. "Navigating a flight of stairs is hardly the same thing as traversing a mountain pass, Amelle. Remain in Kirkwall — as Hawke asked."
Without replying, Amelle unfolded Hawke's letter with her free hand and frowned at it, as if trying to discern some hidden meaning in her sister's words. Her eyes passed over the page several times in silence before she let out a breath and shook her head.
"What are you trying to find?" he asked, nodding at the sheet.
"She didn't exactly ask. Which only means it sounds like Kiara. Typical Kiara, in fact. Brusque and to the point. A little bossy." Amelle ran her thumb over a splotch of ink, and for an instant she looked unaccountably sad. "A little messy."
"You were expecting something else?"
"Some sort of indication she's still crazy… or not. I'd feel better if I knew she was getting that foul… stuff out of her system. But brevity doesn't really allow room for paranoia and accusations. I just wish I knew." Fidgeting a moment, Amelle gave up and folded the parchment before bowing her head. "I hate not knowing, Fenris. I hate it."
He resisted the urge to brush an errant lock of hair away from her forehead, clearing his throat instead. "As do I. However, I still think the wisest course is to wait."
"But what if something's wrong?"
Fenris sighed, hard. "You have no proof something is amiss. And if Hawke were still impaired, would she not have been more autocratic in her note to you?"
Her brows lowered and her scowl turned into something more puzzling. "You'd think so. Stay there or I'll put an arrow through your eye, or something along those lines." Though she was striving for humor, Amelle's smile did not meet her eyes and he wished there was something he could say or do to alleviate that sadness.
Something other than indulging her desire to travel to Starkhaven.
"Hawke will write. You must give her more time."
"How much more?"
"If we revisit this discussion in a week, will that satisfy you? As I said, the mountain pass is difficult to navigate this time of year. Even for couriers trained to do so. Allow another message opportunity to reach you."
"I don't like it."
He refrained from smiling, because he could tell by the tone of her voice she was about to accede. She didn't like acquiescing any more than she liked waiting, but she would do both. He only hoped she would be well—or that a letter would arrive—before the topic was broached once again. "There is little enough to like, I grant you. Still, it need not all be dreariness and waiting with bated breath. The Knight-Commander—"
"Cullen."
Fenris ignored her interjection. "The templar insinuated he might allow the clinic to open again, once you are feeling well. I believe he—"
"Is pretty sure I'm done giving myself nosebleeds?"
Fenris sighed. "Amelle. Worry is not the same as restraining. I believe he would like to see you with some occupation."
She made a displeased noise under her breath and tilted her head back, gazing up at the sunlight falling though the leaves of the tree. It bared her throat most enticingly, and Fenris bent to retrieve his teacup, though the tea had gone tepid, simply to prevent himself from gazing too long and too hard at the column of her throat. Or from thinking too long and too hard about just what he'd like to do to that expanse of inviting pale skin.
"Fine," she said, still directing her words toward the leaves and branches above her. "Starkhaven's off the table for… for a few days. I will give you that much. But there's… something else that's… been on my mind."
Fenris stared into the depths of his tea, and waited for her to say what he knew she would. Truthfully, he'd been both dreading and longing for this conversation, but no time had seemed precisely right. Nor had he entirely decided what he would say. The memory of Amelle in his arms warred with a different one, that of Kiara Hawke unwittingly revealing the extent of her sister's innocence. She deserves to be happy. She deserves someone good. Someone who can make her happy.
Fenris wanted to be that person, but he wasn't entirely convinced he could be. He carried so many shadows with him, and he did not want to pass any of them to Amelle. He had so little to offer her. She deserves someone good.
And yet. And yet. There had been no shadows that night. There had only been her, the smell of her, the taste of her, given freely and without any hint of reluctance. Her lips had been pliant, and her hair so soft beneath his fingers, her arm so tight about his neck. For all that his emotions had been running high, it had not felt wrong to have her in his arms, it had not felt wrong to hear her moaning beneath his caresses, and it had not felt anything close to wrong when she had returned those caresses in kind.
But he could not quite shake the image of Hawke staring into the depths of her wineglass, troubled, so very troubled.
He inclined his head, saying nothing, and Amelle took a deep breath before speaking.
"As I recall, we are… overdue for a chat. Quite a few tomorrows have passed since the one in which we were supposed to… talk."
"A great deal happened," Fenris said softly. "It was not avoidance."
He wasn't entirely certain this was true—it was not precisely avoidance, as he'd had little time to collect his thoughts on the inevitable subject—but Amelle seemed to believe him. She finally bent her neck again, turning her head to face him. Her eyes searched his, but he could not have said if she found whatever it was she was looking for. "A great deal happened," she echoed. "Sometimes it seems like so much happened I'm… I'm not sure what to think. But I'm pretty sure we need to talk about it."
"Yes."
"You kissed me."
"I did."
"I… don't take this the wrong way, but I can't help but ask… why?"
He blinked, not quite expecting that question, of all the ones Amelle could have asked. Something about it made his face grow warm, but the honesty of her question sat plainly on her face — there was no superciliousness, no veiled insinuation, nothing but the question.
He cleared his throat. "Because I… wanted to."
Now it was Amelle's turn to blush and she looked down at her lap, a tiny, secretive, relieved smile ghosting about her lips. "Oh. Well. That's a good reason." She looked up again, peering at him through her hair. "Albeit a… surprising one."
He shrugged and glanced away, not certain what to say next, not certain even if he was meant to say something. He had no memory of any women… before, and — as Hawke had so plainly put it — while on the run from Danarius, he hadn't the time for such pursuits, and trust in others had been a luxury he hadn't been inclined to indulge in. He had no idea what to do.
"Did it… displease you?" he finally asked, cringing internally at such an inquiry.
Her head came up almost instantly and she shook it. "No. No, I… No. It didn't."
Fenris nodded, the simple gesture masking his own rush of relief — one for which he felt faintly foolish. When he did speak, it was quietly. "I am glad."
"I was just wondering if… if you wanted to just then, or if you had wanted to… for a while?" She coughed lightly and directed her question to their joined hands. "How long, Fenris?"
He followed her gaze down and tightened his fingers around hers. "My… feelings did not develop… recently, if that is what you are asking."
Amelle looked up, frowning at him as she tilted her head. Her short hair fell on an angle as she did, and the dappled sunlight streaming through the branches above caught the strands. He remembered for a brief moment the feel of her hair parting beneath his fingers and he was overcome with another urge to reach out and brush the strands away from her forehead. Instead, he jerked his gaze back to her face, only to discover Amelle was still watching him thoughtfully.
"Not… recently," she echoed softly.
"If you are asking me to assign a moment when the course of my thoughts toward you changed, I… cannot." He frowned at her. "And I might ask you the same."
The thoughtful frown disappeared in a flash of teeth as she smiled and let out a breath of laughter. "Oh, no you don't. We aren't talking about me just yet. You were angry with me, before. Weren't you? I mean—you… you seemed angry. I thought you were angry." Amelle's throat worked as she swallowed and her tongue darted out to lick her lips briefly — and yet, distractingly — before she continued. "And you were, weren't you? A little bit?"
"You were pushing yourself too hard. You could hardly have expected me to rejoice over it." But that wasn't what she was asking him, and he knew it. Oh, how he knew it.
"So you're saying you… weren't angry because I was spending so much time with Cullen?" She bit her bottom lip and Fenris found himself distracted once again by her mouth. The question was voiced quietly, uncertainly, "You weren't… jealous?"
Fenris pondered this a moment. It would be a lie to say he'd been… unaffected by the relationship he'd seen growing between Amelle and the Knight-Commander, and though at times seeing them interacting had made him frustrated and uncomfortable and, indeed, jealous, that jealousy had played no part in his actions. In those specific actions, at any rate. Any number of other emotions had been in play, certainly, but he did not think he was deceiving himself—or her—to say jealousy had not been one of them.
He realized he'd taken too long to answer when Amelle actually began to worry the lip she'd pulled between her teeth, and the furrow in her brow deepened. Shaking his head, he explained, "I believe my behavior made my jealousy… evident, but only until you assured me there was only friendship between you and the Knight-Commander. Kissing you as I did… it had nothing whatsoever to do with the templar, and it was not my intention for you to believe I was… marking my territory."
Amelle blinked at him. "Well. Good. Because I'm not… territory."
Fenris cleared his throat and blamed the slight heat at his cheeks on the sunlight, even though he mostly sat in shade. "I did not mean to imply you were. I was angry. I was… alarmed. I was frustrated. And then I was relieved, and at times relief can be as potent as fury. I realize now I ought to have had better control. Forgi—"
Amelle reached over, pressing a finger to his lips, startling him into silence. "Please don't apologize," she said softly. "Unless… unless you wish it hadn't happened at all. Because I'm… I'm not sorry." Her movement had brought her closer to him, close enough he could smell the sweet lavender scent of the soap she favored, and that, too, reminded him of the other night. Forcefully. He fought the urge to inhale deeply, to pull her close; he did not want to muddy the waters of their conversation with… complications.
Resolve was not easy to hold on to, not with her so near, not with her green gaze searching his so pleadingly. "I cannot be sorry for what happened, Amelle," he admitted. "Many things about the moment—about the timing—were not ideal—"
"Do you—are you—" She ducked her head, and he thought she might move to pull her hand away from his grip at last, but after a moment of indecision, it stayed. "Was it just a… moment of relief, then?" she whispered, her voice gone nearly as soft as the breeze rustling in the branches above them. "Was it just… emotions running high and choosing a… an unexpected outlet?"
He took a moment to consider his answer and looked down at their joined hands, her skin so much paler than his, her smooth palm against his roughened one. His thumb twitched, almost of its own accord, and ran along one of her knuckles. "I have no simple answer to that," he said, watching their hands. "Did… emotion play a part? Yes. As I said, I was angry and frustrated and then… relieved. But to imply the outcome was nothing more than high-running emotions in search of an outlet…" It was so much easier to look at their hands, but Fenris raised his eyes to meet Amelle's searching gaze. "I will not lie and suggest such a thing. Admittedly I did not… plan the moment, but that is not to say…"
Amelle leaned forward a fraction. "That is not to say…?"
The warmth at his cheeks felt as if it hadn't abated the least little bit. "That the notion had never occurred to me before."
Amelle's eyes widened and her lips parted on a breath. "Oh," she whispered. "I… had no idea."
He made a wry face. "I am aware I have done little enough to… ingratiate myself to you over the years."
Now it appeared to be Amelle's turn to look at their hands. Her other hand slid across her skirts to join the first, and the light touch of her fingertips tracing the white markings along his skin made him shiver. "It's all right, you know." Her brows twitched together once. "Well. Maybe not the viper-in-the-nest remark, but…" She trailed off and cleared her throat. "You never had to… ingratiate yourself to me, Fenris."
The look he sent her was one of marked skepticism, he knew. "I gave you very little reason to tolerate me, much less… enjoy my company."
"That's the funny part," she said, her lips once again curving into a small smile, this one of secret amusement. "I… do enjoy your company. I thought it was you who didn't care for mine. I thought… well. I imagine you could probably guess what I thought." She bowed her head, clasping his hand tightly in both of hers before murmuring so very softly Fenris had to tip his head closer to hear her, "I just never knew you had… changed your opinion about me."
"If my opinion was changed, Amelle Hawke, you are the only one who may take credit for it."
#
For the sake of her own pride, Amelle sincerely hoped Fenris could not feel how her pulse was racing. She, on the other hand, was entirely too aware of it, and the blush that would not quite abate did not help. In the slightest. But Fenris was looking at her so intently, and his expression was so sincere and so… genuine, so unguarded, her heart stuttered along even faster. Inhaling deeply, she sought to regain some modicum of control before she combusted or set the tree on fire or lurched across the scant distance separating them and threw herself at him.
Perhaps the latter wasn't the worst idea—
Amelle. Pride. Control. Restraint. For the love of the Maker, rein it in.
The voice in her head sounded disturbingly like Kiara's. It also sounded disturbingly like it was mocking her. So she exhaled just as slowly, and sent Fenris a tentative smile. Of course, when his own lips twitched in reply, it sent her heart racing all over again. Fenris' smiles were rare enough that earning one still seemed noteworthy. Glancing past him, over his shoulder, she looked toward the rest of the garden, willing herself to be calm again.
"So," she said, attempting to sound conversational and fairly certain she was failing miserably—conversational people didn't sound like their hearts were beating in their throats, did they?—"if the… if the notion had occurred to you before, does that mean it'll… occur to you again?"
He huffed a breath of soft laughter and, Maker's balls, the laughter was even worse than the smile. She felt her cheeks burn hotter.
And then, because the laughter was just enough to bolster her, she edged forward, closing the distance between them, and angled her face so she was able to press a brief kiss to his smiling lips. Both her hands were still clutching one of his, but he brought his free one up to cup the side of her face. His thumb rested along her jaw and now she was certain he could feel her heart racing, if for some reason he'd been ignorant of it before.
"Amelle," he said softly, his fingers almost cool compared to the heat of her flushed skin. "I am not certain this timing is any more ideal. You are concerned about Hawke. You have been unwell. Things have been unsettled—"
"Andraste's frilly knickers, Fenris," she retorted, "if we're waiting for things to be settled, we'll be waiting a bloody long time. It's… we're not…" she shook her head, looking for the right words, hearing only the rush of blood and the pounding of her heart in her ears. "One can't test the water without dipping one's toes in."
His lips lifted in a slightly broader smile. "After everything we've been through you choose a water metaphor?"
First a smile, then laughter, and then a joke? Amelle nearly leaned in and kissed him again, but the voice of her better sense — or at least she assumed it was her better sense, despite it sounding so disturbingly like Kiara — urged her again to control herself. Her smile widened, however, and she let out a little huff of rueful laughter. "You take my point, though. We… Maker, Fenris, the whole world's gone bloody backward mad. Sure we flushed out— oh, sod it, cleared up a bit of madness in our little corner of things, but… everything is unsettled, and there's no sign of that changing anytime soon."
He looked at her, his brow creased in a small, pensive frown, and in that moment Amelle would have given anything to know just what was going through Fenris' mind. "You have… no concerns, then?"
That was enough to make Amelle laugh, a single peal of laughter perhaps louder than it ought to have been. She put a hand over her mouth and shook her head. "Sorry. Sorry, I didn't mean— I'm sorry. I… Fenris, of course I have concerns. I'm concerned that our little stunt in the spring will, against all odds, turn out to have been nothing more than a temporary fix. I'm concerned for my sister's health and safety and that of her friends, who are, for better or worse, my friends too. I'm concerned with… all the repercussions that are bound to be coming our way after… after everything." She thought of her link to Compassion, all that it meant to be a spirit healer; she thought of the demons that still whispered in her ear, still tried to tempt her. "Yes," she said quietly. "I think it's fair to say I have concerns."
Fenris then inclined his head and looked her in the eye, and something about the look he was giving her, about the line of his jaw looked… defiant. Challenging. "I am an escaped slave, still living in a borrowed mansion. Allow me to ask you again: have you no concerns? No reservations?"
She shot him a look and shook her head. "Correction: you are a free man, living in a dead man's mansion. Besides, if we're going down that road, I'm an apostate mage — and still technically a refugee. Does that bother you? Does that concern you?" She lifted her hand and let a flash of blue fire engulf her palm as she met his eyes steadily. "Have you no reservations?" she asked, letting the flame wink out.
His exhale held a hint of rueful laughter, but it faded into something far more sober. "You make an interesting argument. It is only that… Amelle, you know I have no memory of my life before these markings. I do not know who I was. I do, however, know the man I became while Danarius' slave. I have done things I am… not proud of."
Amelle nodded, accepting this. She knew some of what he alluded to, certainly, though perhaps not quite as much as Kiara. Once or twice, after an evening spent at Fenris' without her, Kiara had returned home with a dark, haunted look, and when Amelle had asked the matter her sister had only shaken her head and said, "As far as I'm concerned, we can't kill that bastard Danarius dead enough."
Amelle wasn't certain she wanted to know all the details. But she knew she wanted Fenris to know whatever Danarius had made him do was not his fault.
Her tongue darted out to moisten her dry lips and she said, "And I know the man you became while working with my sister."
Fenris looked momentarily pained. "He is no saint, either, Amelle."
"Are any of us?" she countered. When his brow only furrowed deeper, she pressed, "I mean it, Fenris. Look, every single one of us has made bad decisions. Even Sebastian, and he was a sodding priest. All of us have blood on our hands. All of us… all of us were blind, maybe even willfully. I'm not… I'm not saying we need to decide about every day for the rest of our lives right this minute. I'm saying I'd… I'd like the option. To… dip my toes in the water."
The expression he shot her way was fondness mixed with equal parts exasperation and uncertainty, but it wasn't a look that said no. And that was enough. For now. That was something to hold on to.
"And if this spring, too, is poisoned?" The words almost, almost rang of jest, but something in the tilt of his head and the set of his shoulders alerted her to the importance of the question. His gaze never left hers, and Maker, but she could see the hesitation there. The… fear. In that instant, he reminded her of nothing so much as one of the wounded animals she'd tended as a girl. Something in Fenris was injured—she knew that much, she'd guessed that much—and though he seemed almost willing to allow her to help him, he was still afraid it wouldn't be enough. That she'd hurt him more.
She swallowed past the sudden knot of tears in her throat and blinked rapidly to keep her eyes from betraying her. "I don't think it is," she replied. "But… I do have experience now with poisoned springs, don't I?"
"Amelle…" But he let her name trail off into silence as he shook his head.
"We have nothing to gain by standing back."
"And what have we to lose if we venture too close?"
The hesitation still haunted his eyes, still made the line of his shoulders just a little too tense. He still didn't look as if he were on the verge of saying no, but still he looked wary and hesitant and deep down in the pit of her gut, a new font of hatred sprang for Danarius and all he'd done. The magister's ghost loomed over them; though the man was dead, his shadow lingered, casting everything into cold dimness and uncertainty.
"We'll never know if we don't try," she whispered, reaching up to brush hair away from Fenris' forehead, stopping herself, fingertips mere inches from the pale strands. After a moment's hesitation, Fenris tipped his head a fraction, acquiescing, and Amelle reached the rest of the way, brushing the hair away from his forehead, startled at how very soft it was. Her thumb lingered a second or two against his temple before she let her hand fall silently to her lap. "I'm willing to take a chance."
"You are reckless," he countered, but without any real heat.
Amelle only shrugged one shoulder. "It's a risk I think is worth taking."
"You… truly believe that?"
"I do," she said simply, her gaze never wavering from his. There, in the green depths, she saw another flash of hesitation. Yes, Fenris was injured; he had scars well beyond his markings. She remembered, briefly, the moment when she'd tried finding proof of the corruption within him — she remembered that strange sensation of something. Something like a scar, something that didn't quite belong. To her psychic fingers, it had felt like a wound left untended too long, but in all Amelle's years of healing, she'd never encountered such a thing on the inside of a person. She wondered if he'd been injured in battle — battle against a mage, even, or against the hunters sent so frequently after him.
She then wondered if such an injury could yet be mended, and if she could — or ought to — make the attempt. Turning the thought over, she found herself remembering the moment in the spring—the moment when the whole universe had tasted of lyrium and magic and power. She didn't think it would take a fraction of that kind of force to heal the scars she'd felt deep in Fenris, and did he not deserve the same healing, the same peace as the people of Kirkwall? Perhaps it wasn't the same corruption, but it was something wrong, something not meant to be there, and she thought she had the ability to fix it.
She was momentarily distracted by the sound of his voice once again softly speaking her name. His hand squeezed hers almost reflexively, and she couldn't help the smile pulling at her lips. Maker's breath, a month ago she could hardly imagine Fenris permitting the most casual of touches, and here he was with his hand entwined with hers. If anything, this gave her hope. Taking a deep breath, she said, "We don't have to look all the way down the road, you know. We're just… setting foot on it."
This time the expression on Fenris' face was most definitely a smirk. "You are all metaphors this morning."
She laughed ruefully, shaking her head. "I… you're not wrong. I just… how does anyone decide these things? All I know is… Fenris, I don't want to… not try, and regret it. Maker, you're observant. Do you want to end up like my sister and Sebastian?"
Fenris' eyebrow twitched, and the smirk faded. "You… observed that as well?"
"You'd have to be blind not to, wouldn't you? I… don't want to do that. It makes them miserable. Sweet Andraste, I think the misery between them is the only reason Varric and Isabela don't make more of the potential story. It's like some things are too sad to poke fun at. And… whatever is or… isn't between Kiara and Sebastian is sad like that."
Fenris inclined his head, his fingers once again tightening around hers. "You'll not catch me arguing with you on that score." He sighed, deeply, and she felt herself tense, because this sigh seemed to carry something in it she was afraid to hear. When he spoke, however, it was to say, "I do not know how… people decide these things any better than you, I'm afraid."
"Maybe they don't talk so much," Amelle replied, with a hint of impertinence. Then, because this reminded her of her back to a wall and his hands on her and his mouth slanting over hers and, oh, Maker, the heat, she ducked her head to mitigate the blush she was beginning to fear permanent.
Fenris only breathed a rueful chuckle. "Perhaps not. But I… such things do not come naturally to me."
Her gaze caught the twining lyrium-white lines and she followed the curves and spirals with her eyes, from fingertip to shoulder. She wanted to run her fingers along them, but instead she swallowed hard and asked, "Is it… I thought I understood… do they hurt? Is that… why?"
He frowned, but it was not angry or frustrated—it seemed thoughtful, and he still did not pull his hand away from hers. "At times the memory of pain returns. I… expect pain, and sometimes that is enough to cause it."
Swallowing hard, Amelle twisted Fenris' hand over in hers; lyrium streaked down his palms as well. "I don't ever want to cause you pain," she said, lifting his hand as she pressed a chaste kiss to the inside of his wrist. She heard his sharp intake of breath and looked up suddenly, but what Amelle saw playing across Fenris' face bore no resemblance whatsoever to pain or discomfort.
"I know you do not," was his quiet reply, but his voice had grown rougher, huskier. Emboldened, Amelle kissed his palm, lips brushing one slender line of white, watching him the whole while. Again, the gesture seemed not to pain him and she allowed herself a small, relieved smile. Fenris, however, did not smile in return. A faint spark of alarm rose in her breast, but instantly guttered out when Fenris' other hand came up to the back of her neck, pulling her in close as he slid his mouth over hers, reenacting in living color the kiss she'd blushed to remember only seconds before.
Her heart, though it had never slowed during their conversation, seemed only to beat harder and faster as the heat of Fenris' mouth moved against hers. She gasped and mewled at the suddenness of it, but then his hand was cradling her head and this time she was parting her lips, and she was squeezing Fenris' hand even more tightly as her other slid up his arm — and had she truly felt him shiver at that? — and clutched at his shoulder. And then Fenris groaned, and the sound was so deep and ragged that Amelle felt it reverberate through her as the kiss turned even more heated, and she couldn't help but wonder, Maker, did I do that? She ran fingers up along the nape of his neck, into that soft pale hair, and Fenris shuddered against her, his teeth catching her lower lip for one brief, dizzying moment. There were worse things than wolf bites after all, she decided.
She was closer now, much closer than when they'd started this talk, situated so awkwardly at opposite ends of the bench. And now Amelle was sliding closer still — so close she felt the warmth of his leg against hers. Indeed, she felt heat everywhere, and she couldn't be sure for a moment if it was all coming from Fenris, or if she was generating some of her own. The tip of his tongue touched briefly at her lower lip before brushing against hers, and the contact was enough to make her press harder into the kiss, a plaintive cry forming deep in her throat.
This, this was somehow even more than what she'd felt before. When they'd been in her chamber, she'd been too surprised to do very much more than react, but as Amelle returned the kiss, she became dimly more aware of Fenris' reactions — his own breathing was faster and more labored; his hand, which had first cradled her head, was now fisting in her hair; and she was nearly certain she could feelhis heartbeat thundering against her breast.
When the kiss broke — and Amelle could not be sure which of them pulled back first — she drew in an unsteady breath and licked her lips; Fenris' eyes dipped to her mouth and she felt her stomach flip pleasantly. Neither spoke for what had to be a full minute as they recovered their breath and looked at each other.
"See?" Amelle ventured with a poor attempt at lightness that was belied by her flush. "Just putting a toe in."
"Amelle," Fenris began, and she was relieved to hear how unsteady he sounded, "I suspect that was more like an entire foot being submerged."
"It didn't… hurt, though?" she asked, running a thumb down one of the lines at his chin.
"No. No, it did not."
Still, she felt the subtle flinch when her fingertips grazed the lyrium-white flesh. It was deep, almost instinctual, certainly not conscious and… and she wondered. The trauma she'd sensed in him had been an old wound, too, old and deep and never tended. She nearly gasped as realization struck—it was a theory, but she wondered if the two might be somehow connected.
Whatever expression altered her face, it made Fenris frown down at her. "Amelle?"
She swallowed her excitement—her fear—even her desire to help—and asked, "Fenris? Is it… is it true you have… no memories at all of the time… before?"
The frown deepened, as though he could not fathom how she'd come to such a topic and rather wished she hadn't, but he answered nonetheless, "It is."
Taking a deep breath, she continued, "And… I believe you've said your first memories are of—"
"Yes," he said shortly. "The agony of the lyrium being branded into my skin. Is there a purpose to this line of questioning?"
The hardness in his voice was so painfully different from kisses and desire, and she very nearly backed away from her hypothesis. He deserves the same healing Kirkwall has been given, she reminded herself. And sometimes healing hurts, but the hurt is only in the short-term. "I have a theory," she explained, disliking the tentative quality of her tone. She spoke more quickly, as if to cover up this weakness, half expecting him to rise and stalk away from her at any moment. "Do you remember, before we went to Sundermount, I thought I sensed some old wound in you? Some old, untended trauma?"
He nodded once, brusquely, but his gaze turned curious and he did not pull away. She took that as encouragement enough and continued, "I'm wondering if… I'm wondering if that old injury and what happened—what Danarius did—might not be connected."
Curiosity turned incredulous. "You think to cure me of these markings?"
She blinked. "Oh. No. I—I'm not sure that's possible. They're… they're very much a part of you, now. But the trauma of that… that event, Fenris — if I can still feel the damage within you, it could mean the wounds can be… well, I might be able to heal them. The more I think about it, the more I think I could do it, actually."
His eyes were guarded as he watched her, taking in her words, turning them over in his mind. "These… old wounds you felt. Are you certain they have to do with my markings?"
"I… don't want to make promises I might not be able to keep. Healing whatever was left to fester might do nothing. Or you might suddenly realize you know how to speak Antivan or sing opera or even dance the Remigold — I don't know. All I do know is… there's something in you — some trauma or some injury or some sort of wound — that never healed. It could — it might — be related to your markings. Or it might not. It might make no difference to you whatsoever if I were to leave it alone. But I'm pretty sure I can heal whatever it is."
"But you have no idea what ramifications healing such a… a thing might be."
"This… is true," Amelle admitted. "But healing something doesn't generally make that something worse."
Fenris looked down then, and this time it was he who took her hand into both of his, and Amelle found herself wondering what Fenris saw when he looked at her hands. Something that felt very near to an eternity passed before he spoke, still looking at his hands as he said, "And you are… sure you are recovered enough to even consider attempting such a thing?"
This was the harder question to answer. The first moments after waking, she felt sore and wrung out, her connection to Compassion intact, but damaged. But every day that passed, she felt stronger and better and… as she'd told Cullen, different. She felt different. When she thought about whether she could heal the injury she'd sensed in Fenris, she felt the answer — yes — rise from deep within her, filling her like music, like wind, like water, like fire. Yes. She absolutely could heal him.
"Amelle?"
"Yes, Fenris. I can heal it."
His frown deepened for a moment as he watched Amelle — and oh, how closely he watched her, as if he could see into her spirit. He hadn't released her hand, wasn't moving away from her, but Fenris was very, very still. He drew breath to speak, and Amelle stopped breathing entirely.
"I will… consider it."
It wasn't a yes, but it wasn't a no either, and Amelle held on to that.
