Hawke slept through the night, through every watch change, through the storm that did not taper off until nearly dawn. And when Fenris found the opportunity to do so, he released lyrium into the sleeping mage. The poison was gone from her system, he knew, but as her own mana returned—at a trickle, he suspected—her breath cleared, but too slowly. He did not think it was his imagination her color improved after such an infusion, nor was he inclined to think it a flight of fancy her breath was clearer.
It meant he did not sleep as much as their companions, and he had to be particularly surreptitious when he attempted such a thing during Varric or Isabela's watch—easier said than done—but by morning, a slow, steady drizzle fell outside and Hawke's lungs were all but clear as she sat by the low-flickering fire, scowling at her ankle as she poured healing magic into it.
Hawke had explained to him the way her… particular link to the Fade meant her body kept itself well; a mage's mana was connected to their breath, and a spirit healer's even more so. It had made sense that with increased lyrium, every breath Hawke took would allow her lungs to recover, however gradually, but her ankle would not recover with such passive measures. The swelling was going down, but gradually despite the brightness of the glow radiating from Hawke's hands.
"What I'm getting from all this," drawled Varric as he ran a cloth over Hawke's revolver—one of the few things she hadn't lost to the river; her coat and hat were little more than a distant memory, but the weapon had been left to dry out overnight, and Varric had spent most of the morning cleaning it while Hawke tended her ankle. "Is that we might be hanging around here—"
"We are absolutely not doing that," Hawke ground out. The light from her hands pulsed brightly for a second before subsiding, echoing her tone. "I can mend it."
Fenris had—wisely, he believed—refrained from commenting, until the dwarf shot him a shrewd look. "What do you say, elf? Think that ankle'll be travel-ready after Hawke heals it up?"
If Varric's expression was shrewd, Hawke's was positively mutinous. "That," she cut in, "is hardly here nor there. Fenris' injuries were far more extensive than a broken ankle. He needed healing and rest."
Fenris' expression must have betrayed his skepticism, for Hawke's eyebrow lifted as surely as if he'd challenged her as overtly as Varric had. "We haven't got time, and the three of you know it," she said sharply. "I can knit the bones together again, and when we stop to rest I'll apply another round of healing until it's… properly mended. And then," she added, her expression turning less defiantly mutinous and more privately amused as she met Fenris' eyes, "it's a matter of letting the joint heal without it stiffening up."
"I wonder if your healer will be as adamant on the subject of overexertion as mine was," he replied dryly.
"I doubt it," Hawke replied mildly, turning her attention back to her injury. The violent color had faded and the swelling was gradually subsiding. "Besides, I'll be sitting the whole while. Hardly exertion at all, never mind overexertion."
Isabela flicked a tiny twig into the fire and knocked back what remained of the coffee in her small tin mug. "Much as you know I agree with you," Isabela said, addressing Varric, "Hawke's got a point. We need to get to Highever, and if I thought we could make it there in a day, I'd have said so by now. As it is there'll be no point in staying the night in West Hill; we'll make it there by midday and can be off again in a few hours. We can probably make up some time, but we're not reaching Highever before tomorrow, and that's if the weather holds," she added, casting a dark glower at the cave's entrance. "My bet is we're going to have to stop somewhere in the Coastlands tonight."
Varric read the question that sketched itself across Fenris' face. "Can't take the Imperial Highway up to Highever," he said with a shrug. "Past West Hill, we're going to have to take the roads up through the Coastlands. But there are a few villages between there and Highever, so it's not like we're going to have to sleep on the ground again." The revolver now polished to gleaming, Varric presented Hawke the weapon with a flourish before sliding it into her holster while she continued healing.
"Varric's right, though roads is something of a generous term," Isabela chimed in. "But we'll be on higher land and we're crossing no rivers, so the worst we'll have to contend with is mud. And are you sure that ankle's going to be up to it, kitten?" she asked, casting an eye Hawke's way as she bent over the injured joint, the planes of her face lit by the blue-white light pouring from her hands.
Hawke didn't look up; indeed, the question barely dented her concentration. She blew a lock of hair out of her eyes and murmured, "It's going to be fine."
Varric chuckled. "Through application of brute force if necessary?"
"If that's what it takes," replied Hawke, refocusing her attention on the injury.
Slowly, the magic pulsing from her hands brightened until the light was white rather than blue and threads of even brighter light streamed out from her hands, circling the ankle. Goosebumps rose in a path up Hawke's forearms and as her magic burned brighter, those tendrils of light called to and woke the lyrium in Fenris' skin. Flexing his fingers, Fenris rubbed at his arms to rid himself of the prickling sensation even as he watched the bruising fade and the swelling subside. He wondered—could not help but wonder—if the appearance of his own injuries had been so strange to watch.
The magic built and built—Fenris did not miss the significant, pointed look exchanged between Varric and Isabela—until Hawke's cheeks flushed and strands of hair stuck to her damp forehead. Finally the light flared off in a burst and Hawke leaned back, flushed and out of breath, but she lifted the newly-healed ankle and rotated it slowly.
"Good as new," she panted. "Now shall we get a move on?"
#
While Varric, Isabela, and Fenris broke camp, Amelle sat, prodding gingerly at her ankle—bones and muscle were whole again, but weak and tender. If circumstances had been different, she'd be in bed with her foot propped up, pouring healing mana into it at every opportunity, not that she was remotely inclined to admit such a thing out loud. As it was, she'd be treating it every time they stopped. If she wasn't certain overt displays of magic would run the risk of bothering the other horses, she'd focus the mana there periodically while they rode, but one horse-related incident was more than enough for this trip and all subsequent trips in the near or distant future.
What had surprised Amelle, though, was how… thoroughly her mana had returned. By the time morning had crept upon the cave, she'd woken with lungs that twinged only slightly when she inhaled, and when she sought out her mana to heal her ankle, she found it swirling and alive inside her, fully recovered. Gone was the dry, scratched over feeling that had plagued her since even before Kinloch hold. The moment she reached for her mana and called upon the Fade spirit that aided her healing, it crested beneath her psychic touch, blue-white light thrumming from her hands as she sent wave after wave of magic into the damaged joint.
Ought it to have replenished so quickly? So thoroughly? Normally, any healing energy that returned to her while she rested would have been drawn to parts of her that needed it. Her unique connection with the Fade and the spirit that had chosen her for her particular vocation provided a sort of latent healing—she recovered from injury quickly and rarely if ever fell ill. But even latent healing drew on mana, and it was nothing short of odd that Amelle's lungs were clear and her mana was replenished. It would have made more sense to her to have woken feeling… drained.
It was a strange thing to be concerned about—she'd recovered from her magebane use and near-drowning too easily, too quickly. But there it was.
Nobody else seemed terribly worried about this development, or maybe they were just thankful without wanting to poke too closely at the why of it all. Then again, perhaps they simply didn't realize how unusual this type of healing was. Had her mana just replenished itself that quickly? Was the magebane somehow to blame? That didn't make any sort of logical sense, but this wasn't the first time she'd come out of magebane poisoning feeling better than she had before she'd taken the magebane to begin with.
Brow furrowing, Amelle, ran her fingers along the curve of her ankle, sending one last wave of healing magic down into the muscle and bone before pulling on her sock and boot and cautiously pushing to her feet. Fenris was checking Falcon's tack and making sure her pack—her pack, which he'd loaded and strapped down himself—was secure.
"I think that's nearly it," Isabela announced. "Onward and upward?"
"Anywhere you want, Rivaini," answered Varric, "as long as it's out of this sodding cave."
Her answering smile was crooked and amused. "And you said I was the one who'd complain about the missing feather beds and hot water."
"My complaints haven't been anywhere near that specific," he riposted, leading Cedric out, Isabela behind him, the slow clop of hooves echoing through the cave. "But the sooner we get to Highever, the better."
"Highever will be a nice change of pace," Amelle sighed as Fenris checked Falcon's girth one last time. She wanted to tell him he didn't need to do that for her, that she could, at the very least, tend to her own horse. Perhaps it was foolish; it wasn't as if Amelle didn't know she needed to rest her foot, and it wasn't as if she didn't appreciate the assistance. And yet.
"Have you been there before?"
"We have," she replied. "I'm of the opinion we draw better crowds in towns and smaller cities, but we do wind up in Highever now and again." She shot him a crooked smile. "It always seemed a bit… refined for the likes of us." Fenris looked as if he wanted to ask her more, but at the last he shook his head and checked her stirrups instead. Amelle suppressed a sigh; she supposed she ought to feel as if the scales between them were balanced.
She didn't.
"You don't… you really don't have to do that."
His hands froze on the long strip of leather. "My apologies," he replied evenly, laying the stirrup and iron back in place. "I merely thought to make sure your leathers hadn't been damaged."
"No, I—I only meant you… needn't do all this for me," she said, spreading her hands. "I can—you've done so much, and I doubt you slept well last night."
A pause, before he continued checking every strap, every buckle. "It has been no trouble."
They were supposed to be even now, but nothing felt balanced between them—on the contrary, the weight of the debt she owed Fenris rested heavily upon her shoulders. She was grateful, certainly. Glad to be alive, surely. She was thankful—immensely thankful—and while she knew he hadn't acted alone, it had been Fenris who'd risked his life to save hers. They weren't emotions easily shaped into coherent thoughts and words. She'd thanked Fenris, but the words had felt paltry, not quite matching the force of the sentiment inside her.
No one had done such a thing for her before. Amelle had no illusions; she easily could have drowned—the river had been rising steadily, the rushing current surging over her head more and more. Everything could have unfolded so very differently.
Balanced scales or not, it was still, Amelle recalled with a grim smile, a far cry from their first meeting. Somehow he'd gone from threatening her to saving her, and while Amelle had been quite certain they'd moved past the attempted murder phase of their friendship, she hadn't expected them to reach this point… whatever this point was. It was no mean feat they'd managed such friendship at all, given the tenor of their introduction; as far as beginnings went, it hadn't been the most auspicious.
And yet, she could not erase from her mind the memory of Fenris tirelessly throwing her the rope until she caught it. She still saw his clenched jaw, and the… it had looked like nothing so much as fury snapping in his eyes, as if he might have tamed the river with the force of his glare alone. And then he'd shouted his promise over the roar of the river, over, even, the water plugging her ears.
You will not drown here today.
And she hadn't.
Just as vivid was the remembered pressure of Fenris' arm around her as he clung and fought against the current, holding fast as he freed her foot; the warmth of his back, pressed against her chest. Unnerving, how natural it had felt to rest her head upon his shoulder, to have her arms locked around him. However wet and miserable they'd both been—she still stunk of river slime and was sure Fenris did as well—Amelle had held on to him entirely unselfconsciously, and still did not blush to remember it.
If anything, she wanted to revisit the sensation, if only to see whether the reality lived up to the memory.
Fenris had rescued her, and had been nothing short of valiant in doing so—and Amelle was grateful. But, as well she knew, it was foolish to mistake gratitude for something else. Something more. She had no intention of making such a mistake. Her plan, such as it was, would be to focus healing her ankle, carefully and deliberately turning her mind away from angry green eyes or arms that had held her with absolutely no intention of letting go, or a warm, solid back that fit far too perfectly against her.
Falcon's stirrups and girth adjusted and Amelle's pack strapped firmly in place, Fenris turned to face her, but after a second or two his expression turned cloudy and confused.
"You lost your coat yesterday."
Amelle shrugged. "And my hat. I thought I'd be able to find some suitable replacement in West Hill."
The frown didn't abate; if anything, it deepened as he shook his head and shrugged out of his own duster, holding it out to her.
"What?" Amelle blurted, looking down at the proffered coat. "Fenris, I can't—"
"The rain has slowed, but has not stopped entirely. Take it; I have a lighter one that will suffice."
"I can't take your coat, Fenris."
The edges of Fenris' frown darkened to nearly a scowl, but before he could reply, Isabela's voice rang out from the mouth of the cave: "Take the damned coat, kitten, so we can leave."
Color and heat rushed to Amelle's face. "Well, I suppose that settles it," she muttered as she took Fenris' duster and clumsily pulled it on. The shoulders were too broad and the sleeves too long, but it was warm with his body heat and, though it too smelled vaguely of river water, the coat also retained an earthy, piney scent she was starting to associate with Fenris.
While she buttoned the duster, Fenris dug through his own pack, freeing the simple dark coat he'd worn the night they'd had dinner in Kinloch Hold and shrugging into it. He refastened his belongings and returned tacitly to her side to give her a leg up into the saddle. As Fenris turned toward Agrippa, his fingertips grazed Amelle's calf—such an incidental touch, and yet her breath caught with the contact. Perhaps it was her mana reacting to the lyrium in his skin now that she had mana to speak of. Perhaps the light brush of his fingers came too closely on the heels of her memories. Either way, Fenris looked up sharply.
"Are you well?"
"I am," she answered… mostly truthfully, as she swallowed hard and pushed forward a smile. "I'm fine. I'll be even better once we make it to Highever."
He narrowed his eyes at her, his expression turning shrewd for a moment, as if he were searching for any untruth in her words. After a moment, Fenris nodded and stepped away from Amelle and Falcon, pulling himself into Agrippa's saddle.
"Shall we?" Amelle asked, tilting her head towards the cave entrance.
Fenris only inclined his head, snapping the reins gently against Agrippa's neck. "I remain at your side." A beat of silence followed as they guided the horses closer to the narrow passageway. "Figuratively speaking, at any rate."
#
According to Hawke, West Hill had once been a military watchpoint and fortress built to guard against seafaring Orlesian forces, when invading Orlesian forces had been a threat. Originally designed to accommodate thousands, these days it was maintained by only a few hundred. This ought to have been enough to indicate the structure's size, but it wasn't until the fortress loomed on the horizon, casting a shadow across the pine-thick hills, its stones bleached white from sun, salt, and wind, did Fenris begin to appreciate the sheer size of it. Above high walls, higher towers jutted upward defiantly, Ferelden flags atop each, whipping furiously in wind that turned both sharp and salty with every mile they'd traveled away from the Imperial Highway. The low roar of the sea rushed beneath the wind, reminding Fenris of the last time he'd seen the sea. It hadn't been pleasant.
"And we will be permitted to… stop here?" he asked, frowning as they walked into the shadow cast by high walls and higher turrets.
Hawke shot him a grin over her shoulder. "West Hill isn't much for comfort, but if you're a courier or a merchant, there's no better place to stop on this side of the Coastlands. It's a well-kept secret."
"Surface dwarves started making this place a stop about five minutes after the lookouts quit looking out for Orlesian ships," Varric added. "If you don't mind a hard cot in the barracks—and a lot of folks don't—it's a good place to get some shut-eye. Kitchen's usually got some sort of stew going, too. It's not high comfort, but it's cheap and with merchants and couriers coming through regularly, the soldiers are able to keep in touch with the outside world a little better."
"And the merchants get to trade with each other—handy, since not everyone gets to the Frostrock Mountains, or Kirkwall, or Starkhaven, or Rivain," said Isabela. "It's turned into something of an… unofficial trading center."
He turned his gaze back to Hawke. "And you've sold here as well?"
"Occasionally," Hawke replied. "If we go to Highever, we usually make a point to stop at West Hill just before going through the Bannorn."
"You said—"
Hawke held up one finger, stopping him. "I said, never go through the Bannorn if you haven't got goods to trade," she riposted with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. "We always make sure we've got goods to trade."
As far as outdated military outposts went, Fenris was sure he'd never seen one quite so busy as this. They handed off the horses to the stablemaster and his grooms before venturing through gates that opened to a vast courtyard filled with a riot of color and smells. Inside the yard they were greeted by line after line of carts, wagons and stalls, all of them loaded down with more spices, bolts of fabric, weaponry, leatherwork, cure-alls and trinkets than Fenris could possibly imagine. Merchants yelled and haggled cheerfully with one another, bandying back and forth with good-natured insults and false affront alike, the volume of which drowned out even the roar of the sea.
A glance down revealed to Fenris that Hawke was still favoring her ankle, but not in any sort of obvious way. She walked along slowly, hiding her discomfort under the appearance of leisure, still taking care not to put too much stress or strain on the joint—a realization that surprised and relieved him far more than it perhaps out to have done. But when he looked up from her booted feet to her face, he found something that surprised him even more: rather than wearing an expression pinched in pain, Hawke's features were spread in a wide smile as she took in the brightly colored wares and the jovial men and women shouting to be heard over one another.
"I think I'm going to see about a coat," she said, fingering the cuff of his duster, her smile taking on a vaguely guilty twinge. "I've kept you from your own long enough."
"Time for me to see if there's anyone here I know," Varric said, rocking back on his heels.
"And if there isn't?" asked Fenris.
The dwarf shrugged. "Then it means getting to know some people."
"I want to see if any of these louts have any proper Orlesian perfume," Isabela said, wrinkling her nose as she sauntered off. "Something to kill the stink of horse."
Fenris turned again to Hawke as she slid his duster from her shoulders and handed it to him. "Is there nowhere here to bathe?"
Hawke shrugged, then tipped her head, silently inviting him to follow. "There is, but it hardly makes sense to bathe here. It'd be too much trouble to unpack a change of clothes, wash, and pack everything back up again, only to head back out on the road." She smiled widely enough her dimple showed. "Why, is the delightful blend of river slime, mud, and horse not to your liking?"
With a glower, Fenris pulled on his coat as he followed Hawke's careful steps down each row of merchants and their goods. "That is not the case at all," he argued. "I was in the same water, slept in the same cave."
"So you're saying you smell as bad as I do," she replied, still clearly teasing. "That would explain why we seem to prefer each other's company." Her steps slowed as they passed a stall displaying shimmering trinkets.
"Fire opals mined from Orzammar," the dwarven merchant boasted, the moment Hawke's eye came to rest upon a silver bracelet inlaid with brilliant orange, iridescent-flecked stones. "A stone whose warmth and beauty are second only to your own, miss," he added with a wink.
Hawke flushed with pleasure at the compliment, inclining her head. "You're very kind—and it is very pretty—but but not quite what I'm looking for."
They continued on, meandering past stalls and carts as merchants extolled the virtues of their wares. Some of them knew Hawke and called out to her. A few of those remarked on her still-bedraggled appearance, but she didn't bother explaining herself; instead she laughed and blamed her state on the rain.
All at once Fenris realized Hawke's mask had slipped into place without him noticing; she'd once again become the merchant he'd met in Ostagar, from the cant of her head to the spread of her fingers as she waved and traders she knew and gestured at their wares. And just as suddenly, he it dawned on him there was a rift between the merchant he'd met and the woman who'd healed him, with whom he'd been traveling, the woman whose disappearance into a rushing river had scared him far more than he'd thought possible.
As their steps slowed to a stop, Fenris found the realization unsettled him. Hawke clearly did not require his company. His initial concern had been for her ankle, that she might overextend herself, but though Hawke was favoring it somewhat, she still wasn't limping outright. It was obvious had no use for his—
Then Hawke's hand lighted upon his forearm, cutting into his thoughts. Fenris glanced up to find her smiling politely at a merchant, her hand… quite certainly resting on his arm. Her fingers curled into the leather.
No accident, then—strange.
It was then he noticed her smile was tight and pinched at the corners. This was neither her natural, relaxed, pleased smile, nor her quirked, teasing grin. This smile was forced; Hawke was displeased and trying to extricate herself from whatever conversation she'd fallen into.
Unfortunately, Fenris hadn't been paying the least bit of attention to whatever the merchant had been saying. The spice merchant—an overpainted, over-perfumed woman with a tangle of blond curls spiraling down her shoulders—was casting a sly, knowing look Hawke's way.
Hawke's smile didn't change. It didn't warm, and it didn't soften. "It was lovely seeing you again, Marlyne, really—" But the lie was woven all throughout her words; for all her tone was convincing, it did not convince him.
The merchant turned to smile at him, but the smile did not rise to meet her slate-grey eyes. Her features were narrow and vulpine, and her expression was openly speculative. He'd seen such looks before on greedy, moneyed women looking to spend their coin at Minrathous' slave market. His hackles rose as he met her gaze with an impassive one of his own.
Fenris looked over to Hawke. "We should move on," he said brusquely. To Fenris' surprise, the taut corners of her forced smile relaxed even as her fingers gripped his arm more firmly.
"My friend is right, unfortunately. Foolish me left home without a proper coat. Can you imagine?"
"Evanne is around here somewhere," the woman replied, flinging one hand dismissively. "She's brought some leather goods from Nevarra—you might find something there."
"Thanks ever so," Hawke replied, oozing false congeniality. "I'll keep an eye out." As they walked away from the merchant, Hawke lowered her voice and tipped her head close to his. "I didn't think you were enjoying that."
"What was the difficulty?"
She blinked once. "You couldn't tell?"
"I was not paying attention the the exchange. I only—" Dare he admit to reading Hawke's expression so carefully—even before he'd noticed the merchant? "Your grip on my arm would not be ignored." Her hand remained, in fact, and Fenris shifted to take on some of Hawke's weight as they walked. "It was soon evident to me you had no desire to be mired down in unpleasant gossip."
"And so I did not." She smiled, leaning subtly against his arm. "Miss Marlyne is…" Hawke trailed off, looking thoughtful. "She's what I pretend to be, I think." When Fenris didn't comment, she went on, adding, "That genuine Seheron spice blend she's hawking? She gets it in Denerim. Where we are right now is probably as close as any of her wares have ever come to Seheron."
"Whereas your potions?"
Her slim shoulders lifted in an easy, fluid shrug. "If ever my potions or poultices don't work, it's because I've made them so they wouldn't." Hawke's dimple appeared. "Drink too much of Empress Celine's love potion and you'll wake up with a nasty hangover, but not much of anything else. Love's not the sort of thing you can bottle, no matter who promises otherwise—oh, look," she exclaimed, having spotted the leather merchant. "There's Evanne's stall." She quickened her step before remembering with a muttered swear why she shouldn't have.
Fenris gripped Hawke's elbow, steadying her. "Dare we have a discussion about overtaxing oneself?"
Hawke snorted to hide her grimace. "You're just dying to do that, aren't you? What's good for the goose is good for the gander? No, thank you. I promise, I'll go slowly. I just needed… a reminder. A small one." After a brief pause, she went on to say, "You know, back there with Marlyne—you're not bad at reading signals. I… don't suppose you might… possibly consider hanging around even after this mess with Carver's taken care of?"
Fenris blinked. "Staying?"
As they reached the leather merchant's cart, offering everything from woven bridles to stirrup leathers, greatcoats, and flared leather frock coats, Hawke seemed to realize all at once what she'd said, what she'd implied. Her cheeks flushed pink. "Ah. Sorry. That was presumptuous of me. You have your own plans—"
Fenris shook his head. "I do not see how I can… contribute to your…"
Amusement overshadowed discomfiture, Hawke's mirth warming her eyes as she made a show of turning away from him to examine the merchant's goods. "Oh, I heard that pause. You're trying to find a delicate way to call it a sham."
"I am not," he replied with more heat than he'd meant to. "I am only—"
But Fenris' words died in his throat when he spied a splash of too-familiar colors passing along the furthest edge of the courtyard.
Men and women bearing the crest of the Archon.
