Evanne, a sweet-faced surface dwarf with coal-dark hair just beginning to streak grey and startlingly bright blue eyes, did indeed have coats amongst her wares. Fine ones made of leather Amelle would have seriously considered selling her soul for.
Unfortunately, not a damned one of them fit.
"I always say, that's the trouble trying to find anything ready to wear," Evanne muttered, pawing through a pile of sleeves and collars until she pulled free a bundle of leather the color of oxblood and shook it out, revealing a coat, cut and flared like a dandy's frock-coat, though clearly more durable, with buttons dark as Orlesian chocolate.
"Can't promise it won't hang a little long on you, Mely, but not as long as the others do," she said as Amelle pulled on the coat and buttoned it. "You find yourself in Denerim or Amaranthine, you could find a decent glover to fix it up for you. Right now, this is the best I've got."
Amelle's arms slid easily into the sleeves and she inhaled reflexively as the rich scent of beeswax and butter-soft leather wafted up around her. True, the cuffs fell somewhat longer than they ought to have, and the length was, strictly speaking, an inch or two too long. Still, it was a manageable sort of fit, unlike anything else she'd tried. The color was also the sort of thing she might've considered killing a man for.
"You've put on everything else I've got," Evanne said, scratching her chin thoughtfully. "Mortin's got a few things, but you can't beat Nevarran stitching."
Evanne was right; Mortin's goods tended to be overpriced anyway. And the coat was warm, which would made it even more attractive, given they'd be heading up into the mountains.
"What do you think, Fenris?" asked Amelle, turning and letting the coat flare out as she did. Long sleeves or not, she quite liked the way it fit, and the color—
But Fenris wasn't paying attention. Indeed, whatever had captured Fenris' notice had done so completely enough that Amelle had a feeling she could have blown a bugle in his ear and it wouldn't have made so much as a dent in his concentration.
"Fenris?" she asked again, crouching down to pick up her bag and sling it over her head.
He jerked his attention back in time for Amelle to see whatever had caught his eye had also turned him pale; his nostrils flared and a muscle jumped in his cheek as he clenched his jaw.
"What is it?" he asked, tersely.
"I think I should be asking you the same," she replied, taking a step closer and lowering her voice.
"Agents of the Archon are here."
Amelle blinked once. Twice. "Do you think they're here for you?"
"It is likely, is it not?"
"Not necessarily." At his skeptical glare, Amelle sighed. "First, just because they're in Ferelden doesn't mean they know you're right here in West Hill. Could be they arrived in Highever or Amaranthine and—"
"Are only searching for me," he finished for her, dryly.
"They could just be couriers. Or merchants," she countered, keeping her voice down.
"That is hardly better, when you consider the Imperium's preferred import."
Amelle craned her neck to see just who Fenris was referring to; her ankle protested as she lifted up onto her tiptoes and she placed a hand on his shoulder to steady herself. Then she saw them, three women and four men, far more richly attired than the hunters who'd ambushed Fenris to begin with. Their leather was supple, their weapons gleaming and deadly, and they all wore the same dark, severe colors, with the same green crest upon their arms.
"How can you tell it's—"
"They bear a jade green circle bisected by a dragon and serpent intertwined."
Amelle hissed a soft swear.
"Problem, Mely?" Evanne asked. "And is that coat a yay or a nay?"
"A yay, but I don't believe I'm going to have time to haggle."
Evanne huffed and had the nerve to look offended. "Dwarves never—"
"Oh, pull the other one, would you? What do you want for it? Just don't rob me too blind, I still need a decent hat."
The look Fenris shot her was one of purest disbelief. "A hat?"
"I still need a hat, Fenris. More than that," she added, lowering her voice, "I need five minutes to figure out how we're getting out of here when the horses aren't near to ready, and Isabela and Varric are Maker knows where doing Maker knows what, and it is only my dearest hope they're not doing it together."
Evanne quoted Amelle a price that still made her balk, and while she didn't haggle, she did send the dwarf a mighty glare as she passed over the coin. "Right, then," she murmured. "Let's see if we're lucky enough that I'll find what I need in the opposite direction of where they seem to be headed. Where do they seem to be headed?" She went on tiptoes again and watched them stride arrogantly in the direction of the kitchens. "Good, good," she said on an exhale that bore many qualities similar to a relieved sigh.
"Good?" Fenris echoed, dubious.
The heavy wooden door closed behind them. "Good," she said, firmly. "They've gone into the kitchens."
Finding a hat was a damn sight easier than finding a coat—a damn sight less expensive, too—but after little more than five minutes of looking for Isabela and Varric to no avail Amelle cast a speculative eye around the fortress. "What we need," she murmured, "is to get up high so we can find Isabela and Varric without accidentally finding anyone we don't particularly want to find."
Fenris followed her gaze and gave an approving nod. "You're thinking of the turrets."
"I am indeed thinking of the turrets. Or the upper walkway. But preferably the turrets."
The guarded turrets—soldiers stationed at the bottom of stone stairways likely for no reason but to keep harebrained traders from doing anything… well, harebrained.
Amelle chewed her bottom lip, thinking hard. They didn't have a great deal of time to waste—even if they had a chance of getting the horses out early, the animals surely wouldn't thank them for it, and Maker only knew how that would come back to bite them later. She looked again at the stone-bored soldiers—all they really needed to do was gain passage up the stairs. The lookout towers themselves weren't guarded.
All they had to do was get past one of the guards. Just one.
"Fenris?" At his tense look, she swallowed hard and said, "I need you to trust me and follow my lead."
His brows twitched together warily. "Hawke?"
"And for the Maker's sake, don't laugh."
"I highly doubt I'm be capable of finding the humor in anything at the moment."
"Good. Hold on to that. And just… follow my lead. No matter what I do. No matter how crazy it seems."
His silence was far more eloquent than any spoken answer could have been. Until, at least, she slid her hand into his—Fenris' initial reaction was to jerk away, until Amelle threaded her fingers through his and sent him a meaningful and exceptionally pointed look.
"Your hands are cold."
"Yes. Well. That tends to happen right before I'm about to do something completely mad. What part of follow my lead didn't you understand?"
Surely there were other ways to charm them both past the sentries, but Amelle couldn't think of a one, and there was no telling how long it would take the Archon's men to eat a bowl of stew. Not long if they liked it, and even less time if they didn't.
As it turned out, the threat of eventual discovery was all the incentive she needed. As they walked, she forced her gait to be leisurely, willed her shoulders and hips to loosen, and paid particular attention to the quality of smile she wore upon her lips. She took regular, paced breaths, which went a fair distance towards keeping her mana under control and slowing her heart so it didn't beat entirely out of her chest. From the corner of her eye, she saw Fenris watching her warily and she silently pleaded, play along play along play along.
The northernmost watchtower afforded the best view of the courtyard, the kitchens, and all available exits. The guard stationed at the base of that stairwell was a tall, rangy fellow, with dark hair and darker eyes. He also wore the glazed over look of one bored very nearly to tears with his station. Boredom was good. She could use boredom to her advantage.
Giving Fenris' hand a squeeze, she tugged him close as they approached the guard. Now was not the time to think about the stench of river clinging to her skin—now was the time to focus on her best conspirator's smile and dipping her head just shyly enough as to not oversell it.
They weren't more than five feet from the bottommost stair before the guard snapped to attention. "Civilians not admitted on the upper walkway, miss," he told them, his tone crisp, but not rude. Bored but friendly. She could work with that, too.
Amelle threw Fenris a wide-eyed look of abject disappointment before turning her gaze back toward the guard. "I don't… I wouldn't want to be a bother—I know this is your post, but…" Another look at Fenris, who'd at least stopped looking at her as if she'd lost her only mind. "We'd… really appreciate… just a few minutes." A pause. "Alone." She glanced up at the watchtower, then nodded. "Up there."
The guard blinked, then looked up at the turret as if he couldn't quite understand her question. "Wait. You… want—"
Amelle ducked her head, looking up at the guard from behind the fringe of her hair, lowering her voice. It wasn't quite sultry; she wasn't sure she could do sultry, but hopefully loaded with something like intent. "You've got to understand how hard it is to find anywhere around here that's… well. Private." She blinked slowly, injecting just enough meaning into the word as she bit her bottom lip in a shy, just-coy-enough smile.
As the guard looked from Amelle to Fenris and back again, Amelle fought the urge to send a worried glance back at the kitchen door and focused instead on keeping her body pliant, turned slightly against Fenris.
Pliant, at least, until Fenris' arm snaked about her waist and pulled her back until she was flush against him, his hand splayed on her belly.
With Amelle's surprised gasp—no artifice there—every last coherent thought in her head fled. Then Fenris looked over her shoulder at the guard, his mouth so, so very close to her ear; when he spoke, his breath was warm and his voice gravelly and low and positively thrumming with equal parts promise and, oh, innuendo as he lingered over each word:
"It won't take long."
Amelle's breath hitched and caught and his hand was still there, still on her, still holding her—she wanted to do nothing so much as give in to the full-body shiver that felt as if it were poised, trembling, at the top of her spine. Instead, she swallowed hard and tried to remember whether this was turning out to be a good idea dressed up like a bad one, or a bad idea dressed up like a good one. It was hard to tell.
However, Fenris' contribution turned out to be, as it happened, the precise right thing to say. The guard shook his head, exhaling a helpless laugh, then gestured with his rifle. "Go on up. Keep it quiet, though," he added sternly. "I'll be on night watch for a month if it gets out I let this slide."
Fenris' arm remained around her waist, his hand resettling just above her hip as they climbed the stairs and the experience was such that Amelle could not help but curse wanting a chance to compare reality of his arms to the memory of them—this was nothing at all like the way Fenris had held onto her in the river. This was solid warmth without desperation or determination. They were two lovers making their way to an assignation—except for the part where they were sneaking up to gain a better vantage point that they'd stand a chance of spotting Isabela or Varric while hopefully avoiding the Archon's men.
And that opened up a whole new line of questions Amelle was far from prepared to deal with just then—what if they were just couriers? Just merchants? Were they here on some other business, or were they looking for—
Fenris' fingers tightened on Amelle, that barest bit of pressure making it even more difficult to maintain her hold on that train of thought.
But what if they were looking for him? Was this chance, or had they been tracked here? If it was the former, then she, Fenris, Varric and Isabela could very likely sneak out before the Tevinters were any the wiser. If the Archon's agents knew they were already here… well, that made things a fair bit more difficult.
After a climb that lasted no less than a decade, Fenris pulled open the heavy wooden door—it creaked abominably—and together they slipped into the tower's dark interior. Once inside, Amelle turned to Fenris in time to see his face, his expression thoroughly unreadable, barely a second before the heavy door slammed home, plunging them into darkness. His hand had fallen from her waist, but they were still close enough she felt the heat coming off him.
The sound of the marketplace below had dulled to a hum and the only sounds in the turret tower were their combined breaths—Fenris' were as unsteady as her own, warm puffs of air against her skin. She tried to breathe, but her stomach flipped with every breath she took, fighting the urge to move even closer. The memory of his fingers burned at her hip.
A second ticked by. Another. Then another.
In an aborted movement, Amelle lifted her hand, the backs of her fingers brushing against Fenris' coat, the soft rasp as loud and as startling as any gunshot. They both pulled away suddenly, both of their own accord and both drawing in sharp breaths that bounced like a snake's hiss off the stones. Never was Amelle more thankful for complete and utter pitch darkness.
Swallowing hard, she drew in a deep, shuddering breath and strove to keep her voice light, her tone steady. "We did it."
"We did."
Another breath, and another. All she had to do was keep breathing. Simple, really. "Well. That worked even better than I'd hoped."
There was a brief silence before Fenris replied. "Indeed."
"You were good—great down there." Maker, her mana was fairly bouncing in her veins. "Very—very convincing."
Too convincing.
Fenris' only reply was a soft bark of laughter. At least he could laugh. Amelle was having difficulty catching her breath; beneath where his hand had been her skin still tingled, even under the leather coat and layers of clothing she wore. Taking another, steadier breath and letting it out slowly, Amelle called a ball of blue flame to her palm, illuminating the bottom of the tower and taking the edge off her jittery mana. A stone staircase spiraled upward where arrow slits let in shafts of light that didn't reach them below. A above a trapdoor led to, Amelle assumed, the parapets.
As they began their ascent, the bottles in her satchel clinked softly, their echo almost musical. Far less musical was the way her ankle twinged with every step. Gritting her teeth, Amelle took the steps slowly in the hope it might keep the discomfort to a level she could ignore. "Our options as I see them are either to wait here until the Archon's men go on their way, or sneak out before they're even aware of us."
Fenris' answering silence was a thoughtful one.
"I am going to assume," Amelle went on, "you'd rather get the hell out of here at the earliest possible opportunity."
"You are correct in that assumption."
"Which means being either quick or sneaky—ideally I'd like to manage a combination of the two."
His steps echoed in time with hers as they climbed. "As would I."
As they continued on up the dizzying stairway, daylight shone through the narrow slit openings, casting pale beams of sunlight, mottled with dust.
"All right," she said, dousing her flame once they'd finally reached the trapdoor. "Let's consider the worst of worst-case scenarios." She pushed against it with her shoulder, but it didn't budge. Cursing, she pushed again, harder, and the door gave way with a creak and a scream of hinges as sunlight poured down and a salt-ridden wind whipped above. She pulled her hat off before the wind could do it for her and climbed up to the parapets.
Fenris followed, pulling his own hat down more firmly on his head. "That Danarius has appealed to the Archon for his assistance and influence in having me returned, dead or alive," he replied, raising his voice over the sharp wind. "And the Archon has sent his personal guard to collect me, and either they already know I am here, or our crossing paths with them is simply indicative of possibly the worst stroke of luck we've encountered to date?"
Amelle stared at him. "Worst stroke of—Fenris, you do realize we very nearly drowned yesterday."
"No, we did not."
"So you knew beyond a shadow of doubt we were both going to make it out of that river alive? Have you got a gift of second sight you're not telling me about?"
Fenris did not reply right away. Instead he turned, bracing his hands on the parapet's stone ledge as he looked down to the people milling below.
"I told you you would not drown, and so you did not."
#
It was madness, pure and simple.
Representatives of the Archon were here—in Ferelden, in this very fortress. How could Fenris possibly imagine they were here for any reason other than to collect him? And yet, with such a threat so near to hand, Fenris had come dangerously close to throwing caution to the four winds. Oh, Hawke's ruse had been effective, and he himself had seen firsthand the ease with which she switched between masks—surely "playing along" wouldn't have been such a difficult thing for him to manage. Surely.
But while Hawke had been ducking her head and smiling shyly at the guard, a lightning-quick flash of envy had crossed his features too quickly for Hawke to notice. But Fenris had. His experience observing the Imperium's privileged masses had taught him early that jealousy seldom bore fruit, but commonality often did. And so he'd wrapped a careless arm around Hawke, pulling her to him as one might a shiny, temporary possession and shot the guard a knowing look as if they two were in on a shared, private joke.
She had requested he play along, and their success hinged on convincing verisimilitude.
He'd expected his ruse to work, but what Fenris hadn't expected was Hawke's surprised gasp, or the softness of her body as she pressed against him. For all her jesting about the stench of mud and slime, only the scent of leather had met his nose; her body had been warm beneath his hand, even through her coat. He'd kept his arm around her as they ambled together up the stairway that he might… maintain appearances, but those few moments in the hushed darkness had nearly chased the rationalization from his mind. There had been only the two of them in the dark, Fenris' lyrium buzzing beneath his skin as he listened to Hawke's quick breaths—there mere sound of her breathing had turned his own breaths labored.
Then the spell spun by adrenaline and temporary escape had broken. He told himself he was thankful. Now the chill sea air blew hard against his face, cut through his duster and sliced through to his bones. He was far more thankful for that.
Hawke stood beside him, peering down to the market below. Her hair blew about her head, short strands tossed haphazardly by the salty wind. She raked her fingers through it, pushing it back with a grimace. "Once we spot Isabela and Varric, let me go down and fetch them while you go to the stables and have the grooms pull the horses." She ground her teeth a moment, adding, "I don't like the idea of splitting up, but it's not likely the Archon's men will be heading back to the stables anytime soon if they've only just arrived. More likely they'll hit the barracks next."
"You're so sure?"
She scowled. "Sure isn't the word I'd use. I know what most people do when they come here—provided we assume for the moment they're not here because they know you are too, they'll likely eat something and go to catch some sleep. Even if they browse the stalls, they've still got to rest their animals."
"As we had planned to do," he reminded her pointedly.
Exhaling hard through her nose, Hawke gripped her satchel strap, twisting the leather around her fingers. "I know."
"And if they catch up with us in the meantime?"
She sent him a sidelong glance, arching a brow. "While we're trying to make our great getaway, you mean?"
"I do."
Turning to face him fully, Hawke lifted her chin and met his eyes with calm defiance. "Then we fight. I put too much healing into you to let anyone undo my hard work, Fenris. Not Danarius, not the Archon, not even one of the Old Gods, should one of them see fit to turn up. Are you spotting a trend?"
"You are stubborn."
Her grin was sudden as she tossed him a wink. "You knew that already."
That, at least, was true enough. Shaking his head, Fenris exhaled a not-quite laugh as he looked over the parapets, eyes scanning the crowd for their companions. They stood there in silence as merchants bought, sold, and traded with each other, until Fenris caught sight of a flash of familiar blue.
"There," he said, pointing.
"Aha. Yep," Hawke said, leaning further over the ledge, looking down. "There she is. And there's Varric. It's a rare thing to find one of them without the other." She watched them a few seconds longer. "Didn't start out that way, but…"
He pulled back from the edge and glanced at her, asking, "Are they…?"
"Involved?" Hawke laughed, shaking her head. "No. Certainly not." Then she paused, giving the subject perhaps more thought than she had been inclined before. Uncertainty etched across her features before she shook her head again. "At least, I… don't think they are." She looked down at the pair again and pursed her lips, turning and starting back toward the trapdoor. "You know, better not to think to hard on that. At all."
The trapdoor was even more difficult to open from the outside, and it took the two of them to open it with a shriek of hinges that rivaled the cry of a banshee.
"Right, then," Hawke said as they lowered themselves down onto the staircase spiraling downward; they were out of the wind as well, and her voice sounded louder in the silence. "Your, ah, friends should still be in the kitchens—if you stick to the opposite wall, it's unlikely they'll see you across the courtyard, even if they were to come out unexpectedly." In the muted darkness, alleviated only by shafts of sunlight streaming through narrow openings, Hawke pressed one hand against the wall as she descended the stairs. The tilt of her shoulders and the hitch in her breath were more than enough to indicate the state of her ankle. He bit back his concern—she would not thank him for it, not now, when they were trying to leave West Hill both speedily and surreptitiously, qualities Fenris knew were imperative to any successful escape.
Even so, he could not quell instinct long-ingrained. For all Hawke had given him reason after reason to trust her, he could not quite ignore the whispers that slithered up from the depths of him pointing out how splitting up provided Hawke ample opportunity to seek out the Archon's men without him being the wiser. The possibility made his gut twist and lurch with dread, despite how often and how forcefully he reminded himself Hawke had dealt with him in good faith from the start.
Is she truly interested in an expedient departure, or is she more interested in the benefits of turning over a runaway slave?
His hands curled into fists as he pushed back against the invasive, traitorous thought. Hawke had earned his trust, something neither freely given nor easily acquired. He could not withdraw that trust now. He would not.
"And if it's not too much trouble," she went on, step after careful step, heedless of the silent war Fenris' waged with himself, "my staff's wrapped up and tied down. With this little wrinkle, I wouldn't mind having it in easy reach until we're clear of West Hill."
"What do you anticipate?" he asked, his tone terse.
"These people already ambushed you once," she replied. "I try not to make a habit of overestimating my own cleverness."
For years now, Fenris' continued existence had hinged on depending solely on himself; it was simpler and safer that way, to believe enemies lurked around every corner, every friendly smile hid a dagger in the dark. But he trusted Hawke; he trusted her more than he'd trusted anyone in recent memory.
"Very well," he replied after a too-long silence. Light winked into existence in Hawke's palm as they descended the tower, moving further from the narrow beams of light cutting through the darkness above. He would fetch the horses. And he would ready Hawke's staff, if it would allow them to leave this place more readily.
And if that betrayal came… if it came, it would sting, but he would face it.
At the bottom of the turret, Hawke held her globe of flame aloft with one hand and returned her hat to her head with the other. The blue light danced across her features, flickered in her eyes. "Ready?"
"I am." One way or the other.
"Good." The dimple appeared again at Hawke's cheek and she winked. "Let's go be clever."
