I have just said
something
ridiculous to you
and in response,
your glorious laughter.
I have just said, Mary Oliver

Really, for a man who had been out of practice for so many years it was a splendid laugh!
A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens

Summer came, and with it long, hot days. For two weeks they traveled through the Planasene Forest without detection. With the maps' aid they moved most at dawn and dusk, when the sun was not so hot; at night they slept in caves and by rivers, alternating watches to listen for errant footsteps. Some evenings they set snares, when Hawke could coax them to set properly, but they rarely risked a fire and depended more on the dried, salted meat and fruit from the innkeeper's larders. They filled their skins at waterfalls and clear rivers; they readied quickly in the mornings and bedded quickly at night.

On the whole they traveled well together, which surprised Fenris. He had known nobility who fainted at the sight of mice, who blanched at certain textures in a dancing glove; he had not known what to expect from a princess brought down from her mountain and betrayed. But Hawke kept pace with him without complaint, if not without effort, and did not ask him to slow even when the meals grew thin, even when she pulled her boots off at night to reveal blisters that bled when she touched them. Even when the heat became terrible—when even he, Tevinter-raised, grew hot—she could only be coaxed to stop when her red-cheeked face went suddenly white, and she had to wait with her feet in streamwater until she had recovered.

Instead she told him stories of Kirkwall's foundries, of the ancient miners who had charted the tunnels and bored holes into the mountain itself. She hummed working songs as they walked, rhythmic and strong as axes striking stone. She showed him her tunic and her satchel, pointing out the difference between wool from a lowland sheep and that of mountain goats, and laughed when he could not remember and guessed wrong at her asking. The days went, all things considered, as well as he could have wished.

The bad nights, therefore, were made all the worse by contrast. He had slept so long alone in his private rooms in Starkhaven he had not realized the nightmares had not stopped.

He woke one night to a hand on his shoulder, shaking him roughly. He could not place the woman's voice in the dark—he didn't know where he was—the name she called was wrong, jangling in his ears. He gripped the wrist, squeezed—she yelped—he tensed to kill—

"Fenris!"

"Your Highness," he gasped, recoiling. He released her wrist as if burnt; the unspent power still blazed in his fingertips, roiling and tumultuous. She knelt beside him in the dark, not quite black—nearer dawn, sky's edge gone grey—her eyes were very wide, and she gripped her wrist to her chest as he gulped for air. "I'm sorry, I—forgive me. I didn't…"

"I should rather hope not," she said acerbically, but she helped him when he struggled to sit up and brought him his waterskin. "I would have been happy to let you thrash about all night, just so you know, but then you started shouting, and I thought that if you didn't call down all interested parties in the world by yourself, the flock of crows getting just as loud about you might."

He could hear the crows now, caws of anger fading rapidly into the distance. He poured some of the water in his palm, dragged it over his forehead, cheeks, the back of his neck. Still warm from the day's travels, less of a shock than he'd hoped. He could not remember the dream. Only flashes, Danarius's voice, Danarius's hand on his back, the markings in agony. "I'm sorry," he said again, useless. "I had not thought they were still so…"

"Bone-breaking?" She saw his reflexive grimace and reached out her arm immediately. "I'm sorry, Captain, I'm only teasing. Look, I'm perfectly fine. No harm done."

The livid red was already fading. He hesitated, turned her wrist over, saw the imprint of four fingers. Disgusted, he said, "You very nearly weren't."

"Just as we very nearly weren't with Decimus, or we nearly weren't with the carriage. Don't fret." She shook her sleeve back down. "I suppose I should be glad I'm not this Varania."

He felt the blood drain from his face. "Where did you hear that name?"

"It's what you were shouting." Her voice gentled. "I'm sorry, Fenris. I thought you were trying to kill her."

"No," he said, and the words were flat, difficult. "To save her."

"Who is she?"

"My sister." He could not meet her eyes. They had camped on a patch of rocky grass beneath a great upthrust boulder; with the lightening sky, he could just make out the dusty ash from the previous night's brief campfire, nestled within a half-dozen round stones. "The last day I saw her, Danarius wished me to…he'd doubted me for some time. Rightfully so, as I was learning to hate him. He brought Varania to the villa and told me I could kill her quickly, or he would do so slowly. The choice was mine."

"How excessively monstrous." Now she took his hand in both of hers, every fingertip callused. There was no utility to the touch, no purpose; it was comfort for comfort's sake alone, and he did not know why he allowed it. "Did you kill her?"

"No. I killed one of his guards at the door instead so that she could escape." How quickly the images leapt to his mind, even after all this time. "I thought he would kill me. He laughed instead, and he…"

"And he…?"

Was any of this real? The world seemed trapped between worlds instead, strung like a pearl on a hair-thin line, sliding end to end and never falling. His hands shook, even when Hawke's grip tightened. "He—the markings—for some time it was only pain. Days, I think. And then when he decided I was sufficiently contrite he took me with him to Seheron." He looked up. The grey sky had brightened, though dawn clouds had begun to swell just as grey to the southeast, heavy with impending rain. "He told me I was born in that country. Do you know it?"

"An island kingdom to the north. A wild place, a jungle full of rebels. Tevinter is always warring with it or some other place."

"Yes," Fenris said. "And palm leaves the size of men drooping into the rivers, and great cats that hunt silently. Men and women live free there with no king, no vassals. The Fog Warriors."

"You went there to kill them?"

"Yes—no!" He shoved to his feet, shocked by his own anger. He could not parse his own frustration; none other knew this save Sebastian, but the words pressed on his tongue with unfamiliar eagerness, bursting to be set loose. Was it the hour, the space between night and day? Or the promise of rain, or that despite their survival so far they were just one poor step from a fall down a short, stony cliff, and nothing would matter regardless—

His hands were moving, gesturing with every word, trying to convey his meaning when his tongue faltered. He'd thought this habit broken years ago; now he could not stop it. "Tevinter was warring with Seheron. Danarius was sent there on the Archon's behalf, and I went with him, but he was wounded in battle. There was no room for me on the ship which came for him, so I was left behind. A tool deprived of purpose."

Her mouth tightened. "Or a man on the verge of freedom."

"Forced to turn and face the tiger," Fenris agreed bitterly, "and just as likely to die for it. I was wounded myself, confused. The Fog Warriors found me, took me in, returned me to health. I lived with them for a month before my master returned to claim me. It was a life I had never known, without binding or command. They were free with their affections and their generosity. I had never seen anything like it."

"What happened?"

"He could see they had poisoned my mind with freedom. He told me to kill them. So I did." How easily it came out, like the last curt step off the gallows. He clenched his eyes shut.

"And then?"

"I ran. I found a boat from Seheron to the mainland, near Rivain. I fled south until I reached the Amaranthine and there was nowhere else to go, then I followed the coast until I reached the ports in Dairsmuid. From there I took a larger ship to Starkhaven."

Thunder rolled in the distance, low, gentle. "That must have been a long journey."

"Weeks. The winds were cold as ice and the seas were very rough. At every moment I thought the ocean would freeze solid and trap the ship. I hid in the hold and ate from a barrel of pickled eels and feared every sound I heard." He abruptly sat again beside Hawke and stared into the trees. "And then one morning I woke to find the ousted prince of Starkhaven sitting across from me against a crate of stale bread." His eyes as blue as the tourmaline pendants Danarius sometimes wore, his hand outstretched in friendship. He had hardly known what the word meant.

"From abject flight to the side of a man fighting a rebellion of his own." She leaned her shoulder against his and looked out with him into the woods. "What a vile hand you've been dealt, Captain. However did you remain so resolutely stalwart about it all? Thy jaw like iron, thine eye yet tearless, and all such rot."

He snorted. "What would be the use of despair? Were it so simple, I could have given myself back to Danarius ten years ago and been unmade." Reforged, he thought, into the mindless, perfect tool he had been created to be: the slave, the sharpened sword. "If nothing else, I couldn't bear to see his satisfaction. He will not have me, and I will not let him control me through my fear." He clenched his fist, watched the little silver lights race up over the backs of his fingers and taper out at his wrist. "I will not allow it. Besides, many have lives far worse."

"Oh, certainly. After all, you have me for company now, and gods alone can measure that blessing."

He laughed, which surprised him; Hawke smiled and he laughed again. "Truly, Your Highness," he said dryly, "with a blessing such as this, no one need search for an enemy."

She broke into laughter herself. "What can I say? I provide all: friendship, death, and flight in one. What a prize you bring your prince."

"He will consider it a welcome challenge. The throne has been too soft too long."

"How very kind you are to me, Captain. And how very disdainful of velvet cushions." She was still smiling, eyes bright. "Is your scorn reserved for Starkhaven's throne room alone, or do all pampered noble seats disgust you so?"

"Not the seat, Your Highness. Only the sedentary indolence which comes with it."

"Not to be mistaken for hard-earned peace, clearly. At least our current situation is as far from indolence as it comes." She reached out for his hand, hesitated, withdrew; before he could think better of it he offered it for her perusal, and she turned it over and back again, studying the markings where they coursed through his skin. She was always casual with her touch; it had been the same in Kirkwall, the princess constantly reaching for her brother's arm or the shoulder of her guard-captain. The gestures came easily to her, natural as breathing, and he found that despite his inclination to the contrary he did not wish to stifle her need for connection. "Fenris, did you ever find your sister?"

"No. She may be dead, or she may have six children. I have not seen her since."

"What does she look like?"

The first drops of rain began to fall, small flat slaps against the dirt. Neither he nor Hawke sought shelter; they would be up and walking in it soon enough. He cast back through memories like flinging a rope into mist. "Shorter than me by a handspan, slightly built. Fair skin. Red hair, bright red. She wore it high on her head when I knew her. Green eyes. Her nose…like mine, I think. She was a tailor by trade."

"In Minrathous?"

"In Qarinus. At Ahriman's court."

"Oh! I met him once. Particularly viperous. She must have had some grit to make it away from both your poisonous senators." She good-humoredly flattened her hands on either side of his palm, clapped once, and let him go. He had not even noticed he'd stopped trembling. "For whatever it's worth, I'll keep a weather eye out for her. Red hair and your proud nose."

He grew abruptly aware of a feature he'd never once considered. "Proud?"

"Oh, yes, very. Particularly pronounced when you're sneering at me," she said, and then she grew serious. "Fenris, I'm grateful you've told me this. Really, I am—no, please, listen. Don't brush me off. I knew from the very first moment I saw you on your black horse how strong you were, but I didn't realize until now how strong—" she fumbled for words, put her hand over her own heart. "Strong here, too. Maybe more than anyone I've ever met. That you've lived through this and come out on the other side with anything left to you outside the hate—it's extraordinary."

"You did not know me in the first months of that flight. Sebastian did." He shook his head. The rain was falling steadily now, not too heavy for travel. A light mist began to rise from the ground, pleasantly cool. "There are many things from that time I'm not proud of. Things I said. Did. Sebastian was patient with me when many others would not have been."

"Then many others would have missed out on the friendship of a good man." He looked up, startled, but her eyes were warm. "I'm quite serious, Fenris. Even when you disliked me you were not unkind. Besides, I saw your face the moment Petra fell from her horse. I saw your face when you realized I was alive. No one on the continent could have missed the despair and rage in the first, or the raw gladness in the second. You were laid bare like a pomegranate split for eating." She laid her hand gently on his shoulder. "No one could ever accuse you of not having a heart. I'm only sorry it took your nightmares for me to realize it was still so bruised."

He scoffed. "After all this time? You're very mistaken, Your Highness."

"Bruised only at night, then," she allowed, and pushed to her feet. "My father used to make a brew to help with nightmares. It's not difficult. If I can find everything, I'll make it for you tonight."

Fenris looked up at her. Her black hair was plastered flat against her head with rain, her lavender tunic stained damply at her shoulders and growing damper. Her smile cut through the grey mist effortlessly, and he grew abruptly aware of the places where her hand had rested on his hand, on his shoulder. "I…thank you, Your Highness. I will not need it."

"Maybe, maybe not." Her eyes crinkled with laughter. "I'll make it anyway, and we'll see. And if it doesn't help, I'll wake you up and sit with you instead. On the bruised nights, anyway."

She reached out to tug him to his feet. He grasped her fingers, let her pull—she had to lean back quite far to counteract his weight, but only staggered briefly—and then he stood with her in the dawn rain. "We'll make good time today if this rain holds off the heat. We should move on."

"At your leisure, Captain," she said, but she was smiling.

It was a sea change where he had not expected one. He had, for some time, allowed that she was not so feckless as he had first believed; he had purposed in the privacy of his heart to tell Sebastian she was worthy of her people and of his. But this—the friendship of a good man—the words repeated themselves over and over, shutting out the sound of their booted steps beneath soft, steady rain.

He was not unused to praise—excellence in a number of skills had earned it often from his masters—but the tone of this was different. With Danarius it had been dispassionate, no emotion wasted on a hammer's mettle; or it had been soft, manipulating, coaxing in ways that even now left him feeling ill with memory. Sebastian had been kinder, generous with his goodwill, but his admiration came so freely it could not always be trusted. Fenris knew the prince valued his judgement and his friendship, even outside of what service he could provide the crown. He knew also that the throne's safety came from his prowess with a blade, not his integrity—he was far too familiar with his own faults—and character mattered very little in the path of a falling sword.

The friendship of a good man.

Sebastian had always said the words as if it didn't matter whether Fenris believed him. Hawke had said them as if it were important that he did.

It was not the first time in his life someone had remarked on his character to his face and found it honorable, but it was the first time he had wished to think it true. Not for his skill with a weapon, not for his strength; only for the choices he had made. He did not know what to make of it. He did not know what to do with the sudden, startling realization that her opinion of him had all at once begun to matter.

But the princess, who apparently feared silence like an enemy, allowed little time for introspection, and as the days passed into weeks, her relentless, ruthless cheer drew out from him the rest of his history. Slowly, with unfamiliar effort, he told her in piecemeal fragments of Tevinter. He told her of growing up in Danarius's service, his few flash-pan memories of his mother, his sister; he told her of the tournament his master had held and the boon he'd used to free them both.

He told her, in fits and starts, of the ritual that had bound power to his skin and stripped him of his name, and the remaking of his mind and body which had followed. And afterwards: the slow, painful fraying of his love for his master over the passing years, and the slower reclaiming of his mind which came with it.

And of Sebastian, too, when she asked, of the fights in Starkhaven's woods and the siege upon the castle. Of the night Sebastian fought his cousin Goran at the mouth of the Minanter under the stars and killed him with two arrows to his heart, and of the grief in his friend's eyes when he had taken the crown from his cousin's body. He told her, one day while rain fell too hard to travel and they sat together, soaked through, in the lee side of a tipped oak, of the day Sebastian had asked him to take captaincy of the White Guard, and how he had loved and hated him for the offer.

It was so easy. She listened well; she asked pertinent questions which did not pry; she did not pity him. He had not realized how badly he'd feared her sympathy until it did not come. Even Sebastian's sorrow had sometimes stung.

More alarming, she knew how to make him laugh. She was not always funny, but she was usually ridiculous and content to be so, and more than once her lamentable wit drew him deliberately from his own mind when he had begun to—as she called it—brood. When she laughed it was at her own expense, never his, and despite himself he began to enjoy the sound, to incite it when he could. Fenris was not a man given to ready mirth, but Hawke liked it when he was dry, and that was easy enough when she smiled at him after.

Some nights they spoke of Tevinter, of the attack on the carriage; by firelight they pieced together what they could to guess at motives and motivations. Decimus knew my father when I was a child; he passed once through our village. My father disliked him then, thought him weak and grasping, but did not think him brave enough to kill.

Tevinter gold makes many men brave enough to kill.

Even when the deaths might start a war?

When such a war means Tevinter might safely pluck the Minanter, or the mountain, from the ruin? Especially so.

And on some nights when the worried bone had been gnawed clean, they let Tevinter rest, instead speaking lightly of some clever thing Linnea had said once, or some song Merrill had once sung to Hawke on the road. Some nights they said nothing whatsoever, only lay beside each other on the grass and let the stars turn in silence.

The nightmares began to come rarely, then not at all. More than once he woke with Hawke's back pressed to his own, the princess's breathing deep and steady, himself more rested than he had been in months—years. Half-measures at best, he knew, and gone the moment they reached Starkhaven, but for now, despite his better judgement and all the warnings of his duty, he permitted himself the novelty of indulgence.