XXVII: Some Kind of Party

Hawke sat, alone, on a roof.

Not 'the' roof, no. Just some random blighter's roof, Hawke thought flippantly. She surveyed half of Southern Lowtown from her perch, five stories from the dirt street below. Least-wise I can see the half that matters. Below her lay the Broken Bridge, brazenly unguarded for once in the moonlight, while she could make out the tell-tale red glow of the Red Lantern district far ahead, nestled below Hightown proper's looming shadow… if she squinted just right. Though mayhaps that's just wishful thinking.

The wind was biting cold this high up and this late, the awning above her somehow not quite shielding her from the merciless chill. Her leather jacket was paltry compared to the biting conditions, but she did have one weapon against it. She drew the somehow mostly full bottle of nevarran brandy she'd swiped from Varric to her lips and took a long, warming swig. The brandy was the only spoils she'd managed to salvage from the downer of a party she'd just left.

When she'd finally dragged Martin from his cozy nap back to the Hanged Man, he'd only managed a moment for a sullen apology to Merrill before he'd slunk out into the night, begging excuses. Carver had been long gone with the Pirate who so raised her hackles, and both Varric and Merrill stayed for what felt like only minutes longer than the others before Varric left to escort the elf back to her home (now conveniently empty of besotted fereldans). Merrill for her part had been shaken, but centered. She'd seemed more tired than anything else. And Aveline? No doubt back to work after her daring rescue.

That left Hawke with no one to talk to, and nothing to do. So, she'd used the opportunity to jimmy her way into Varric's office. Not that I needed to – I know where he keeps his spare key. But skulkery is way more fun.

Some drinks later sent her wandering, wandering, wandering… then climbing, climbing, climbing.

And now here ye sit, lording over the city we Amells used to own. Well at least, a bit of the city as big as what we used to own. This is like to be the only way I'll ever sit even half as high as our dear departed House.

Anger rose with a fury through her, stirring up all her bitterness, her frustration, her failures. Bets… She clenched her free hand, driving it into the tiles below her in one strike, then two. She willed the tears to halt, struggled to contain all that threatened to flow from her.

I don't not want this. I do not want to feel this.

She couldn't just sit there. In a flash, she rose to her feet, hardly encumbered by the liquor both in the bottle and within her. I need to go somewhere. Do something.

No. I need someone.

Everyone else was gone, off about their own business… except likely Gamlen and her mother. As Hawke didn't feel like murdering her uncle today, home was certainly out of the question.

Where? She thought, turning her eyes to the city below. Where?

Her gaze suddenly fell upon the Broken Bridge below her – the brazenly, unusually unguarded bridge. It swayed in the breeze, its rickety timber and stretched rope calling to her through the still of the night.

Not a rapid in sight, but a bridge to cross… with a lifeline on the other side.

It did not seem a wise move to her. Nor was it prudent. Likely not even productive.

And yet… Better the risk of trouble than the guarantee of it, Hawke thought. As dear old 'Da used to say.

With that thought, she slithered down the building, her hands grasping at gutters and her feet scraping past brick. A strange, ecstatic euphoria drove her downward, then on.

She made for the Broken Bridge, to Hightown.

[=]

Fenris sat alone in the house of his master and stewed. Since that first night, when he'd faced his pursuers and seen them dead at last, since he'd faced his Master only to fight his spirit, since he'd purged this damnable Serpicar, he had done little else but.

He'd had little need to leave. The house had fresh water – the kitchen, the privy in the master's quarters, and in the basement wash. Drawn no doubt from some tributary, or some deep cavern in the earth. There was enough food to live, at least. The salt-pork and hard-tack so common as slave fare in Tevinter was stocked to abundance. There was everything a slave needed. All the things that only a slave deserved.

Still, Fenris claimed more comforts than a mere slave. He took relish in taking the Master's bed for himself, in soiling the Master's privy chamber, in sampling the Master's fine wine cellar.

And yet Fenris was still tied to this house. Tasting it. Sucking in its air. Seeing his Master in every corner, in every painting, in every pillow.

It was maddening. He would go mad like this, he was certain. But he could not leave. This is Danarius' house. This is his wine. This is his slave. He cannot allow this to continue. He will come. And I will kill him.

And yet still, the Master haunted his dreams. Still held the leash, just waiting to snap his chain taut.

Fenris leapt from his seat at the table, sweeping the half-filled bottle of wine from before him. It hit the floor with a crash, scattering twinkling light and liquid rose across the floor.

"You hear me, Danarius?!" He shouted in a righteous fury. "When you come for me, you will taste this bile you have fed me. I will drink of your blood and feast of your fear! You will know what I have known, and then you will die!"

The slave's burst of fury wilted, his will spent. There was no one to heed his call, only the yawning quiet of his shadow. He fell to his seat, his head in his hands. Never again, he thought. I will be free.

His thoughts were interrupted by a strange chime, a fluting note he knew all too well. There is someone at the door. They announce their presence.

Like a good slave, he stood. With an inner disgust at his compliance, he moved to the door. Danarius would not announce his presence as a caller. He is the Master, and will enter as he is.

His feet dragged through the thick carpet, a thin sweat broke out on his hands. He ignored the sensations, the distractions, willed there only to be the will. He reached forward, and opened the door.

For a moment, he almost reached for a sword. For only a moment.

Blue eyes flashed from the dark, shining from pale skin that reflected the moonlight. Eyes that looked straight at him. A flash of teeth revealed a slight, wary, sly smile.

"Hawke?" He asked, a strange calm settling over him. "What are you doing here? I have just today passed all that I have gathered to Anso. You may collect the spoils from him."

"I didn't come for plunder," Hawke grinned. She affected a slight lean on the doorway, moving only a scant bit closer. "I came for the man who promised me his sword."

Fenris felt a timid urge to step back, to retreat from her. To retreat back from the mage.

"Do you have someone who needs killing?" He asked, ready for her answer.

The woman shifted, stepping back from her lean. The grin vanished into the darkness, her eyes narrowing. He could just see the edge of her brow, furrowing. "What? No, of course not. I was…"

She kicked at the ground for a moment, muttered something, before continuing. The eyes remained in shadow, tilted towards the ground. "To tell the truth, I am alone tonight. My friends are all in various states of disrepair, and have left me in a lurch. Well, not to say as if I am not also in a bit of a state, but the point is that they are gone. And solitude is such terribly miserable company." She looked up to him, a sad smile on her lips. A scant hope in her eyes. "Would you take a drink at the Hanged Man from me? Perhaps we could talk. We might even be friends."

Fenris felt shame then. A familiar shame, one that he just now remembered the measure of. A long forgotten shame, from those who had once helped him. From those he had once betrayed.

I do not deserve it. He thought. Remember what she is.

"I cannot. I must remain," he explained. He had no say in where he went. He had to stay, to face Danarius should he come. He could not leave as a reward.

Just before her smile could wither, just before he could betray her too, he spoke again. He did not think, did not realize what he was doing until it was done. "There is wine, here. I said you could have all spoils of the house, though I could not deny myself the Master's vintage. Too often did I watch my Master and his guests enjoy it. Still, I will give you this as well."

Hawke looked at him, her smile true but her eyes reflecting a strange disquiet. "No need. But I'd be glad to share a bottle with you."

He paused a moment, but he did not consider. "Very well," he answered, stepping back through the door. "Please, follow me. "

[=]

Hawke sat at Fenris' table, fingers drumming into its fine carved surface. She couldn't help but be a bit nervous… she hadn't really thought this through. The man had looked like he'd hardly slept, hardly ate, and certainly hardly left the house he was now squatting in. It had also slipped her mind the circumstances of this house – a manor evidently owned by tevinter Magister of all people.

One who'd not quite like a fereldan peasant making herself comfortable as his former slave fetches her a drink. It was a delicious thought, though. And possession is nine tenths of the law. Best not borrow today the problems of tomorrow.

Today, she just had to keep her foot out of her mouth, and see if she could persuade this handsome elven man that she was not just an uncomfortable obligation.

At least the place is a little less dank than it was, she thought. With a fire and everything!

Despite his light step, Hawke heard the pad of Fenris's return up the from the cellar. He carried two bottles of dark wine, coated in what seemed like acres of dust. "Agreggio Pavali," Fenris declared, setting the bottles on the far end of the table. With a flick of his wrist, he slid the one bottle over to Hawke.

She took it in hand as Fenris paced, evidently less willing to take a seat. "Danarius used to have me pour it for his guests." He sneered at the bottle in his hand. "My appearance intimidated them, he said, which he enjoyed." The elf stabbed the cork with the tip of his gauntleted thumb, flicking it off with a snap. Then he took a long drag at the bottle.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You will forgive me if I do not pour it for you."

"Oh, no need," Hawke replied as amiably as she could, her hackles raised. "I never did much care for being waited on." She took the bottle he'd passed her in hand and fruitlessly made to pull at its cork. "Though I do not quite have your panache when it comes to removing corks."

Rather than pull her knife to make her own effort (Maker knows how he'd take that), she set the bottle back on the table. Fenris grunted, then after a moment set down his bottle and slid it her way. He beckoned with his free hand, and she skidded her closed one towards him. In the same deft motion, he popped her cork. He did not pass it back.

Well, soiled or not, the drink's ripe enough. She held the bottle aloft in a mock toast, "To wine unpoured," her eyes caught the remains of a bottle, glass and wine both, staining the floor beside her seat. "And unspilled," she added, immediately worried she may have gone too far.

Fenris glanced down that the mess that so clearly caught her eye. "A… small pleasure," he said carefully. "I am loath to have Danarius return to his house in order."

"Well, so long as we're all pleasured here," Hawke quipped without thinking. Her ears flushed with heat and she grimaced, cursing herself. "That is," she continued abruptly, "everyone but the Magisters, I suppose."

Fenris crooked a brow at her, though his expression remained stoic. "You certainly say what's on your mind, I'll give you that."

"Hard to say what's on your mind when you don't think before you speak," Hawke countered. "Irregardless, I did think before I came here." She took a long dragon from the bottle, managed to hold the gulp with spluttering. She couldn't afford too. I need the courage.

"I knew it wasn't a good idea," Hawke continued carefully, circling the lip of her bottle slowly with a finger. "Knowing… who I am. Knowing what you've been through. I can't even imagine."

She looked to the elf, expecting to see… she wasn't sure. The only emotion she saw was blank, patient attention. A good sign, she decided. She hoped.

After a deep breath, Hawke spoke again. "But then I thought… alone, where I was… that you were here. Alone too. That might be you'd appreciate the company. Or at least the offer of it. Even if… things… people… be as they are." She looked to him, expectantly. It was his turn.

Fenris put a hand to his temples. He sighed heavily, slowly. Then, he reached with a foot to the chair across from her, pulled it from under the table clumsily, then collapsed into it. He looked to the bottle still in his hands and took a long drink.

Finally, he met her eyes and spoke. Piercing, thoughtful green. "I am… heartened – that you thought of me. I… you are not Danarius. Whether you are like him remains to be seen but… you are not him. I have already offered you my sword. Too rashly perhaps." He looked to the bottle again, breaking contact with her. He looked to it a moment as if considering.

As if in decision, Fenris looked back to Hawke. "And yet, perhaps not. I would... your company is most welcome. It is far preferable to drink with you than with the shadows of this hall." He gestured about them, as if the house itself haunted their conversation.

Hawke knew what he meant. She knew that his idea of 'company' was not hers. And yet… a small, gleaming kernel of desire within her shifted to one of hopeful longing. It lit from a burning ember to an earnest blossom. And yet…

Renewed, Hawke grinned and held her bottle before her, tilting its base forward across the table. "Friends, then, ey?"

Fenris looked down at the bottle, as if he didn't know quite what to make of it. After a moment, his mouth crooked halfway into a small smile. "Very well," he said, clinking his bottle into hers.

Hawke pounded the base of hers into the table with the momentum, bouncing it upward and to her lips. With a long, burning drag, she downed a heavy gulp of the stuff. Fine, fine brew indeed. Once done, she clapped the bottle back onto the table, base first.

Fenris echoed her motion, if with somewhat less gusto and coordination. He coughed as he put the placed the bottle back down, grunting to clear his throat.

"It seems you may have met your match, Ser Elf," Hawke japed, emboldened by the newly intensified storm of liquor. "Is the blend not to your liking?"

Fenris cocked his head, baring his teeth in a feral smile. "On the contrary, though I must say I enjoy smashing it just as much as drinking it."

"I will not begrudge you the smash, but I shall decline to join you in it. This is the first wine in weeks I've had that didn't taste like week-old piss."

The elf pursed his lips, bemused. "And yet you continued to drink something that tasted thus?"

"It's the burn, man! That burning, warming glow." To punctuate her point, Hawke took a long swing from her bottle. "Shite or not, any hooch will fill that void with the warmth within."

Fenris looked to his bottle, shrugged, then joined her in another drag.

"So Fenris," she led slowly, once he'd slammed his bottle down once again. "I was wondering… how'd you end up here, in Kirkwall, of all places? From where… where are you from?"

The elf glanced down, thoughtful for a long moment. "I can remember little of any place but Tevinter. I served my master for years uncounted. He spent many days in travel, often with me by his side, but we spent most days in his seat of Castellum Tenebris or Minrathous itself." He leaned back in his chair, gaze far away, a soft smile splitting across his face. "It was in Minrathous I made my escape, taking by ship to Vyrantium, by river south. Then south and west to Hasmal, and by way of Hasmal through the Marches to Kirkwall."

Emboldened, Hawke continued. "Were you aiming for Kirkwall, or are you just very, very unlucky? Not the nicest town to settle in the Marches, nor with recent events the most friendly to refugees of any sort."

Fenris shook his head. "No, I spent my time between villages and the wilderness. Always I kept moving to evade Danarius' hunters. By the third band of cutthroats eager to return me to bondage, I decided I would run no further. I had been to Kirkwall before, served in this very house. I knew he was searching, and had heard he was here himself. As you saw, he was not, and now I wait until the day that changes." He bared his teeth at the bottle in front of him and took another swig. "And you? You do not seem to be from here. Your speech differs from the rest of the men and women of this city."

"No, I'm not from here. I, my family and another, Aveline, came from Ferelden. Me and mine from a little village called Lothering. We fled the Blight. Least-wise, after fighting it went tits-up."

"The Blight? I have heard tales, in the Marches. Particularly in Hasmal. It was a great plague that almost swallowed the land, I heard it said." Fenris looked up at her, his eyes curious.

"That it was," Hawke answered, her throat suddenly feeling very parched. "Just about took – " Bets, " – Just about took the whole blasted nation with it. It took the King, but the Wardens and our own heroes took it down themselves."

"Heroes?"

"'The Heroes of Ferelden.' Should be the heroes of the bloody world, the Darkspawn weren't like to stop with little old Ferelden." She shuddered, memories unbidden rising in her mind, of Ostagar and Wilds and Bets. "Still, I'll claim them for my country-men at least. Three there were, evidently. Wardens I mean. The King, a Dalish elf, and a commoner. Don't hear the commoner's name much at all, which figures. I've heard it was 'Doyle,' others say 'Donall'. Most others say no name at all. He fell at Denerim, and the other two carry on."

Fenris grasped the rests of his chair, listening intently. "I see. I had not heard that. It felt as if news of Blight came, then news of its end came just as quickly. Though I was not concerning myself with news of the South."

"Yes well, you ask me and Blight didn't end soon enough. We fled here, and now here we remain. Scraping by what we can to… well, scrape by. Perhaps more, soon. Eventually."

"I understand survival, at the least." He looked at her, his brow furrowing for a moment. "But I have seen many an evil done in the name of survival."

Hawke felt suddenly uncomfortable under his scrutiny. "Well, least-ways the surviving is not the evil, surely?" she said, in as jesting a manner as she could muster.

Fenris' face smoothed, and he looked away. "No, I suppose not."

They sat for a moment in silence, the room feeling as if it grew closer and closer about them. As if the shadows threatened to engulf the duo, should they be allowed to.

More to break the silence than anything, Hawke asked the first thing to pop into her head. "Your tattoos. I've never seen so much lyrium, let alone… like that. Are they why your master wants you so badly?"

"He does not want me," Fenris spat, thumping the bottle down on the table. "He wants his property." He took a deep breath, visibly schooling himself. It did little to calm Hawke any further.

"I expect should he catch me, he would flay the skin from my flesh and implant the lyrium on a more willing slave," the elf continued, calmer. Musing. "It is a rare thing, I understand, for a warrior in the Imperium to be imbued with such power. Perhaps they believe I should feel honored? If nothing else, they give me the power with which I freed myself."

"Well," Hawke replied with a nervous chuckle. "Good for that at least, ey?"

To her surprise Fenris answered back with an amused grin. "Good for that, certainly."

Somewhat relieved, Hawke took the opportunity to take another mouthful of the Brivarti, or whatever it was called. Fine enough I should remember the name, but fine enough I shouldn't even bother. Not like I'll ever find occasion to afford it again.

"Tell me," Fenris spoke suddenly, as if on a sudden impulse. "Have you never wanted to return to Ferelden?"

Every day, Hawke thought, remembering harvest trees and her father's smile. The smell of fresh baked bread and the song of the Chant, calling them to the Chantry. Her mother's laugh, her sister's joy.

Never.

"There's nothing for us there," Hawke answered, her heart aching. "It will always be my home. But it is the home I have lost."

Fenris stared at her with a new intensity, leaning forward in his chair, his bottle forgotten. "But you could rebuild what you lost. Do you truly not want to?"

If only wanting made it so. Instead she opted for a shrug, unwilling to hurt herself again on the thorns of this topic. Not tonight. "My heritage is here. My mother's family was from here."

"Then you return to a place of your roots, here." Fenris nodded. "I understand. To have the option… must be gratifying."

He has never known a home, I expect. Hawke thought sadly. Though at least he would've been spared its loss. "If you're looking to start a life, your own life, you could stay here. In Kirkwall, I mean. With friends, it's not so bad a place. Well, the friends are not so bad, at any rate."

"I could see myself staying, for the right reasons," he said, briefly meeting her eyes before looking away as his face flushed. Is he flirting? Hawke thought, hope lighting within her.

"I should thank you again for helping me against the hunters," he said suddenly. He still did not meet her eyes, instead keeping his gaze on the table. "If I had known Anso would find a woman so… capable, I would have asked his help sooner."

He was! And now he's blushing like a virgin at his first Harvest Festival.

She grinned, a delighted, heady grin. "Flattery! Maybe I should be thanking Anso," she purred.

"Perhaps," Fenris replied, almost stuttering. His face had transformed from pink to positively beet-red. He stood suddenly. "Perhaps I'll practice my flattery for your next visit? With any luck, I'll become better at it."

Hawke almost felt disappointment. Almost. Enough good work for one night, she thought gayly. There's always the morrow. "I look forward to it," she smiled earnestly. "But for now, I shall let you return to your smashing of bottles. Knock one good for me, right?"

He smiled back, and Hawke knew she had won. She had finally won, this night at least.

It was only a few more pleasantries, a few more moments. A shared walk down the hall, a goodbye at the door. All very proper. All very mundane.

All very pleasant.

The cold of the night air bit at her cheeks, tickled her nose as the door to Serpicar closed behind her. She did not mind it.

I have touched something without it shattering.

With rare joy, she stepped out into the night.

[=]

As the door shut behind her, as the cold of the street was closed to him, Fenris stood in a strange confusion.

He had no idea what had come over him. He had no idea what had truly just happened.

He only knew that perhaps there was a life here for him. Perhaps.

Perhaps, this is what freedom is?