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Fenris pulled the blanket wrapped around him closer, tighter, pretending the chill surrounding him was all about his surroundings and not his own body fighting off something nasty. However, the wind coming through the hole in his ceiling above the bed probably didn’t help matters. He sniffled and closed his eyes, willing the ache in his body to just go away.
It wasn’t like he’d never been sick before. He’d been ill plenty of times. Slaves were prone to falling ill considering their poor nutrition and how overworked they were. After all, most magisters were rich enough to simply buy a new one if a slave dropped dead at work. People were replaceable in their eyes. Danarius was no exception. He showed little care for the health of his slaves, if only to roll his eyes when they weren’t working up to standards.
There had been one instance that Danarius had made an exception for him, one memory that confused him to his day. The shift in seasons had his body responding negatively. Danarius had noticed the sneezing, the coughing, the shivering, and the way he could barely speak with his scratchy throat. When his master had brought it up, he expected to be punished for his inability to affectively do what he was made for. His purpose was faltering. He tried to push through it, and he’d gotten practiced at dealing with it.
Then, something strange happened. Danarius had sighed and silenced his apology. Shaking his head, he told him he had no need for a bodyguard who couldn’t do his job. Panic flickered in Fenris’s eyes. This was it. This was where it all ended. Instead of punishing him, Danarius cancelled his appointments and sent him to rest. Fenris knew better than to question him, so he simply nodded.
His day considered of a hot bath, some hot soup, a visit from a healer, and extra sleep. He still felt a little rough the next morning, but in another sense, he felt the most revitalised he had ever felt. Danarius never brought it up again, it was never spoken of. Everything returned to normal, and he was expecting to work overtime to catch up for the day he missed.
Sometimes, he still wondered why Danarius treated him. It was likely he just didn’t want to lose a valuable slave. It would make sense, considering how much money he must have already spent chasing after him since he escaped on Seheron.
There was a small part of him that thought that day in Danarius’s estate was preferable to this. Cold, alone, shivering in his own bed. But it was his own after all. He was free, for the most part. That mattered more than his illness. He didn’t want to burden anyone, he could only hope that he would get over it soon so by the time that Hawke came looking for him to take him on a mission, he was feeling better.
Too late.
He heard a knock at the door, followed by footsteps. It was going to be Hawke. Fenris would recognise his heavy footing anywhere. Sure enough, he emerged into his room holding a big, fluffy blanket. He peeked out of his own to look at him with red eyes.
“Varric said you were sick, seems he was right,” Hawke said, padding over to him.
Fenris’s eyebrows furrowed. How in the Maker’s name did Varric know he was sick? He hadn’t seen him, much less spoken to him since he fell ill. That dwarf seemed to know everything.
“It’s fine,” he grumbled.
Hawke chuckled and extended his hand towards him. “It’s certainly not fine. You’re going to freeze to death holed up in here and look! You’re as pale as a ghost! Come to the estate, you know it’s only down the street.”
Fenris pressed his lips together and looked down at his extended hand. Hawke’s estate did have a working fireplace and a comfier bed. His cheeks blossomed into colour just at the thought of being on that bed again. Things had been raw between them ever since their breakup. Hawke held the hurt behind his eyes, he could see it, but he tried his best to push it back. It was obvious that he was clinging onto whatever scraps of their relationship he could.
Slowly, against his better judgement, Fenris pushed himself out of the bed and took Hawke’s hand. Hawke pulled him to his feet and wrapped the fluffy blanket he had been carrying around his shoulders. Fenris grasped it with his bare hands, feeling the softness slid between his fingers. Hawke guided him out of his mansion and just down the street to the estate. There were some perks to living so close to him.
“Go on, upstairs you go. Get comfy,” Hawke ushered him towards the stairs when they reached the foyer.
Fenris nodded meekly and scampered past Bodahn before he could ask too many questions. He found the bedroom with ease and hesitated before he sunk into the comfy mattress. He curled into the sheets, into the blankets and took a deep breath.
It wasn’t long before Hawke returned with a hot bowl of soup. Fenris turned to see him once the smell reached him. He tried to swallow down the memory of Danarius’s estate, of the fussing by other slaves at Danarius’s command. This was different, he told himself.
“You didn’t have to…” he croaked but Hawke shook his head.
“I didn’t but I wanted to. You’re sick and you didn’t even tell me! Let me fuss over you for a little while, okay?” he said. He handed the soup towards him. “I’m not the best cook but here. If I know you, you probably haven’t eaten anything in a while and that’s not good for you. Eat up and sleep it off. I’ll be around if you need me.”
Fenris didn’t have it in him to question him further. He sat up in the bed and took the bowl and spoon from him. Hawke moved to light the fire before turning to smile at him. He walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.
Hawke’s kindness knew no bounds, that was for sure. Fenris looked down into his soup and took the first mouthful.
Things would be okay.