Chapter Text
At first Fenris was only a little tired. Going to sleep a bit earlier, sleeping a little later. Watching the sun creep across the floor rather than getting out of bed to do his morning exercises. He reasoned that it was an exercise of freedom, lying in his bed a little longer. Nothing wrong with that.
That had been yesterday, and yesterday he had eventually gotten up and gone about his business. Today he was still in bed, and the sun was no longer shining in his east window. It must be very late indeed. He has missed his usual breakfast and possibly lunch as well, but he was not hungry.
You have gotten lazy, he told himself. You were trained better than this.
But his body ached. Not the usual crackle of pain that skittered across his skin where the lyrium marked it — this was a deep gnawing in his muscles, and it was everywhere. He cannot think of what he could have done to earn this pain. There was no fighting yesterday, no fighting for at least ten days or more. In fact, now that he thought of it, he had turned Hawke down for work for the first-ever time a fortnight ago. Usually he would accept an invitation from Adrian Hawke without hesistation, owing him so very much. But instead this time he had made some excuse that he cannot remember now and Hawke had left his door without him and Fenris had gone back to bed, and he quickly forgot all about it.
No fighting then. No anything, really. So he could not think of why he would hurt so.
He was irritated more than anything else. Being made to pay such attention to the limitations of his body made him cross. He did not like to notice very much about his body and would rather ignore it as much as possible, treat it like a sword or a sheathe and give it the minimum amount of maintenance required (though in truth he cared for his sword much more carefully, and with more pride).
He laid abed with his mind quiet, waiting for the aching to subside, and he did not search out food or drink. There would not be much to find in the manor anyway. He did not sleep, exactly, but he could not be called awake either. The time simply passed in a haze. Only at sundown did he rouse fully, remembering that he had promised Varric that he would appear for Wicked Grace, and attempted to leave his bed.
He coughed a little, when he sat up. Only to clear his throat. He should find some water to drink, before he goes out.
Slowly and carefully he gathered his armor and strapped it to himself, feeling the weight much more strongly than he ever had before. They couldn’t have gotten heavier since yesterday. What a silly thought. How quickly a person loses their strength and conditioning, when they become lazy and undisciplined.
(Fenris was steadily avoiding the realization that he could be getting Sick. If he realized the possibility it would almost certainly be true, and sick was one thing he cannot imagine being.)
Then he was trudging down the stairs to Lowtown and coughing a good deal more than before, and found himself pressing a hand to the baluster for balance. It became clear before very long at all that leaving had been a mistake, but turning back would force him to take the same stairs up, and it would be easier to keep going down. Anyway the cool night air felt pleasant against his clammy skin, and aside from the aches in his legs he felt better outside than in his dank crypt of a home. He continued on, a little mindlessly, down and down the dusty stairs.
His thoughts drifted.
The Hanged Man was even hotter and noisier than usual. He was sitting now in Varric’s suite and staring blankly at a hand of cards, and he could not remember coming in. It seemed he had just beenclimbing stairs a moment ago. Loud conversation rang out all around him, buzzed in his ears. An untouched mug of ale sat on the oak table in front of him and he lifted it cautiously to his lips. The lukewarm liquid was barely soothing to his burning throat, but it was better than nothing.
He blinked heavily and looked around the table. Varric was leaning back in his chair at the other side of the table, gesturing with his own glass and telling a story Fenris has heard several times before, though it seemed to be reaching a different ending this time. Beside him Isabela rested her chin in her palm and smiled fondly at the dwarf, even as she shot clever holes in the hull of Varric’s tale. She too appeared disinterested in her cards, although Fenris knew this could be misleading. Next to her sat Merrill, the Dalish bloodmage, who giggled and dropped her cards. Handing back her cards and helping her arrange them was Aveline, an infrequent participant in their weekly card game. Hawke sat to Varric’s left, and was the only one at the table to pay more attention to the game than to their dwarf host, studying his cards quite seriously. This, too, could be misleading. Hawke listened quite carefully, in Fenris's experience. The big man missed very little; his dull expression concealed a sharp and lively mind.
He was an interesting-looking human, Adrian Hawke. Not fine-boned and delicate like the Tevinters — if such a face could be called chiseled, one might imagine the sculptor had used a cudgel — but striking in his way. Square-jawed, round-nosed, and big, everything about him oversized and generous. And scruffy, as Isabela would say, before ruffling his hair affectionately.You’re just a big puppy. He was rather like one of those mabari the fereldans had such an affinity for. Large and strong and a bit awkward, not quite fitting into the furniture, spilling more of his drink than he managed to get into his mouth. Quiet, though. Rather more bite than bark, unlike most of the Fereldans Fenris has met.
Hawke looked up, his serious brown eyes questioning, and Fenris became aware that he has been staring for much longer than he had realized. He quickly returned his gaze to his hand of cards, and covered his mouth over a wheezing cough.
"Are we still playing cards?" he forced out painfully, straining to keep his tone even. At this rate they would never get through a round, and it would be hours before he could get back to his bed.
"You must have a killer hand over there!" Varric interrupted his own story to glare at his cards, which had clearly offended him. "You certainly don’t have the coin to be this eager."
Isabela leaned over and gave the queasy elf an appraising look, trying to read his expression. “I wouldn’t be in such a hurry to give your money away, Mr. Hightown Manor. I don’t think you’ve got the cards to back it up.”
"Raise me and see," he answered levely. But he didn't, he had nothing at all, and quickly lost another stack of coin to the pirate. She cackled and pulled the gleaming pile over to her corner, where a treasure-load of winnings had amassed. She tossed her hair and grinned at every loser around the table, and Fenris shook his head. Bah, let her have it, he thought peevishly, and rubbed his aching eyes with his thumb and forefinger. If she takes it all I can go back to the manor.
It should have been more upsetting than this to lose all the money he had brought, the only money he had managed to earn in two weeks, but he couldn't seem to muster the energy. That in itself was disturbing. A pang of concern struck him then, for his own lack of it.
Isabela misread his unease for disgust. “Don’t worry, sweet thing,” she said, winking charmingly. “I can spot you a few coins when I’m done taking them all.”
"No thank you." Fenris saw now that they were all looking at him, and it made him deeply uncomfortable. Hawke in particular had been studying him closely. He swallowed hard against his scratchy throat. "I believe I am finished for the night."
"You just got here!" Merrill interrupted. Strangely, she said it with real disappointment, never mind that he had not said a single word to her all night. "And we’ve barely seen you lately."
"Are you well?" Hawke spoke up. He speaks rarely enough that the room tends to quiet when he does, and the entire table turns in his direction. "You look exhausted."
"You know," Isabela took the opportunity to tease him, "I’ve got a bed here if you need one. You won’t get much rest though."
"Thank you, no." He pushed back his chair and rose, wobbling only a little. "I’ll get out with the coin I still have, I think." He managed to smile faintly as he collects his money, trying not to feel their eyes on him. He had always hated this, being looked at. It made his skin crawl, particularly tonight, when he is already so unbalanced. But when he looked up one last time they were already returning to the game. They will forget me the very moment I leave, he told himself, and it was not nearly so comforting as it ought to have been.
Straightening his shoulders, he pushed his way out of the bar. So many humans standing around, all ridiculously tall and broad. A coughing fit overtook him on the way out, from the effort, from the dank air of the pub and the heat of many bodies crowded into it. It was a relief to come into open air again, feeling it cool the sweat beading on his skin.
Outside was better, but not by much. It was warmer than it had been, not nearly so refreshing. Or perhaps it was him that was warmer; he seemed to have brought the feverish air of the Hanged Man with him.
Denial was working double-time to keep him on his feet, for now he had to climb the very many stairs to Hightown. There was no other option.
Fortunately he has had a lot of experience in mechanically performing the tasks of the body without much attention from his mind. He simply started the climb, thinking only of the next step. His legs covered the distance by themselves, up one stair and then another, and his awareness grew distant, much as it had years ago, when performing more unpleasant tasks. Eventually it would be over, as all things would be - that had been the only comfort available to him then and it remained useful now. He was only jolted back to a kind of awareness whenever a fit of coughing bent him over double and he was forced to stop and catch his breath. He wondered then if he couldn’t just stop there and sleep a little — it was not unheard of for people to sleep against the stairs, particularly after a visit to the Hanged Man — but he was nothing if not stubborn. Each time he took a deep breath and started to plod along again.
In this state he could do little else but climb and climb and do his best to ignore the screaming of his muscles at the their abuse and the increasing heaviness in his chest.
In such a state it would take very little to startle him.
When Fenris felt a hand fall against his left shoulder he returned a blow immediately, faster than he could think it, whirling around with outstretched arms and all the strength he can muster. Only after the blow had struck did he realize his mistake, that his target was a friendly one.
He has killed a man with less effort than this. With his lyrium alight he would have opened their throat, and even without it, a skilled punch could send a person stumbling down the stairs, and it is a very long way down. Fortunately the hand belonged to someone not so easily damaged. Instead he was as unmovable as a mountain, and Fenris fell against him with the momentum of his strike and stays there.
"Hawke," he croaked, horrified.
Adrian Hawke had caught a fist to the jaw, enough to turn his head, which was in truth a feat of its own. But even unarmored, in only a light tunic, it would take much more than this to knock him down. He caught his unthinking attacker with a strong arm around his waist and held him snug against him until he could be sure no more blows would follow.
Fenris sagged for a moment, relief coursing through him. Not only that his mistake had not been fatal, but for the reassuring solidity of Hawke holding him upright he was almost pathetically grateful. There was room across his broad chest for two skinny elves, at least, and with his muscular shoulders and thick arms it took little effort at all to keep him there. For at least two, perhaps three breaths he let himself be held before wobbling backwards to stand on his own two unsteady feet.
"I am… so terribly sorry," he said, his shoulders hunched miserably. He could feel his face burning.
"I surprised you," Hawke said, nonplussed. He did this, this stating of the obvious. He named a thing that has just happened in a way that explains it completely. It was strangely comforting.
Standing two steps beneath him, Hawke was at his eye level, due only in part to the elf’s slouch. The big man kept out his hands, not quite touching the elf’s unsteady form, as if preparing to catch him again. “I’m all right,” Fenris insisted, not quite meeting his eye.
"What are you doing still here?" Hawke says, and his face was furrowed with concern. "You left the game nearly two hours ago."
"Oh," he answered faintly, his cheeks reddening. There was nothing else to say.
"Well." Hawke looked around. "You’re nearly there, at least."
Fenris looked up. He had been walking so mindlessly that, without noticing, he had nearly finished the stairs. He could even see the Amell manor over the rise, often a friendly sight on this familiar journey.
The sight cheered him, and he managed to resume walking without leaning his weight against the bannister. Hawke walked beside him, looking over regularly to watch his progress. Fenris wondered if Hawke was waiting for him to fall again, which made him even more determined to reach his destination unaided.
They finished the stairs without speaking. Yet the silence was comfortable; Hawke had never been one for idle chatter. Fenris was even more grateful for this than usual. Somehow just having Hawke’s lumbering form beside him made it easier to keep going, as much as his muscles insisted he stop all this walking immediately. Adrian’s gait was straight and even and it kept him steady, all the way to the courtyard where they would normally part.
Hawke stopped in front of his door and speaks up, a little awkwardly. ”Come back to mine, it’s closer.”
Fenris interpreted this awkwardness as reluctance. Hawke was too polite not to extend the invitation, but surely he did not want him there. “No thank you. My own bed… will be most inviting tonight, and it is not far.”
This much speech inspired another coughing fit, one that took some time to calm down. His chest ached now, from all of this effort, and the rasp in his throat had grown much worse. Each cough crumpled him over like a blow. Still, he snatched his arm back from Hawke’s concerned grasp. His face burned still from the shame of it all.
Hawke stared, and waited, and did not go inside. “If you want.”
At last the elf recovered his breath, and straightened himself. He would say more, but was not sure he could get the words out. So he simply started walking, and Hawke followed. Just behind his elbow, at a thoughtful pace, he followed past the looming Chantry, through the garden district, never far from his side. Fenris couldn't quite muster the breath to tell him to go away, and it would be unforgiveably rude to refuse his assistance, even if he fervently wished to.
"You have walked me home often enough," Adrian reminded him quietly.
True, but that was only sensible; it was right along the way. To do the reverse was impractical and it troubled him that Hawke felt it necessary. That Hawke had noticed his appalling weakness caused Fenris much more distress than the illness itself.
"There," he finally said, stopping short. There was only a short distance to the manor now, at the end of the lane. In a quick, clipped tone, he managed to insist on letting himself in. Hawke did not fight him. His mouth was a firm line, difficult to interpret. Perhaps he was annoyed with him.
"Will you be all right in there alone?" Hawke asked, before leaving him.
Fenris forced another smile. “I need only a little sleep, and I will be well.”
Once he was inside, and Hawke well on his way, Fenris fell onto the first piece of furniture he encountered and stayed there. The last thing he thought, before falling into a deep sleep, was that now he would have no reason to see Hawke or anyone else again for days. He will be entirely alone with noone to bother him.
It was not nearly so comforting as it ought to have been.