Work Text:
Fenris knew it would be a hard day before he opened his eyes.
His elbows and knees were stiff and his fingers were swollen. Exhaustion he could handle, but when the lyrium decided to act up, he dreaded even getting out of bed.
He closed his eyes and tried something that never worked: ignoring it.
Danarius used to handle the pain on these days. What he opposed was not the pain itself, but the loss of control: Without that blasted magical remedy, he would otherwise be bedridden on bad days. Since his escape, he’d hoped to make do by bartering his swordsmanship for elixirs and pain relief. On the road, of course, he’d had few of these luxuries. He ran from tavern rooms to muddy fields, skewered bounty hunters with their own blades when the lyrium burned his arms, then ran on sore legs some more. During storms at sea, he earned his traveler’s fee by securing the crewmen’s lifelines with stiff, swollen fingers.
He’d thought the chase, at least, would end at Kirkwall, but Danarius had made a fool of him once again. In front of potential allies, even.
It hardly mattered what they thought. The night of their raid on the mansion had been a success: It had been a painless day, and he had defeated the largest group of slavers so far. He had felt strong, in control. That their night had ended up a waste of time, one he had paid for dearly in coin and reputation, had been so discouraging he couldn’t bear to face his comrades and fled outside for a moment alone.
Hawke and her companions were one group among many who had fought with him since Tevinter, but he always parted with sympathetic folk eventually. People had lives to live, families to tend to, and they looked out for their own first. He was no one’s. An elven couple outside Llomerryn had once offered him a meal and shelter for the night; he’d only accepted because he doubted they would risk the slavers’ attention by turning him in. He was always gone by dawn, and usually with more money and food than he’d come—without his hosts’ knowledge only when necessary. He’d learned when to keep his fingers to himself. He was a poor pickpocket regardless.
Today, with his face pressed into the flat, musty bed, it occurred to him that he needn’t get up at all. Such indulgent thoughts were foreign and often impractical, yet when he entertained them, he did so out of sheer novelty. He had, for the first time in living memory, a place to rest his head for more than one night that he would not be dragged out of by duty or necessity.
Five days since he’d announced he would remain here. It seemed as good a place as any, and he had no more leads on Danarius’s properties or traps other than Minrathous itself, which was out of the question. And now he was a king of his own small manor, however filthy, crumbling, and bug-ridden the castle may be.
Fenris had slept the first day away after barricading all the doors and sweeping the place for traps. On the second day, he’d dragged each of the ancient, maggot-infested bodies to every entry point in the house—deterrents to all but the most determined looters—and hacked open a safe tucked away in the dim, dusty library that held nothing but some lint and belly-up roaches. He was starting to regret letting Hawke ransack the rewards that had undoubtedly been stashed in the master bedroom.
On the third day, a knock at the door had drawn his attention from the moldy kitchen, which he’d been scrounging in a vain hope of finding any unperishables. At the sound, he’d startled so hard he banged his head on the top of the cabinet. Bandits wouldn’t announce themselves; perhaps the neighbors had noticed a squatter and alerted the city guard. He crept to the window and slowly peered around, but with these elaborate Marcher pillars framing the door, he couldn’t see the visitor from this angle.
Slightly muted through the window, a brisk Southern accent spoke from outside: “I know you’re in there, serah, I can see the curtain moving. I don’t want to barge in, but I will if I must.”
Fasta vass. If it was a hunter, he could likely drag them inside and handle it the usual way; but the courteousness of their knocking made him hesitate.
He was tired of running. He would not leave. If they tried to make him, he would stand his ground. He strode to the door and ripped it open.
“Good afternoon,” a woman in—damn it all—silver guardsman armor said briskly. “I am Aveline Vallen. I understand you’ve taken this residence?”
Fenris stared at her, calculating his next move carefully. It was broad daylight, and there were two other guardsmen chatting across the street at the end of the lane. Picking a fight would be a poor idea, but how badly did he want this terrible excuse for a residence? Clashing with the city guard was different from fighting off every band of slavers.
Before he could respond, she continued. “I should explain. I believe we have a mutual acquaintance, the Hawkes, who you met a few evenings ago?”
Fenris raised an eyebrow.
She looked irritated at how little he was giving her. “I’m here on behalf of Varric Tethras. He was the dwarf who helped you storm this residence and slaughter the small army of demons inside. That is, if I’m talking to the right Fenris and there aren’t two lyrium-branded elves occupying the same Hightown mansion?”
A faint worry began to form in his gut. Apparently trusting these people to be discreet when talking about matters concerning a runaway slave had been too much to hope for. “What do you want?”
“I’m a member of the city guard,” she said unnecessarily, pointing to her uniform. “And no, I am not here to arrest you for squatting. Varric asked me to check that this place was still occupied during my rounds.”
Fenris stared at her. “Did he.”
Guadswoman Aveline Vallen gave a great, long-suffering sigh, and he finally had a clear read on her: She also did not want to be having this conversation. “If you were here, I was supposed to tell you that you can find Hawke and the others in Lowtown if you ever want to work with them. Ask for Varric at the Hanged Man tavern. I know the sword, but as you can see, I have other responsibilities that keep me busy, so you might find steady work with them as a swordsman. They split the proceeds for every job fairly—although dividing four ways isn’t very lucrative, the dwarf finds enough jobs that it usually turns profitable. Consider the invitation extended.”
Aveline paused and eyed the dense, unkempt ivy curtain looming over the doorframe. “If you weren’t here, I was supposed to tell Varric the place was free for renovation and reselling.”
His mouth quirked despite himself. “As you can see, I am here.”
“I noticed.”
“How would he gain ownership to a house belonging to a Tevinter magister?”
“I won’t pretend to understand the business, but from the way he talks, his family owns half the real estate in the city. He could probably get his hands on the deed by Satinalia if he wanted it badly enough.”
Which might push him out anyway. Fenris understood the implications.
Fenris wasn’t without pride—he had declared himself the owner of an abandoned mansion partly as a challenge—and he was reluctant to give up what little claim he had to the building. It would sting him dearly to walk back that decision and return to sleeping in Darktown, or worse, the Alienage.
“Thank you for delivering the message,” he said, then closed the door. He hadn’t yet decided whether he would take up the offer of joining this company, but it seemed pointless to offend their ally in the guard.
Now, as he lay abed rubbing his fingers, his stomach growled. From the sunlight in the window, he suspected it might be near the seventh bell. The lyrium on his feet was tight and he knew without looking that the skin around it would be red-lined and swollen; he flexed as much as he could without exacerbating the cramps.
There was a healer in Lowtown who had made him a mild pain relief tincture after Fenris had saved him from a fraudulent tax shakedown his first day in the city. But he could not assume one-time gratitude would translate to lengthy charity, and he was reluctant to return and make a habit of associating with civilians who could not protect themselves from his foes.
Today: Seek out the healer, possibly.
The rest of his limited but critical agenda for his stay in Kirkwall consisted of finding employment; ideally mercenary, and preferably long-term.
First: food. It had been nearly a full day since he had eaten anything solid, and though he had fasted for far longer, it was worth what little coin he had left to get something in his system. Hightown had enough vendors that would surely serve an elf.
By midday, the burning in his toes and fingers had lessened slightly with movement, but he was beginning to reconsider his choice in sustenance. The merchants at the Hightown Bazaar, and even among the Guild, were not yet accustomed to their new, strange neighbor with pointed ears, conspicuous armor, and a Tevinter-style longsword. Several refused to look at or acknowledge him.
It was with great reluctance that he lumbered slowly downhill in the direction of Lowtown, where at least the human merchants there would sell to him; even begrudgingly, they needed the coin as well.
To his disappointment, the healer was not at home; a woman at the door claimed that he was out of town visiting a sick aunt. He thanked her and tried to ignore the burning in his thigh as a strand of lyrium flared, only realizing after he had left that he should have asked for a recommendation of other clinics in the area.
His stomach growled as he passed local taverns, eateries, and food stalls, eventually finding the unmarked alley he had frequented in his first days here. He had assumed once he took residence, he would no longer need to resort to places like these, but he was once again mistaken. He selected a small steak-and-pea pie being kept warm over a rune of fire, and moved to pull out his coin purse.
“Don’t think so, rabbit.” A long chopping knife smacked flat against his hand. The chef-and-vendor had stopped stripping meat from the flank of a young boar to threaten him. Apparently Lowtown merchants were not so desperate that they couldn’t afford to be picky about clientele.
He didn’t recognize the vendor, but he had the same blue eyes, sandy hair, and flat nose as the woman who normally ran the stall. “I am a frequent patron,” he said. “You may ask your sister.”
“I’m not my sister.”
“I can pay,” Fenris said testily.
The blade didn’t move. “Tough shit. Pay someone else.”
If he had more energy to fight, he might have pressed it, but the ache in his fingers was back, and a sudden rush of anger coinciding with the pounding in his head convinced him otherwise. He was not afraid of a scene, but he was weak from lack of food, and the smells of unknown meat and dozens of human bodies were making him dizzy. Making a name for himself as a violent patron by antagonizing the Lowtown markets would get him nowhere.
He dropped the package and retracted his hand, then left the stall with reluctance, shoving past a small family waiting in line that quickly took his place.
The sun was rising high enough to lighten the dingy, cramped alley. More people had arrived, and every vendor was entertaining a small crowd at least two people deep. He saw mostly humans, and occasionally a few dwarves. No elves.
Enough. If these humans wouldn’t give him what he needed, he would take it. It was no different than before, and his recent change of habitation mattered nothing.
He loitered for the next ten minutes, pretending to read the handwritten menus scrawled into the wooden counters, judging each vendor on smell and sight, and considered his options. But his clawing appetite was gone, replaced with equally familiar bitterness. He tried to convince himself that he had evolved beyond thievery, that it was no longer necessary to steal and scavenge like an animal—but he hadn’t, was the truth. He had learned that he would always toss aside his convictions when he had to. He would do what was necessary to survive.
“Fenris?”
He spun around and ran smack into—“Hawke?”
“That is you, right?” The rogue from earlier this week looked different in daylight: scruffier, scrawnier. Under the cover of night, this stranger to whom he’d pleaded for help days before had seemed powerful, invincible—but in daylight he could see poverty in the stringiness of her hair, the worn edges and cracks in her armor. “I haven’t accosted the wrong fellow with white hair and a giant longsword by accident?”
Pride slightly wounded at nearly being caught thieving, he nodded.
“Ah, it’s our favorite spiky elf.” Hawke’s dwarven friend found them in the crowd, chewing on a stick of beef jerky. “I see you’ve found the best place in the city for lunch, if you like hair in your sandwich.”
Fenris curled a lip.
“And the Tevinter sneers at the barbaric southerners, fulfilling countless stereotypes. Don’t judge, elf. Cat-paw jerky is a Kirkwallian pride and joy.”
Hawke took a slice from the dwarf’s gloved hand and chewed on it. Fenris’s stomach made itself known again; he wondered if they might share. He would not ask, but if they offered…
“Have your eyes on anything in particular?” Hawke asked. “I can’t recommend anything in good conscience, but I might know the vendor. I had to smuggle a lot of these ingredients during my first year here. Sometimes they’re kind enough to remember me, too.”
“No,” Fenris said, and then lied, in case the mage was waiting elsewhere to pickpocket him while he was distracted: “I have no coin anyway.”
“Ah, the five-finger discount,” Hawke said knowingly. “We’re frequent partakers as well.”
“I am not a thief,” Fenris snapped.
“Hey, we don’t use such language,” the dwarf said disapprovingly. “It’s ‘repossess’ or ‘reallocate,’ in polite company.” He winked at a middle-aged woman nearby, who seemed to know him. She rolled her eyes and returned to serving two patrons bowls of thick Fereldan pea-and-ham stew.
“And of course we only ‘partake’ from those deserving,” Hawke added. “Fortunately, there’s no city full of worthier candidates.”
Fenris was beginning to think he’d made a mistake associating with these people. Eccentricities aside, his survivability relied on laying low; a group full of smugglers, mercenaries, and thieves was bound to attract attention.
Then again, he was no noble. And this horrid town seemed to have its fair share of vagabonds and cutthroats. Perhaps Kirkwall was an ideal place to hide a tree within a forest.
He looked at the dwarf, whose name he couldn’t remember. It started with a V. He racked his brains. “Dwarf. You have made a name in this city. You do business here?”
“Depends on who’s asking.”
“Your guardswoman mentioned you could get the deed to my estate by Satinalia.”
The dwarf winced. “Satinalia! She insults me when she’s not even here. I could get it by next week.”
“How?” He raised an eyebrow. “Danarius is in Tevinter, and I doubt you have the power to lure him into signing away ownership.”
“Well, elf, I don’t know how real estate law works up there”—he pointed up to the sky, as if Tevinter were in the clouds—“but in Kirkwall, you have to live a minimum of six months out of the year within city limits to be considered a resident. If you’re not a resident, you’re a foreign owner, in which case you have to demonstrate proof of purchase and yearly upkeep, which, call it a hunch, but based on our tour the other day, I strongly suspect Danarius has been neglecting. The guards could seize the estate tomorrow, but I doubt it’s high on their priority list. If you don’t want it, though, I can add it to mine.”
“No, thank you,” Fenris said. He took mental note of the fact that the dwarf could likely finagle his way into acquiring ownership of the house, and possibly allow him to live there, should he ever need legal claim to the place. Declaring ownership of an old residence might force Danarius to take notice of him—when he was ready.
Was he prepared for that anymore? It had been easy to get caught up in the adrenaline of the fight, with allies at his side and the darkness of night covering their approach. In daylight, surrounded by the sneers of locals in this foreign country, he was painfully aware that his new “allies” were temporary, and the maintenance of their relationship was entirely dependent on coin and risks, of which he would likely be expected to defend.
He was not quite prepared for confrontation anymore, and the thought of living in a house only under someone else’s generosity did not sit well with him. A favor now was a debt owed tomorrow, and no dwarf was generous when it came to collecting.
The one in front of him now was unbothered. “Suit yourself,” he said, licking his fingers.
“I meant to ask,” Hawke cut in. “Fenris. Am I pronouncing your name right?”
He blinked slowly. “Yes.” He didn’t think it was that hard a name to get correct. Southerner names, on the other hand, caused him endless grief; compounded by the dozens of people he ran into, it was sometimes easier to dedicate his mental efforts to other pursuits.
“Great. Northerner names were always difficult for me.”
“Says the Antivan,” the dwarf muttered.
“Half Antivan,” Hawke argued. “And that’s if you trust my mom’s recollection of my dad’s accent from twenty years ago. He had to lie and flee so many countries I doubt he could’ve given you a straight answer.” Hawke turned to him conversationally and explained, “He once told Bethany he grew up in the Nevarran Circle but also told Carver his mother was a Rivaini seer, so I think he found the mystery amusing.”
Overwhelmed by the barrage of information—who was Carver?—Fenris could only process that this woman’s father had been a mage, somewhat of a humorist, and apparently also an escape artist. He said, rather dumbly, “I thought you were Fereldan.”
“I was raised there. My mom’s from Kirkwall originally. So, you know. We’ve been all over.” She snapped her fingers—and Fenris had to keep himself from flinching. “That reminds me. Are you free for dinner tonight?”
If she hadn’t been staring straight at him, he would’ve thought she’d been speaking to her friend. “Pardon?”
“So—the coin from Danarius’s estate,” Hawke continued. “It was very generous of you to leave it all to us. I didn’t question it at the time, but it doesn’t seem fair. I’m not sure if you’d accept it back, but my mother suggested we treat everyone to a nice meal—Varric is now rolling his eyes because he wants to save for the expedition, but ignore him. Since the spoils came from your mission, I thought you deserved to be there.”
He stared at her.
This was the poorest trap yet. A new acquaintance, a human with possible ties to the north, learned of an expensive runaway elf and the name of his former master, then days later, invited him to a private residence for dinner?
“I told you he wouldn’t be interested,” the dwarf—Varric—muttered. He raised his eyebrows and said to Fenris, “I’ll be there too. To break the awkward tension if nothing else. Taking out those shades was a group effort, after all.”
Was this infamous Fereldan hospitality? Perhaps. But better not to risk it either way.
He was opening his mouth to decline when Hawke cut in: “I understand if it’s a no. I know you didn’t have the best introduction to Bethany.” She looked uncomfortable. “I guess I didn’t think this through. I doubt she’d be, um, thrilled I’m inviting you. But you can sit on opposite sides of the table and ignore each other if you want. I thought we all deserved a bit of a reward. And it seemed… well, wrong to do it with your money but without you there.”
Oddly, it was this mage, Bethany’s, reluctance that assuaged him. If it were another trap, they would have tried to make it sound as enticing as possible. Perhaps she mentioned her sister to unnerve him? A threat to behave?
His stomach growled; fortunately it was low enough to not be heard over the crowd, and he was struck with a sudden lightheadedness.
Damn his paranoia. He would spurn free food and resources? What was a single night of strange company if it kept him fed? He didn’t have to like his allies. He could sit at a table and eat in a warm house and leave the moment he cleaned his plate.
“Very well,” he said cordially. “I accept.”
The dwarf looked surprised, but Hawke smiled. “Great.”
“I will need directions.”
“Varric can take you there,” Hawke said, clapping her friend on the shoulder.
“Can I?” Varric choked on his last piece of jerky.
“Yup. I’ve gotta go see a man in Hightown about a mine,” Hawke said, already sliding past Fenris into the crowd. “See you both later. Six-ish!”
Varric was clearly unprepared and uncertain what to do upon finding himself alone with a former elven slave, startling with one hand in the air as he licked the jerky grease from his fingers. This, also, calmed Fenris; if they had planned a trap, they would have been much better coordinated.
“I don’t know what she’s thinking, but I’m spending as little time at Hawke’s place as I can get away with,” Varric informed him, palms raised. His snack was now gone; Fenris was beginning to regret not asking for a piece earlier. “The place smells like cabbage and old cheese and it’s chronically haunted by a middle-aged bastard who drinks and farts all day.” He jerked his head, a follow me motion. “I’m going to run some errands then get a jump start on some expedition paperwork at the Hanged Man. I guess you’re welcome to join if you can keep those spikes to yourself.”
Fenris, for lack of anything better to do, began to follow him through the thinning crowd and out the alley. “Chronically haunted?”
“Hawke’s uncle, Gamlen. When he’s not stealing or gambling away Hawke’s savings, he spends his time scratching his ass and shouting out the window at passing children.” Varric’s tone had taken on a darker edge, devoid of its humor; his opinion of Gamlen was not one of fond tolerance. “Don’t know what she’s thinking. He made some nasty comment about dwarven sticky fingers when I was there, so I chalked him up for a bigot—as if he had anything worth nicking. I try not to spend more than thirty seconds in the same room with the man. Maybe she’s trying to gather as many weirdos as she can under one roof so he feels outnumbered and hides outside till we leave his den, like a prey animal.”
So tonight he would be seated with Hawke, a dwarf who didn’t want to be there, a possibly prejudiced uncle, and an apostate that he’d insulted not one week ago. After three years on the run, he was still finding that Danarius had been right about one thing: The South was indeed full of barbarians and delights both.
“Here,” Varric pulled open the door to an apothecary and gestured dramatically. “After you, serah.”
Fenris glowered, unmoving.
The dwarf rolled his eyes. “You’ll be a lot of fun.”
The store was dimly lit and the air was dense with some faint medicinal aroma that wafted in from the back room. Plants hung in the front windows, advertising products while obscuring the disorganization inside. Fenris watched Varric stock up on vulneraries, bandages, and stamina draughts. In hushed tones, he paid under the table for some lyrium potions and palmed a few more.
As Varric chatted with the shopkeeper, Fenris observed the wares and itched distractedly at his tattoos. He wondered vaguely if his newfound acquaintance might spare him one of the painkillers he’d just purchased; his fingers were beginning to stiffen again.
Fenris sneezed suddenly, and flinched out of habit. He glanced around. The others didn’t even pause in their conversation.
He scratched his nose and pretended to read the tiny signs of foreign scribbles, keeping his hands to himself to avoid any unsavory rumors. Some of the plants and smells were familiar, but most were out of his expertise.
A small jar full of dark blue powder caught his attention—and time stopped. Temptation overcame him; he leaned forward, cracked open the jar, and sniffed experimentally. The scent was faintly medicinal, sandalwood and elfroot mixed with something artificial, but immediately recognizable. He had smelled it before—in Danarius’s estate, on Danarius’s couch, beneath Danarius’s boot. In Danarius’s world. Mixed into his lotions for gentle application when he had pleased the man; ground into diluted paste and smeared atop his markings like tar on a scalpel when he had not.
The medicine. His medicine. To keep him active, without pain. To prevent the lyrium from stagnating and killing its host. He hadn’t seen it in years; after traveling across several nations, asking traders and shopkeepers for it by description to no avail, he’d begun to think it only existed in Tevinter.
He had begged and pleaded for this. Killed for it, a few times. Rolled in it, licked it off the floor out of desperation, when Hadriana had denied him for weeks and then “spilled” the entire set onto the cold stone of the lab. She’d then tied his hands behind his back and shoved him to the ground. Happily accepted her master’s punishment, if only to see his pet squirm in agony on the cold ground for a few unaided, glorious hours.
“Want anything?” came Varric’s voice from behind him.
“No,” Fenris said immediately, turning. He didn’t even know the name of the concoction, much less its price. It was undoubtedly more than he could afford to owe the dwarf, anyway. Perhaps he would return when he had savings, if he got desperate.
“You know you look more conspicuous if you keep your hands pointedly at your sides?”
“I am no thief.”
Varric rolled his eyes. “You know Hawke was kidding about that, right? I can tell it’s a touchy subject. She’ll can it, if you ask.”
Fenris stalked toward the door, fed up with this conversation.
His abrupt stranding in Seheron had put a cold, hard end to his master’s schedule of careful treatment applications, but he had found after a difficult but manageable break that he did not need the drug to survive. That medicine had once been the carrot that kept his pet moving, the wheels greased, so that the beast could operate at his best. But Fenris had lived without it for years; he could go even longer. His skin was now used to the lyrium, and he was used to the pain. It was an acceptable trade. It was constant and neverending, but it kept him alive.
Danarius had lied to him: He did not need that man or his magic to live. He would prove freedom was possible.
Varric joined him outside after a minute and, when Fenris refused to uncross his arms or meet his gaze, rolled his eyes. They traveled in tense but companionable silence for the next hour, during which Fenris observed a day in the dwarf’s life. Even observing it up close, he had no idea what the man did all day. He was clearly a businessman, for a very loose interpretation of the word, but his daily activities seemed to involve poking into shops, talking to people about their families, and leaving, sometimes without having purchased anything. His behavior might have fit the profile of a syndicate representative subtly reminding the locals to pay their gang fees, but everyone they visited appeared happy to see him. Checking in on a spy network, perhaps? If so, Varric appeared quite sincere in his questions about their homes and family lives.
Varric came around to his presence after a human woman, glancing nervously at Fenris, cut him a steep deal on crossbow bolts in exchange for name-dropping her store among the Merchants’ Guild. After that, Varric’s spirits lifted and he made full use of Fenris’s presence, asking him to stand over his shoulder before they approached someone, or stepping back when he needed them to feel more comfortable. He had discovered Danarius’s ace: Fenris’s sterling ability to intimidate without speaking or moving a muscle. Fenris may have minded once, but the novelty of having someone ask for his help was still new to him; although he complied, Varric never seemed to take his consent for granted, and Fenris was, as always, comforted by the word “no” that he always kept in his back pocket as a free man.
“You’re doing great,” Varric complimented him as they left a small bakery. “Have you ever thought about guardwork? You earn fat sovereigns for just standing there.”
“Yes.” Fenris’s mood had brightened somewhat after the baker had given them a few leftover pastries and handpies for free before closing: a thank-you for Varric placing a large order for an event the following month. It was now midafternoon, and most of the day’s bakes had been sold. Their gifts were picked over and some slightly burnt, but Fenris had never tried a cinnamon shortcake before. He believed he liked it.
“Yeah? You know, the Hanged Man needs a bouncer. I can make it happen.”
“You misunderstand.” He brushed the crumbs from his fingers. “I have considered guardwork. I will not do it.”
“Fair enough. I guess it probably gets boring standing out there all night and cleaning up drunks’ vomit.”
Fenris, who had by now gathered that Varric owned shares in the Hanged Man and was heavily invested in its success, had expected more pushing. His respect for the dwarf increased slightly after he let the topic drop.
“Shit.” Varric tensed next to him, eyes locked on something across the market. “The fuck is Bartrand doing here?”
Fenris followed his gaze. Across the way, a trio of dwarves was exiting a tidy realtor’s office, chatting amiably as they put on their overcoats. Fenris couldn’t tell which one was Bartrand, or even if Bartrand was one of the dwarves at all, but Varric’s glare was directed at his eye level, so it seemed a fair assumption.
“I can’t be seen by his posse of mouth-breathing nug-humpers,” Varric hissed, positioning himself awkwardly behind Fenris. “I’ve skipped the last five guild meetings. Here—” Varric shoved a small bag of coins into his palm. “Grab a bottle of wine from somewhere and bring it tonight, that was the last thing on my list. I’ve gotta move. I’ll send a runner to your mansion with instructions to Hawke’s place.”
“I do not know your writing system,” Fenris snapped.
“Sweet Andraste.” Varric stood ramrod straight and gestured with flat palms moving down from the sides of his head, as if he were delivering a lecture. “Face the Hanged Man. Turn left.” His palms indicated left. “Follow Central Goron for about fifteen minutes, till you reach a clearing. There’s a decrepit community garden and kids’ll probably be playing ball in the street. Gamlen’s is on the right at the top of some stairs, the second floor, over a klek shop. The door’s kinda busted and hanging crookedly, you can see it from the outside. Got it?”
He nodded, but Varric didn’t wait for confirmation. The dwarves were beginning to head their way, and before he knew it, his companion had disappeared into the crowd.
Fenris did not buy a bottle of wine with the funds Varric had shoved at him. He pocketed the money, trekked back up to Hightown, and dug into Danarius’s basement, where he had stumbled upon a crate of Agreggio Pavali his first evening in the house. He knew the wine was still good; he ignored the empty bottle he had indulged in the first day as it rolled against his foot when he moved the crate back into position.
From there, he meandered back through the market in the direction of Lowtown for the second time that day. At the top of the grand, sloping Hightown staircases next to the Chantry, he paused, ignoring a sister’s bell-ringing cries for donations, and observed the sunset over the distant Waking Sea. Pink clouds hovered over the bay, casting brilliant streaks of orange and dark purple into the sky, as if reaching out toward the city.
He had to admit it was a beautiful sight. He was not certain if he would remain here or move further south; he was considering west, where he’d heard rumors of elven merchants living freely in a small community outside Nevarra City. Or perhaps south to Ferelden; Danarius would turn pale at the thought of his beloved pet living in the wilds of the Frostback Basin, which was reason enough to strongly consider it. There was little keeping him in the Marches. But he was glad for these small moments regardless.
“Excuse me,” a gruff voice said, and Fenris stepped aside as a merchant rolled a tarp over his stall, and swore in Orlesian when it caught and ripped on a supporting pole.
Normally, he would have moved on. But something odd possessed him and inspired him into turning around; perhaps it was the afternoon spent in acceptable company, or food freely given with the promise of more tonight. Fenris stepped up to unsnag the tarp.
“Thank you, messere,” the human said from where he was breathlessly trying to tie the other end down. His eyes flicked to Fenris and noticed his ears; for a long moment, he held his breath, expecting censure, but to his relief, he said nothing.
Fenris nodded and helped him tie down the other side, before unfurling the back and securing that as well. Meanwhile, the merchant secured a small pile of wares with a delivery boy and negotiated payment with his employer.
“Decent help is hard to find in this city,” the man said, wiping his brow after the boy had left and Fenris stood back, checking his work. “At the end of a long day it’s good to find a friend.”
That seemed a stretch. As far as Fenris was concerned, their interaction was complete.
“I must make a last trip out to the Wounded Coast, and I detest traveling by night,” he went on, rambling to nobody. “Especially to that blasted mine. If you’ll excuse me.”
Something in this rang familiar. “A mine?”
“The mine out west, have you heard of it? Locals call it the Bone Pit.” Something in Fenris’s face made the man laugh. “Yes, that was my reaction as well. The proper name is the Varinsdottr Mines, but I was not informed of its colloquial nickname until I had already made the purchase.”
Had Hawke met with this man? Before Fenris could reply, he continued on.
“Of course, I shouldn’t complain. With a partner, I can leave the day-to-day maintenance to them while I handle overhead costs and deliveries.” He seemed quite pleased, and leaned in as if he were sharing a secret. “Word of advice: If you ever make a bad purchase, say for example a cursed mine, find someone to split the investment. Your control diminishes, but so will your losses.”
Suddenly it came to him. A mine near Kirkwall, nestled in the Wounded Coast. The Bone Pit, so named for the piles of bodies that lay in the pit for so long during the Imperium’s reign they had attracted dragons. Slave bodies, all sacrificed to some god or cause; it mattered not. It had been among the many rumors he had heard about the city as he’d made his way slowly in its direction.
“Understood,” he said, tersely enough to end the conversation. He picked up the bottle of wine he had set by the stall and made to leave before the merchant could protest. “Good day.”
He chewed on this information as he descended the steps to Lowtown. Hawke would appreciate a warning, but what was he warning her of? A bad business decision? She should be smart enough to know better. Still, the thought of leaving this unfinished unsettled him. He could not imagine himself in such a position, but if he had—he would want to know.
The sun fortunately lasted the rest of his trip, down the steps into Lowtown and through the winding passages as people finished their business, packed up shops, and headed home. From the appropriately named Hanged Man, he turned left and followed the cramped alleys, at times squeezing past several people to reach a small courtyard with a sad, sloping willow tree and what looked like withered tomato vines from seasons past. A small sports ball lay in the center of the “garden,” deflated.
He glanced up at the nearby apartment blocks and to his dismay, realized many of them had several floors. On the right, second floor, the dwarf had said. In Tevinter, that would have meant the third floor aboveground, but Fenris had learned through experience that in southern cities, they counted the ground floor as the first. Kirkwall was once a Tevinter city; did it follow Tevinter or Marcher custom?
Near his feet, a small basement window slid open. A head poked out. “You buying something or loitering?”
Fenris looked down and realized he was standing in front of what must have been the klek shop Varric had mentioned. He had never seen one before. Pasted around the cramped basement window were scribbled signs containing what he recognized as numbers, along with the Marcher currency symbols—wares and their prices. Most of the accompanying pictures were smeared.
He smelled something hearty and rich from behind them through the open window. It must have been a food shop.
“Where do the Hawkes live?” he asked.
“I’ll tell you if you buy something,” they shot back.
He didn’t have it in him to be irritated. With a pocketful of Varric’s money, perhaps it was appropriate to buy something for the table since the wine was his own. He had never been invited to a dinner before, but the Tevinter events he was familiar with were strict to the point of brutality in their social customs. Did Fereldan hospitality uphold the same rules? Did he care?
“What do you recommend?” he asked, ignoring the signs.
“Mam, what do we have left?” The head whipped around so fast, a dangling earring whapped against their cheek. A muffled voice shouted back, and the shopkeep told him, “You can have the rest of the bouja for a sovereign. S’ about a gallon.”
Varric had given him five sovereigns; enough for a good bottle of wine. “All right.”
Their head disappeared again underneath the counter; an open hand appeared instead. Fenris placed a sovereign in their palm as an older woman entered his view and deposited a large pot on the ground-level counter. The shopkeep’s head appeared again with a lid, placing it on top and tying the whole pot within a wrapping cloth. His package was then shoved out the window and onto the street.
Fenris balked at the entire pot, suddenly uncertain if a gallon was different in the south.
“Tell Leandra she can just bring the pot back tomorrow morning,” they said, catching his eyes over the pot. “Thanks for taking that, I’m kinda sick of having it for dinner.” And with that, they flipped a sign and closed up shop with a small wooden door.
Fenris blinked. Crouching, he peeled back the cloth and cracked open the lid; it smelled like some type of Fereldan stew. He had never heard of bouja, but at a glance, it had what looked like granulated carrots, peas, potatoes, and what might have been chicken. Or beef?
He was so stunned that it took him a moment to realize they’d forgotten to tell him where Hawke lived.
The light behind the window was now dark. He glanced around, not spotting anyone else in the dim courtyard, and felt suddenly panicked that he might have lost track of time. Had the sun set already?
“Oh,” a voice called from above. “You’re here.”
He looked up. A familiar figure was standing above him on the mezzanine step, but not the one he was hoping for. “Bethany,” he greeted. He was suddenly aware that he was crouched in front of their home in the dark, poking through what might appear to be rubbish, like a scavenger rummaging through garbage, and felt a rush of embarrassment.
“You can come up,” she said neutrally, and he recalled that the last time he had spoken to this girl, he had accused her of being a snake lying in wait to betray her sister for power and prestige. “Varric hasn’t arrived yet, though. Is he with you?”
Great. “No,” he said. Where the hell was the dwarf? If he didn’t arrive in the next thirty seconds, he would soon be stuck in a house with a group of people he didn’t know, including a potential bigot and a mage who certainly hated him.
His head pounded. He was starting to come up with an excuse to leave, but was interrupted by a shout in the open door behind her.
“Fenris is here,” Bethany shouted back. She leaned over the steps and crouched, reaching out for the pot.
“I can get it,” he said, but she shook her head.
“It’s fine. You’ve got the wine.” She nodded to the bottle in his hand as she took the handles. “Come on up.” With more strength than he believed her capable of, she lifted the pot and went back inside.
Without an alternative, he picked up his single bottle and followed her up the steps.
If he’d passed by in the daylight, he might’ve believed it an abandoned unit. The door was half the width of most doors for humans and hung on its hinges, creaking slightly even after he closed it behind him.
A barrage of smells hit his senses. He found himself in a cramped, one-bedroom apartment, and nearly tripped on the mabari lying just within the door. A great, shaggy head looked up at him with kind eyes, panting. A line of drool dripped onto the floor when Fenris patted his head.
“Not a guard dog, are you?” Fenris muttered.
“She’s a good judge of character.” Hawke appeared, kneeling and scratching the dog behind the ears. “Glad you made it. I can take that.” When he handed the bottle over, her eyes widened. “Did Varric sign away his firstborn? Where’d you get this?”
“Danarius’s storerooms,” he said. “If his generosity is to thank for the meal, it seemed appropriate the beverage should follow.”
“I’m afraid most of us can’t tell the difference between a red and a white,” Hawke said, “much less a three-silver wine from a ten-gold vintage. But thanks. C’mon, I’ll introduce you.”
She led him to the kitchen nook, where the woman who must be the Hawkes’ mother was chopping turnips while Bethany sauteed them in butter.
“Hello there,” she said over her shoulder. “Fen-hris, is it?”
Suddenly he understood why Hawke might have thought to check her pronunciation earlier. Her mother’s accent was thick enough to inspire confusion.
“Fenris,” Hawke corrected.
“Fenris, sorry. I’m Leandra. I’d greet you properly but knives demand my attention.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and immediately wanted to slap himself. Why was he deferring to this woman?
An older man with deep crow’s feet stepped into the living area with a bag slumped over his shoulder. “Who’re you?” he grunted. His eyes lingered on Fenris’s ears. This would be the uncle.
“He’s here for dinner,” Hawke said.
“Put the sword away in my house,” he barked. “Andraste’s sake. You always bring your weapons to the table?”
Fenris stiffened at his tone, but he couldn’t argue the point when he was a guest in another man’s home. He was so used to the weight of his sword and so unused to being somewhere a warrior’s weapon was unwelcome that he glanced around pathetically for a place to lay it down. Hawke helpfully pointed to a weapon rack hanging by the bedroom doorway and he gratefully made use of it, hesitating when the weights sagged slightly against the walls.
“What’s in the pot?” the uncle was leering curiously over Fenris’s purchase.
“Bouja,” Fenris said, hoping he was copying the pronunciation correctly. “Vegetables and chicken stock. Ah.” He tried to think back to what he had identified in the broth. “Potatoes, carrots. Onions.”
“I’m allergic to red onions,” the uncle declared.
“You’re welcome to spend the evening in your room, Uncle,” Hawke said pointedly.
Gamlen grunted again and to Fenris’s great relief, headed out the door. “I’m going to the laundress. Don’t wait up.”
Fenris, confused and doubting any laundress would work this late, looked around the room. But nobody acknowledged this; Hawke particularly looked irritated but said nothing.
“No sign of your friend Varric?” Leandra asked. The sound of sizzling accompanied her question.
Hawke waved him over to a cooking station on the dining room table. “Not since this afternoon. Did you see where he went?” She directed this at him and as she squeezed lemons into a small jar, motioning for him to do the same.
Fenris took up a lemon and sliced it carefully in half, following her lead. “He disappeared after we ran into some folks from the Merchants’ Guild.”
Hawke pursed her lips. “And Aveline can’t come. This didn’t turn out how we’d hoped.”
“It’s just as well, because that bronto bone soup Varric wanted is not happening,” Bethany muttered from where she was peering into the bouja pot as she reheated it. “I don’t even know where you would get some of the original ingredients, but the replacements would taste awful together.”
“We have plenty,” Leandra said. “Thank you for bringing an entrée, Fen-hris. Though the Nevarran spice cake for dessert was really ambitious, dear. I don’t remember the recipe very well.”
“I’m sure it’ll be great,” Bethany said. “All right, these drumsticks are ready.”
“I’ll spoon out this bouja and then we can get started.” Leandra moved the pot to hang over the fire, and nearly startled when the dog barked from the doorway. “Yes, I smell the turnips burning, I’ll get them.”
Bethany joined them at the table with sugar and ice water, and Fenris realized that he was assisting in making a southern version of limonata. The magister and his apprentices would enjoy fruit juice in the summers, under the garden canopies—
No. That was over. It no longer existed in his world.
He had always wondered what it tasted like. He would find out today.
He could be polite for an evening. He could be grateful to his allies and be pleasant company. He could make this work.
As they sliced and squeezed, Bethany surprised him by asking where he had gotten his sword from. He explained the story of how it had been given to him by an elderly elven couple in exchange for guarding them through the Vimmark Mountains.
“They didn’t want it anymore?”
“The warrior had lost his arm and could not swing it one-handed. His husband was a blacksmith who had set aside his tools—they hoped to retire in Markham.”
“And?” Hawke asked. “How’s the workmanship held up?”
“Well enough.”
“It’s a bit like Carver’s,” Bethany told her sister.
She nodded. “It looks like his, but he took his broadsword from the army at Ostagar. I wonder if they were Fereldan.”
“It requires more maintenance than northern broadswords,” Fenris supplied. “I must oil it weekly.”
“Is that not normal?”
“It depends on the quality. You can usually find—”
A small but thick jet of lemon juice hit Hawke square in her left eye and she reeled back. She ignored her sister’s snort of laughter and she reached blindly for a rag at the table, but Fenris, closer, raised it to her eye. She grabbed it, shoved a thumb’s grasp into her eye, and blinking between tears, said, “Fuck. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Language,” Leandra said from where she was stirring the cooking pot.
“Seriously?”
“As long as you’re living with your mother, yes, seriously.”
“Not under your roof, though,” Hawke groused as Bethany muttered, “It’s not our house.” They glanced at each other and snickered; and Fenris suddenly felt a pang of something that he didn’t know how to identify. The scene felt familiar and unnervingly foreign at the same time. When had he ever sat at a table to dine among equals? When would he gain the chance again?
“Room, please,” Leandra said.
They made room at the table as Bethany mixed the limonata. Leandra served them each a bowl of bouja, a drumstick, and spoonful of roasted, buttered turnips, and Fenris marveled for a moment that he was truly sitting here, being served by a human, with his sword out of reach, in a room full of relative strangers. He wondered if he had been magicked into complacency. He wondered if he had lost his mind.
“Who wants to say grace?” Leandra asked, seating herself at the head of the table.
Hawke looked like she would rather eat glass, and Fenris paused, uncertain if this was another language barrier. Fortunately Bethany seemed to know what to do: She clasped her hands and bowed her head, her mother following suit.
Fenris was uncertain if this was a necessary social custom, but then Hawke met his eyes over the table. You don’t have to, her look said.
He nodded minutely.
“Blessed Maker, thank you for gracing us with this meal,” Bethany said to her palms. “Thank you for good company and seeing us through a difficult year in our new home. Thank you for looking out for us every day as we search to reclaim what was lost. With grace and glory be to you.”
“With thanks be to you,” Leandra said. She was the only one. “Dig in, everyone.”
Stomach growling, he gratefully dug into the drumstick first. He was uncertain what type of meat it was, but the leg was juicy and the crispy skin crackled when his teeth made contact. Spices burst against his tongue and he closed his eyes, chewing.
Security, he supposed. Security and complacence were what drove him to ask his next question.
“Who is Carver?” he asked Bethany, seated next to him.
He immediately sensed he had made a mistake by the way the room went silent.
“Oh,” Bethany said, avoiding his eyes. “He was my—”
“He was their brother, and my only son,” Leandra said cordially.
Was. “I see.”
Hawke exhaled through her nose. “He died on our way to Kirkwall. To the darkspawn. Sorry. We shouldn’t have brought him up.”
“He isn’t a shameful secret,” Bethany said to her forkful of mashed turnips. “He was our brother.”
Hawke leveled her a look that said obviously, but Bethany ignored her.
“I apologize,” Fenris said. He did not know how the Hawkes interacted between themselves, but the atmosphere in the room had reached a level of tension that, in high society Tevinter functions, might have preceded screams and sobs and pointed fingers. “I did not wish to bring up painful memories.”
Leandra smiled at him, though it looked more like a wince. She picked up the limonata and poured some for herself and Hawke; for lack of anything to do, Fenris and Bethany each accepted a glass. Bethany carefully avoided brushing against his elbow when her arm retreated.
Perhaps her discomfort had nothing to do with his accusation the night they’d met. Perhaps she disliked elves. Perhaps Hawke was the only one who tolerated his presence here tonight.
Why did you even come?
“Fenris, what is it that you do?” Leandra’s voice brought him back into the room.
Next to him, Bethany was making a small indentation in her turnip mountain for more butter purée. He’d seen slave children do that on Satinalia with mashed potatoes and gravy, when the kitchens allowed them the magisters’ leftovers. The thought that they might have this in common with Fereldan refugees stunned him enough into answering honestly.
“I’ve taken work as a mercenary and a deckhand these past few months,” he said. Would she disapprove of bloodshedding for coin? Surely not; she had to know what her children did when they left the house.
“Needs must,” Leandra said sympathetically. She must’ve believed he would not do this work if he was allowed the choice. He was not in the mood to correct her. Did she pity him? How much had the Hawkes told her of his past? “The girls had a difficult first year in the city working for—Athens?”
“Athenril. She was a smuggler. We stopped working with the mercenary pretty quickly, remember, when he was getting annoying about Bethany.”
“He was getting ‘annoying’ about both of us,” Bethany corrected tensely. “He kept joking about us taking shifts at the Rose to pay him back sooner.”
“Sure,” Hawke granted. “He was getting suspicious, is what I meant. I’m still not sure how, or what tipped him off—”
“It’s not always my fault, you know,” Bethany snapped. Her tone made even Leandra look up from her meal, frowning. “Sometimes people are naturally suspicious. Sometimes the place you end up is crawling with Templars and—”
“Bethany,” Leandra said sharply.
“—paranoid folk who would fabricate a reason to turn their neighbors over for a sovereign. Sometimes things aren’t about me.”
The table went quiet.
Leandra was staring at him like a—well, a hawk. Waiting for—what?
“Oh,” she said after a moment, exhaling. Relief? “Fenris knows.”
“That Bethany is a mage?” Fenris asked, bewildered. “Yes.”
“Say it a little louder, then,” Bethany said furiously to her cooling food, and to his great alarm, tears were starting to form in her eyes. “I don’t think our neighbors heard you.”
“Beth,” Hawke started, chagrined. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“I thought that was the point of me not going out these days, to avoid ‘bringing it up.’”
“It—well, it is, but I didn’t mean to say you were the reason we had to shift employers so much. Carver picked fights with every trader in Lothering when he thought we’d been shortchanged. You’re a dream to work with, compared to him.”
Leandra shifted; she didn’t seem to like her eldest talking about her dead brother in this way. “Dear, in front of company…”
Fenris was at a loss for what to do. “I can leave.”
“No, please stay,” Leandra said. “I apologize. You’re not seeing the Amells at our best.”
“Hawkes,” the sisters replied, instinctively.
“The Hawkes. Yes.” She sighed. “This afternoon, there was a… mage who was dragged out of the apartment block across the alley by a group of Templars.” She glanced to her youngest daughter, who had finally picked up her fork again. “It was—difficult to watch.”
“Are they sniffing around here?” Hawke asked, alert.
“No, they seemed to know who they were looking for. They went right up to the door and someone let them in.”
“Her family sold her out,” Bethany said quietly. She mashed her turnips into more paste. The skins on her plate now appeared paste-like within their butter pool. She swallowed. “Sorry. I overreacted.”
“All’s forgiven,” Leandra said.
“Mother,” Hawke started, “was this the Robinsons or the Worcestershires?”
“Neither, I don’t think we know them. They were on the third floor, with the window that overlooks the tree in the community garden…”
Fenris tried a few spoonfuls of bouja, but found he had lost his appetite. Still, he was not one to waste food, so he continued quietly, trying to move and make as little noise as possible.
There was a bowl of salt on Bethany’s other side. He had never had the luxury to season his own food, and wondered—no. Too presumptuous, after what had just happened.
Next to him, Bethany was silent.
Until she wasn’t.
“Do you want the salt?” she asked him, watching his gaze.
“Yes,” he said, and she handed the bowl to him, carefully avoiding touching his fingers as she did so. “Thank you.”
“If it’s painful, I’m sorry,” she said.
“Pardon?”
“Um. Being near me.”
Fenris racked his brains for a precursor to this apology. Hawke and her mother were still preoccupied across the table, now discussing Guardswoman Aveline’s new responsibilities.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he told Bethany honestly.
“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “That’s—er. I bothered you, the night when we met. When I brushed against your armor, your… markings lit up. I thought perhaps being around magic triggers something painful.”
She’d touched him? “I have no recollection,” he said slowly. “It was a chaotic night.”
“Oh. Well, great.” Bethany turned back to her food, embarrassed. “Guess I was avoiding you for nothing.”
His head spun. She wasn’t prejudiced. She was trying to be courteous. He’d never met a mage that had gone out of their way to avoid causing him harm. “I apologize that I’ve caused you distress.” He paused. “And for speaking out of turn that night. It was rude of me. I betrayed my own gratitude.”
Bethany held onto her drumstick with one hand as she picked some of the meat off with her fork, then delicately wiped her dirty fingers onto a napkin. It was a sight to compare to her sister across the table, who was holding her second drumstick up to her face like a harmonica as she dug in, fingers stained with crumbs.
“I don’t care about ‘speaking out of turn,’” she said slowly. “What I want to know is if my sister’s faith in you is misplaced. What do you do if you suspect you see a mage just walking about town?”
“Cross to the other side of the street,” he said honestly.
“You don’t go out of your way to—” she stopped. Looked him in the eye. “Turn them in?”
Ah.
“No,” he said. “I do not invite trouble where there is none.”
“What does that mean?” she asked skeptically.
“People are most dangerous when they are scared. If Danarius appeared to drag me back to Minrathous today, I would fight with everything I am to prevent it. I believe most would do the same. That is not a fight I willingly seek; I know well the consequences of forcing a mage to do anything they do not wish to can be catastrophic.”
Bethany stared at him. Had he not been direct enough?
“You have done me a great kindness, and invited me into your home besides.” He tried a different tactic. “I do not turn on my allies.”
Bethany held his gaze a moment longer, then something in her relaxed. “Okay,” she said, and her shoulders slumped. “Okay. I was wondering, because my sister asked me to look out for everyone in battle—I know a little bit of healing—and I wanted to… you look angry. Forget it.”
Fenris stared at her. “I do not understand.”
“I just wanted to know if that was going to be a problem. But forget it.”
As if on command, the lyrium flared painfully on his leg, hard enough to make him drop his fork. He bit down on his tongue and fought the urge to grip his thigh. He kept his hands on the table for the entire party to see how disciplined he was, how tame the wolf had become.
Why did he hide his pain? Why did he still instinctively fear the whip, the crackling sound that preceded lightning fire in his veins?
“Would either of you like a glass of wine?” Leandra stood, gathering their empty glasses and rinsing them out in the basin. When she returned to the table, she said, “Fenris, you’ll have to tell us about this vintage. I didn’t raise any sommeliers, and I’m afraid I don’t recognize the label.”
“Agreggio Pavali, Domina,” he answered automatically.
Everyone looked to him.
Fenris could have slid under the table out of mortification. Lady. Mistress. Words he’d rather carve his tongue out than say aloud again.
“I beg your pardon, but I need a moment outside,” Fenris said, rising. Why did he defer to these people, these strangers? He could leave them any time he wanted, and he would. This family and their struggles had no hold on him. He owed himself his own safety and health, and nothing else to anyone.
“You all right?” Hawke asked, watching him cautiously.
“I will be a moment,” he lied. When he stood, he had to physically prevent himself from bowing. The instinctive movement, the way his body craved to bend to old habits, repulsed him. He could not sit here and drink Danarius’s wine and pretend to be equals when his body and tongue believed otherwise; but he did not have to. He would walk out and leave this all behind.
He left through the front door without cleaning up after himself, just to prove to himself that he could.
Fenris made it five steps before his shaking knees and aching feet failed him. He sat on the stoop, breathing in, out, and tried not to shiver in the cool evening air. Down at the bottom of the steps, the Hawkes’ mabari looked up at him with soulful eyes. He met them, staring back for several long seconds. The great hound put her head back down with an exhaled boof.
Fenris took several great breaths and looked elsewhere.
He didn’t have to return to Hightown, to an empty mansion full of cobwebs and ghosts. He had already proven to himself that he could do what he wanted. He could sit right here and think for a while, too.
It was dark. Curtains were drawn across most windows in the square; the only lights came from a few lit windows and the stars above. The apartment blocks were silent, save for the scurrying of rats and the occasional burst of laughter from a drunken gathering around the corner. Under the mezzanine stoop, someone opened a window and poured out a bucketful of dirty water that pooled in the street below.
Fenris wondered when Gamlen would come back from the so-called laundress, or if he had found lodgings elsewhere for the night.
He was suddenly aware that he was there, an elf, spurning warmth and company while a group of humans ate dinner just inside without him. They were sitting at a table like civilized people while he sat out on the cold ground with the beasts and flies. If he was trying to avoid replicating his past, he was miserably failing.
He told himself if he sat beneath them, then it was his choice to do so.
He leaned back and looked up. Distant stars winked up at him, and from this angle, he had the rare pleasure of seeing slivers of both moons in the sky. He wondered if Fenrir was up there, the constellation Danarius had named him after. The White Wolf. He didn’t know if he’d be able to find it so far from home.
From Tevinter. Not home.
He’d considered leaving Kirkwall many times over the past few days. Nothing was keeping him here other than a decrepit mansion that Danarius no longer cared about. It was hardly the picture of freedom he had imagined for himself. He had imagined—he didn’t know what. Coin. Honest work. His own place, paid for with his own money. None of that could be found here. Yet something kept him rooted to the step.
Movement from behind alerted him. Light bled through the open door, and a figure was looking down at him.
“Hi,” Hawke said. “Last call on the wine.”
“No, thank you,” Fenris said, turning back around to the dark courtyard.
After a slight pause, she took a few steps and sat next to him. The door swung shut behind her. “We didn’t want to open it without you.”
“You are welcome to it. There are plenty more in the cellar.”
She boggled. “Your former master kept a cellarful of vintage wine in a house he’s abandoned? Each bottle alone must be worth—what d’you reckon, twenty sovereigns?”
“Danarius is an affluent magister, even in Tevinter. I expect he has dozens of properties in similar condition across the southern continent that he has likely long forgotten about.”
Hawke exhaled. “I can’t imagine having that kind of money and just forgetting about it.” Something in her tone was dark. Jealousy? Frustration? “Meanwhile so many people are just barely scraping by. Or not at all.”
Would that he only had to worry about coin. Still, how oddly unifying that for all their differences, he and the Hawkes were both struggling in such familiar ways—they a family of four, and he a family of one. Coin and food, the great uniters. That his dismissive decision to pay them with Danarius’s gold, made on a whim several nights ago, had helped them so significantly—it all felt meaningful in a way he didn’t know how to explore.
Fenris eyed her without turning his head. Elbow on her knees as she propped her chin up with her fist, she still looked very much like someone who had just immigrated from Ferelden. He couldn’t explain it. The clothing? Haircut? Accent? She had been here a year and yet she seemed to fit in as well as he did. It may have been more accurate to say she did not care to try.
Outsiders, the lot of them. Kirkwall appeared to be a city full of them. Perhaps he had made his stand in the right place after all.
He suddenly remembered something that had seemed very important earlier that evening.
“A businessman is conning you,” he informed her.
“What?”
“The Hightown merchant who is stationed next to the dwarven runecrafter. The mine owner of the Bone Pit. He intends to leave the maintenance to you, eliminating any dangerous beasts or contaminants, while he handles costs and logistics. He has written the mine off and is looking to diminish his losses.”
Hawke leaned back. Tapped her fingers on her knees. “Right. I expected something like that.”
“The ground is cursed,” Fenris warned her. “Only wretched or ignorant souls would linger there.”
“Ah,” she said. “Well, that makes things awkward. I’ve already bought it.”
He stared at her.
“I haven’t signed anything yet, but I shouldn’t go back on my word, I think,” Hawke thought aloud. “It could be worth something one day, after some spring cleaning. Who knows.”
Fenris shook his head. “You are making a mistake, but it is yours to make.”
“So if I offered you a hundred sovereigns to help clean out the dragon infestation, you wouldn’t come with?”
“I did not say that.”
“Lovely. I knew you had a line somewhere.”
“I have given you my warning. It is up to you to decide whether to heed it.”
It was dark, but he thought that she was smiling. “Noted.”
They sat in silence for a few moments. The dark neighborhood offered no new topics or epiphanies. Distantly, the sound of a couple’s laughter floated out through an open window.
“Why did you invite me tonight?” he asked eventually.
“I told you. Danarius’s money—your money—was the reason we ate this week,” she said. “Suppose I could’ve used it to hire you a cleaning service instead, but I wasn’t sure if you’d be staying in the city.”
He had to resist the urge to snort. The thought of the money being his, of him owning anything other than the clothes and sword on his back, was laughable. Everything he owned, everything he was, had been molded and stained by Danarius. He did not want the man’s coin as well, earned with slave labor. He wanted to earn everything that came his way from now on, for better or worse. “It is yours now.”
“And I thank you again. But it didn’t feel right to spend it without you.” She shrugged. “Plus, I thought it would be right to introduce you. My mom already knows Aveline and Varric. I was… hoping you might be amenable to the Deep Roads Expedition, since Aveline never leaves the barracks these days, and quite frankly, we need a swordmaster who isn’t on someone else’s payroll.” There was a pause, and when he didn’t reply, she continued. “Not that you have to work with us. This can be a one-off. I know you and Bethany… well.”
He and Bethany, well. That about summed it up.
“I believe your sister and I have reached an understanding,” he said. “In my life have not known many mages to help anyone but themselves.”
“You can’t have known many decent mages, then.”
“I have not. But this conversation is going well, Hawke. Kindly do not begin listing examples of benevolent mages you know in an attempt to sway my opinion.”
She snorted. “It’s too nice an evening for another argument. But for what it’s worth, we’re a careful family. Bethany is careful.”
“Only time will prove her mindfulness. But if you have need of me, I am at your disposal.”
Her mouth twisted. “I’m glad to hear that. I think we made a pretty good team. You’re very efficient at cutting down shades.”
“It was my primary responsibility.” Fenris surprised himself by saying so. At Hawke’s inquisitive look, he continued haltingly, “Blood-spilling and spirit-summonings are common pastimes at Minrathous functions. They often go wrong, as you can imagine.”
Her face twisted. “Say no more. I think I can read between the lines.”
“We’ve discussed your sister, but not your dwarven friend,” Fenris changed the subject of his past, wishing he hadn’t raised it in the first place. He hoped he wasn’t misreading the slight air of banter between them. “After today’s events, I suspect I am more at risk of being pickpocketed by Varric than of Bethany befriending demons.”
“Oh, you absolutely are. But my gut says Varric’s too lazy to betray people. He’d eat Bianca before wasting an asset.”
“Who’s Bianca?”
Below them, the dog suddenly raised its head and howled. A voice down the alley yelled for her to shut up.
“Is she all right?” Fenris asked. He had always been curious about mabari, the breed that had been domesticated by Tevinter and then defected to Ferelden. It implied intelligence and morals that many of his former countrymen lacked.
“She misses the open space,” she replied. “Come on, girl, don’t sit by yourself in the cold.”
But the great dog stood and stared down the alley, barking once, before trotting off into the dark.
“What’s with you two lovebirds?” Varric’s voice called out. A moment later it was accompanied by a short figure coming their way, carrying a package under one arm and petting the mabari with his other hand. She trotted happily back to the apartment at his side, like their guest’s personal escort. “Brought dessert. Spoiler: It’s whiskey.”
“Wow, way to get shown up by the new guy. Fenris brought some fancy Tevinter wine, and we just ate anyway.”
“You couldn’t wait? My poor bone bronto soup.” Without looking his way, Varric tossed Fenris something palm-sized; he caught it instinctively but couldn't make it out in the dark. A package?
“Is that Varric?” Leandra called from inside.
“Leandra!” Varric greeted warmly, opening his arms and squeezing between Hawke and Fenris to head up the steps. They were nearly bowled over as the dog followed him. “It’s been too long. I hope you left some for your favorite dwarf.” The door opened wider to welcome him as Hawke’s mother laughed, and then banged shut.
Sitting together in the dark once again, Hawke’s silhouette turned to Fenris. “If you’re open to work now, I have a job. I need you to kill Varric so he stops flirting with my mother.”
“No.” When she scoffed, Fenris explained, “You need him for your expedition. I will wait until after you return.”
She smiled, and he was too busy processing that he had said something she liked to appreciate the moment.
“I better go make sure he’s not making her promises we can’t keep,” she said, rising as the dog pawed at the hem of her trousers. “Come back in whenever you like. Yes, I hear you, girl, I’ll get you some leftovers.”
The mabari trotted after her as Hawke went back inside, this time leaving the door propped open.
Fenris looked after her for a moment, then turned to the item in his hand. By the light from the house, he could see writing on a small purchase slip, but that did not help him. He peeled it carefully open.
A small jar full of dark blue powder lay innocently in his hands.
He swallowed. His fingers and toes ached, as if on contact. The temptation to return it, to shove it back into Varric’s hands was great, but he suspected the dwarf would not accept it. If he had wanted a favor or payment in return, he would have made a show in delivering it to him. Instead he had not even bothered to comment, or paused to hear thanks.
He cracked the stopper open. Spilled a bit onto his palm, and worked it into his fingers individually. The relief was instantaneous; the lingering ache from the morning gone as if it never was.
To lose it on his own command was a feeling as foreign as the city he now resided in. Why would someone get this for a stranger who could not repay him? Why would someone invite him into their home?
Why did he accept?
A whine sounded from behind him. The dog and her warm brown eyes watched him from behind the crack in the door, panting expectantly.
Fenris rose slowly to his feet and followed them all back in.