Chapter Text
It had been a long night, and it was turning into a longer day. Fenris scrubbed at his eyes from his perch on the balcony then took another sip of wine. How had it all become so... tangled?
First Hadrianna, then a wonderful night with Hawke, then a dream so perfect that when he woke up he'd wanted to weep. It had slipped away so quickly that all that was left was a lingering feeling of misplacing something precious. And instead of trying to hang on to what he did have, what he knew mattered, he'd thrown that away as well, left Hawke standing at the fireplace looking more unsure and lost than he'd ever seen him before.
"I'm a monster," he muttered, and took another long swig.
It didn't help. Nothing would, most likely.
If it was anything else, any other problem, he'd be asking Hawke to help, but how could he do that when it was Hawke he'd wronged?
Not counting the hour or two in Hawke's bed, he'd been up since Bela had woken him for 'just a quick jaunt up the coast' the day before. He should sleep, but the thought of having that dream again, whatever it was, of losing it again, was enough to make his stomach turn and his breakfast (more wine) threaten to leave through the shortest route available to it.
It was unlikely Hawke would come check on him, but two other people had been there when he'd crushed Hadrianna's heart, so he had no doubt everyone knew that part of the story already. Merrill could very well be on her way right now, or worse yet, had come calling in time to see him fleeing the Hawke mansion in a blind panic. Kaffas, I need to get out of here.
The market was open and bustling as he headed out to... somewhere. To was far less important than away at the moment, and he pulled his hood lower over his face as he slipped through the crowds. The prospect of trying to explain anything, or worse yet, seeing pity in someone's eyes was terrifying, and brought to mind the Fog Warriors and their steadfast protection and kindness. Kindness he'd rewarded by killing them.
He found himself outside the gates and on the road toward Sundermount. It was as good a place as any to go, and better than most, for who would look for him amongst the Dalish? He had no intention of heading all the way up to their camp, but, as he walked, he found the view to be soothing. The trees here were different from the cultivated gardens of Minrathous; just as different as the jungles of Seheron, but still soothing. Perhaps moreso, since they didn't remind him of things he'd rather forget, or of things he wished he could remember
The foot traffic thinned out within an hour or so, leaving Fenris alone with his thoughts and wishing he'd brought another bottle of wine with him. Given the sour taste in his mouth, though, it was likely good that he hadn't. He took a fork off the main road, one he wasn't familiar with, just for something different.
It was overgrown, and clearly disused, barely marked by a series of flat stones at irregular intervals, and following it exactly the sort of concentration he needed. It let him think without thinking, mull without dwelling, and most importantly, kept him curious enough that he didn't simply go back to Kirkwall and find the seediest rathole of a bar and drink until someone picked a fight with the knife-ear who shouldn't have that much coin.
An enormous boar burst through the undergrowth, nearly bowling him over. As he regained his balance and wiped the twigs and leaves of its passage away from his leggings, a faint bleating sound reached his ears. It sounded like a goat, but there weren't any farms nearby it could've escaped from. The sound was wrong too: higher pitched and more plaintive than annoyed. His experience with them was limited almost entirely to the few that had lived with the Fog Warriors, but goats had always seemed permanently irritated.
This was... sad. Frightened? Nothing good would come from investigating a noise like that. Probably some demon luring in prey by mimicking a helpless animal. Fenris sighed and shook his head. Well, now I have to go deal with it.
He picked his way through the trees, glad he'd left his greatsword behind. Its weight would've been far more reassuring over the daggers he'd pulled out instead, but with this many branches and vines in the way, the shorter range of daggers would be far less hampered than the sweeping arcs of combat with a sword nearly as long as he was tall.
The sound was louder now, and he dropped into a crouch as he crept onward. Fear demon? Hunger demon? Perhaps sloth, since it's just laying in wait? Ambush predators were clever, but frequently overconfident. He double backed to circle around and approach from a different angle, well away from the footpath.
His eyes burned and itched from so little sleep, and he regretted his ill advised 'breakfast' more and more as each minute passed. I should've at least had some bread before drinking again. Too late to fix it now, though. He'd simply have to deal with a demon by himself, half drunk and exhausted. As he snuck up on what looked like a little clearing, he dropped down to his hands and knees and kept a wary eye out.
Nothing looked amiss, which only made his sour stomach feel all the more unsettled. Where is it? All he could see were a few small rocks and a fallen tree. He scooted a little closer, readying himself to flare the lyrium for a quick escape if this still proved to be a trap.
Wait.
Had one of the rocks moved?
Had one of those strange possessed rock creatures from the Deep Roads made it to the surface?
I have to tell Hawke.
The thought made his guts twist. Before yesterday, of course, he would've already been on his way. Hawke's delight in tearing things apart was strangely pure, almost innocent, though, realistically, there was nothing innocent about Garrett Hawke.
Focus, you fool.
He took a deep breath and forced his body to relax. Instead of darting his eyes around in a panic, he just watched. And waited. The bleating noise had stopped; had he been detected? Was it about to attack?
Minutes ticked on. His mouth felt dry, and sweat, rank from alcohol, ran down his back. Could I have imagined it? Was I simply looking for something I could bring back to Hawke? Like a scolded dog – a wolf – trying to get in the good graces of his master again?
"It's not like that," he hissed to himself, accidentally saying it out loud. His voice was too loud in his ears, and he winced. It knows I'm here now.
As if in answer, the sound started again, but different. Hopeful? He scanned the clearing again, and finally saw it: not a rock, and probably not a demon. A little halla, far too young to be away from a herd, raised its head and whimpered.
It could still be a trap. Fenris sheathed one dagger as he crept forward, readying himself to dive out of the way whenever its mother charged at him. Or the demon using it as bait. But nothing attacked him. The fawn never shapeshifted into something else, or ran away, only bleated piteously. As he neared, he saw why: an enormous gash on its leg. Whether it had been caused by the boar that had nearly gored him earlier seemed too coincidental, and also irrelevant to the problem at hand.
"Where's your mother?" he asked it. The only halla he knew of in the area were dead and buried at the Dalish camp.
It flicked an ear and tried to stand, but its back leg was too injured, or it was simply too weak from blood loss or fear. Fenris caught it as it wobbled and collapsed, then frowned. Now what? He couldn't just leave it here. But what could he do with it? The Sabrae clan would know how to care for it, but they wouldn't welcome him without Hawke in tow, and that was just... not an option right now.
Even if the idea of talking to him again didn't make his chest tight, it was impractical and absurd to carry a halla back to Kirkwall just to ask Hawke to help him escort it to the Dalish. "You are proving troublesome already," he murmured, but with no real malice. It trembled in his arms, but it was soft and warm and when was the last time a living breathing creature had been in his arms? Don't think about Hawke.
The fawn made another noise, almost like a hiccup, and twisted around to bite his nose. gently. It let go almost immediately and gave him an affronted look that he couldn't help but laugh at. "Sorry, little one. I fear I'm not equipped for nursing."
He bounced it lightly in his arms as he considered his options. Anders might know of a wet nurse who could help him wean the fawn, but it seemed absurd to ask for his help for something so... trivial. The mage would give a man the shirt off his back if he believed it necessary, but with the survival of every poor Kirkwaller already on his mind, an abandoned halla would likely look more like a food source than a patient.
Aveline and Varric would be useless. Sebastian too, for that matter. Which left Merrill, who probably should've been his first choice to start with: she was Dalish, pariah or not, and had probably helped raise halla before anyway, or at least knew what not to do. He sighed and started heading back.
Smuggling a halla into the city proved far simpler than Fenris expected. Perhaps, with his hood off, the guards recognized him and didn't want to make trouble for any friend of Aveline's, though 'friend' stretched the truth a bit. He trusted them all, at least in a fight, but Bela and Hawke had been the only two Fenris had felt close to, though for wildly different reasons.
Being recognized was something that took some reacclimating to. Everyone who was anyone had known of Danarius' Little Wolf, so, even as a slave, he'd been afforded some measure of respect, though he recognized it for fear of his former master than any reflection on his own prowess. Since his escape, he'd been just another knife-ear to those not hunting him, and the change had been refreshing and jarring, but now, as Hawke had accidentally climbed the social ranks, he was starting to be known again, if nothing else as an associate of the Madman of Kirkwall. It was a blessing and a curse.
Once he was past the gate guards, Fenris ducked down an alley to unwrap the fawn. It had been remarkably docile about being bundled up like a package, or perhaps it was simply too exhausted or hurt to fight him. It wobbled and tried to stand again as he put it down to refasten his cloak over his shoulders, then bleated in annoyance and butted at his knee.
"Patience, small one," he chastised it. "I'm working on it."
It settled back into his arms with a wet snort against his throat, and he patted its flank in a way that he hoped it found comforting before pulling the cloak back around it and winding his way down the stairs toward the alienage. He hated it there, more than he hated Darktown, even if it did smell better. There was an air of petty pride about it, completely at odds with its shabby squalor, as if the elves here were just waiting for their time to shine. It reminded him of the brawls he saw among slaves back in Tevinter, everyone determined to prove their master was the kindest and strongest. Conditioning at its finest, really: who needs whips and chains if the subjugated happily silenced dissenters unprompted?
Merrill's door was open as he neared. He peeked in cautiously, not wanting to interrupt, but at the same time, the fawn was starting to try to eat his collar, and the bristly hairs around its muzzle tickled.
"M-" her name caught in his throat as he realized he'd never actually addressed her as anything but 'witch.' He swallowed and tried again. "Merrill?"
She was reading at her table and jumped at his greeting. "Oh, Fenris, what a surprising... surprise!"
"Yes. Very." He started to walk inside, then stopped. "May I come in?"
"Of course, any friend of – I mean, yes!" She smiled at him a little crookedly, still welcoming, but also wary, and he couldn’t blame her. "Does Hawke need something?"
"I haven't seen him since yesterday." Probably not a lie; he hadn't looked at the clock before he fled.
"Oh. He was – anyway, I'm sure he understands you were upset, but it might –" She tilted her head curiously. "Do you need something then?"
Rather than trying to explain, he knelt at the door and tugged the cloak away to reveal his new charge. "It was alone. And hurt."
Merril crouched down as she approached and held out her hand gently. "And you brought him to me?"
"I – yes." Maybe this was a bad idea. "I thought you might know how to care for it. Or could take it to –"
"They want nothing to do with me," she interrupted harshly. "Even if I did bring them a, a gift."
The halla bleated and snuffled at her fingers hungrily. The hard look in her eyes vanished immediately as she scratched behind its ear.
He chewed at his lip, worried he'd simply brought it here to die. "Can you help?" he asked. "It probably needs... can it eat yet?"
"Halla can be weaned early, but you'll need to get it some milk." She sat back on her heels. "Mix it with greens, mash it up. Lyna has a goat that's still nursing. You can probably trade for milk. And you have a garden, right?"
He blinked. "Me?"
"Well of course you," she said matter of factly. "You're its parent now."
"But you're an elf." He realized how silly that sounded the moment he said it. "Dalish, I mean."
"What does that matter?" She asked. "It trusts you, Fenris. Not me."
"It just let you pet it," he pointed out.
"Yes, because you were holding it." She stood up. "That gash on its leg needs to be cleaned and healed, you should take it to Anders."
He just didn’t have the fortitude to have another row with the abomination over the hypocrisy of man and magic on no sleep and still haunted by unremembered dreams of family. "I considered it," he said slowly, "but was worried someone down might decide I was carrying around an easy meal."
Dark purple magic glowed at her fingertips. "Then I'll have put it –"
"You will do no such thing, witch!" Fenris scooped up the fawn and backed away.
"– to sleep so we can stitch it up," she finished, then pursed her lips. "Honestly, Fenris, the things you think are downright nasty."
It was like Hawke snapping about that slave all over again. I gave her a fuckin' job, Fenris. Shame washed through him as he hung his head. "I apologize. It has been a strange day and I'm not... feeling myself."
She didn't accept it, but she didn't argue with him either. "Put it on the table, I'll get some thread and elfroot."
He did as she asked, and didn't quite hide the wince as it jerked and went still under her touch. Sleep spells were frightening, nearly as much as blood magic. The idea of losing all awareness, all control, and being completely at another's mercy was one that had haunted him for years. Even regular sleep was often difficult to attain, and that, in part, was why he'd continued to put an enormous dent in the mansion's wine cellar.
As its little chest rose and fell, Fenris' own breathing eased. It wasn't that he didn’t trust Merrill’s intentions – far from it. She was probably the most upfront of all his acquaintances, but she was also the most scattered, and far more likely to kill a man accidentally than intentionally. As he mulled on that rather terrifying dichotomy, she put the needle and thread in front of him.
He frowned at it. "I'm no healer."
"But you have steady hands and know how to sew." She pointed at the patched seams of his tunic. "You've been repairing that so long it's more thread than shirt."
She had a point. He'd become rather adept at fixing his gear, and, really, there wasn't much difference between sewing leather as opposed to living hide.
It didn't take long to clean the wound. The halla was so small that the gash looked much bigger than it actually was, despite running from hip almost to hoof. He felt at its leg carefully as he rinsed it off and prayed he'd find nothing broken; feet were delicate things, full of tiny little bones that could cause all kinds of pain, and the thought of this little creature being permanently lamed by any negligence on his part made his chest tight.
Once it was clean, he smeared its leg with the elfroot ointment, then Merrill helped press the flesh together to give Fenris enough space to begin stitching. He'd sewn up his own injuries in the past, but the thickness of the skin and hair proved more challenging than he anticipated; twice, his fingers slipped and he jabbed Merrill in the thumb, but she barely reacted.
Can she even feel things in her fingers anymore? He'd seen how often she'd bled herself in fights, and wondered if her hands were more scar than skin. It took the better part of an hour and an additional sleep spell for him to finish closing up the cut, but when he was done, the lines were clean and neat, with no skin puckered between the threads or stretched too tight.
A thought occurred to him when Fenris was done, so he lifted its leg carefully to check. A boy halla. He ran his fingers along his handiwork once more; touch could find more imperfections than sight ever would. Satisfied, he sat back and rolled his shoulders to try to ease the tension and stiffness. "Now what?" he asked.
His lyrium prickled as she dispelled the sleep. "Now we find some food."
The halla bleated plaintively and tried to stand, but Fenris pushed him back down firmly. "No, little one, you're not ruining my work." He turned and tried to bite his thumb, then gave him a look he could only describe as 'pouty.'
He sighed and fished a sovereign out of his belt pouch. "Could you get that goat's milk and some... whatever else you think it would take mixed in? I fear I'm stuck keeping him from trying to run."
She smiled brightly. "A whole sovereign will buy milk for a week, should I ask Lyna to deliver it every day?"
A week? He hadn't thought beyond today, beyond making certain his injuries were fixed and getting some food immediately, but now, looking down at his soulful pleading eyes, it was obvious this wasn't a short term obligation. "I - yes. Thank you."
Merrill carried the goat's milk and a bag of 'things that are good for him' back to the mansion while he carried the halla. He made a bed for him out of torn up cushions and old carpet, feeling foolish the whole time, but it was nice to do something for him, even if the something was pointless. It was slow going doing it with only one hand, but until he could get him fed, he was afraid to put the halla down.
Once the bedding was arranged to his satisfaction, Merrill showed him how to make his dinner. She warmed the milk in a pan high above the fire, boiled oats (the apparent 'something good for him'), and chopped up a few dandelions she'd pulled out of his overgrown mess of a garden.
"You're lucky, this one is old enough that you won't have to stimulate its bowels."
Fenris looked up in alarm. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Newborns can't go to the bathroom without help." Her face twisted into a wistful smile. "Tamlen and I used to hide under the aravels when it was foaling season."
"Tamlen was... a friend in your clan?" He'd been there when Marethari had blamed the mirror for his death. At the time, it hadn't mattered to him: just further proof that the witch was dangerous and impulsive, but now, he wasn't so sure. Certainly she was dangerous, and impulsive, but she wasn't stupid, and she certainly wasn't evil.
She shook her head. "More than a friend. More than family. He and Theron were... everything. And now they're gone."
"I'm sorry." It was cold comfort offered months - years - too late, but it was all he had.
"Are you really?" she asked, tone sharp. "Or do you simply wish it hadn't happened so you wouldn't have to wonder when I'll turn into a demon?"
Her vehemence was sudden and entirely warranted. Before Hadrianna, everything had been so much simpler. Mages did terrible things, and everyone else suffered. But now he'd done something terrible too: killed a woman in cold blood as she begged for mercy, killed her after he'd promised not to. Killed her for every slight, every torment, every harsh word he'd ever endured under her supervision. Killed her for telling him he had a past. That he had a sister.
"I don't remember my family," he offered. "Until yesterday, I didn't know I had one." He paused, picking over his words carefully, like trying to sound out a sentence, only this time it was a thought. "I'm sorry you lost that. I –" his throat tightened up, choking off his voice and he looked away.
Merrill touched his elbow. "Fenris, what's happened?" she asked softly.
"Nothing." It was true, too. Nothing had happened. No memories had come back, at least not to stay. No family to be found. No Hawke to... "Nothing," he repeated, mouth tasting like sour wine and bile.
"Nothing can be altogether too much," Merrill said quietly. "There was no way to find Tamlen, and nothing I could do for Theron." The kettle whistled, and she jumped and yanked her hand away.
As she poured the water over the greens and mashed them up, she continued, seeming to talk to herself and not him. It was probably deliberate, but Fenris appreciated it all the same; truth was sometimes easier to look at from an angle rather than head on. "I think nothing is harder than something, really. What can you do about things that didn't happen? Not you, you, I mean, just –"
"I slept with him," he blurted out. "With Hawke."
She looked up and frowned. "That doesn’t sound like 'nothing' to me."
Fenris ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "It... wasn't," he admitted. "But it didn't... go as I'd hoped."
She put down the fork and gave him a worried look. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"
He shook his head. "No."
"Oh, well that's good." She went back to mashing the greens. "I'd be very cross with him if he had." The way she said it made his skin want to crawl off and hide under the table. It was so casual, so completely without malice, yet chillingly full of murderous intent all at once. Did he dare tell her that it was Hawke who'd been hurt? Left standing at the bedside looking just as lost as the halla in his lap?
She'd find out sooner or later, so probably better to rip the bandage off now.
"I think I hurt him though." Fenris licked his lips. "When I... left. The memories were –" how could he describe it? Remembering that he remembered, but not what? "They were too much," he finished lamely.
"Oh, Fenris," she sighed sympathetically. "That sounds awful. Some of the elves the clan took in from Denerim and Highever had nightmares for weeks and they'd been through far less. But you didn't mean to hurt him, so there's no reason for me to be cross." She started to reach for him again, then shook her head and continued assaulting the poor dandelions. "These things take time. Don't fret. Hawke can bounce back from anything." She giggled. "On anything too, if what Isabela said is true."
Fenris couldn’t help but snort. "It is." She'd guessed wrong about what sort of memories had been the problem, but trying to explain otherwise was pointless.
Merrill dumped the simmered goat's milk and the oatmeal into the greens, then stirred until it was a uniform slop: too runny to be a paste, too thick to be a soup. "Dinner's ready," she said cheerfully, all mention of Hawke forgotten. Well, not forgotten, so much as deliberately ignored. She folded a cheesecloth – Have I always had that? – into a square, then scooped out a dollop of the concoction into the middle, twisted up the edges, and handed it to him. "Hopefully he'll take to this."
Februs eyed it skeptically. The smell wasn't unpleasant, but it certainly wasn't appetizing, and he offered the wad to the fawn. He sniffed at it curiously for a moment, then latched on, sucking greedily.
"Well, he seems amenable," he chuckled.
Merrill clapped her hands softly and grinned. It took only a few minutes before the cheesecloth was empty of liquid, and the halla bleated in annoyance as it ran dry.
Fenris tugged the makeshift bottle free and looked at Merrill apologetically. "I'm not sure I have enough hands."
"You'll figure it out," she said with firm confidence that he found difficult to share as she took it back and refilled it with a much bigger portion. "But in the meantime, I'll come by morning and night to help."
"You must have better things to do than this," he protested weakly. The help *would be welcome, but what was the cost?
"Nonsense," she answered. "This is probably the only halla for miles, maybe leagues. What kind of elf would I be if I didn't?"