Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Orana had always been a slave, and she was a good slave, too. So was her papa. It had always been her and her papa against the world, but now…

Now, she was shaking, following three strangers as they led her through a miserable foreign landscape, away from the caves where life as she knew it had ended. She walked a few paces behind them, her new Mistress and her two friends, a dark-skinned woman and a dwarf. The woman and the dwarf were talking, but she couldn’t hear them. Their voices sounded far away. It felt like she was underwater — everything muted, muffled, slow.

The ground was uneven, and slick with mud from the rain. Every so often, she stumbled, and her new Mistress would stop and wait for her to get her bearings. It sent fear shivering down her spine — every time she expected to be scolded, beaten, more bruises she’d have to cover with makeup later. The blows she expected never came, which only added to her dread. Mercy now meant a world of pain was awaiting her at the Mistress’ estate. Distantly, she realized she didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore.

The scenery changed — they’d made it to the city, Kirkwall. Faces and buildings flashed by. “We’ll be there soon,” Mistress said. “You’ll have food, and a place to rest. You’re safe now.”

Orana nodded politely. As safe as a slave can be, in the care of a new Master, she thought.

By the time they reached the estate in Hightown, her vision was swimming, her feet were raw and muddy, and her dress was ruined. She mindlessly followed the Mistress inside. A dwarf with an easy manner Orana didn’t understand met them at the door. He said something to Mistress Hawke, something too familiar and concerned. Slaves weren’t supposed to speak to their masters that way —  but then, no one here seemed to know how things were supposed to work.

As the Mistress began doffing her armor, her attention landed on Orana. “Maker’s breath, you’re soaked through,” she remarked, setting down her equipment before turning to the dwarf. “Bodahn, could you—show her to a room? Somewhere quiet.”

“Of course, serah.”

Orana didn’t move until Mistress Hawke’s hand touched her elbow, guiding her gently forward. The contact made her flinch, though the touch itself was soft. “You’re safe here,” the Mistress repeated, and Orana nodded again, though she didn’t believe it.

The dwarf — Bodahn — led her down a hallway that smelled faintly of wood polish and something baking. The floor was too clean for her dirty feet — every footstep felt like a violation of unspoken rules. At the end of the hall, Bodahn held a door open. “You’ll have the guest room for now,” he said. “There’s water to wash with, and I’ll bring you something to eat.”

Orana stepped inside. The room was larger than any she’d ever seen given to a slave. There was a bed—just one bed—and she hesitated before sitting on it. The mattress sank under her weight. She rose immediately, certain she wasn’t supposed to touch it.

When Bodahn left, the silence pressed in. Orana stood in the middle of the room, unsure what to do with herself. The urge to clean overtook her like muscle memory. She found a rag on a shelf and began wiping the already spotless table. She lasted until her knees gave out. Then she sat on the floor beside the bed, clutching the rag like a lifeline. Images returned in fragments. She remembered her father falling, remembered reaching for him and being pulled back. Remembered his blood on her hands, and the sound of fighting as Danarius’ little wolf enacted his revenge. She felt as if she ought to blame him for all this, but Orana had never been good at keeping hate in her heart, and she let go of the feeling. It was quickly replaced with grief, despair, and — panic.

Orana pressed her palms to her ears and squeezed her eyes shut, as if that could block it all out. Her breaths came quick, shallow. She didn’t know how long she spent like that, rocking herself back and forth, listening to the sound of her heart beating in her ears. It could have been hours, or minutes, or days. When she opened her eyes again, the rag was damp where her tears had fallen. The candle by the door had burned halfway down.

A soft knock startled her. Hawke’s voice came through the door. “Orana? May I come in?”

Orana scrambled to her feet. “Yes, Mistress.”

Hawke entered quietly, a tray in her hands—bread, cheese, a steaming cup of tea. “You should eat something,” she said, setting it down on the table. Her armor was gone now, replaced by a simple tunic. She looked less like a warrior and more like—well, Orana didn’t know what word fit.

“Thank you, Mistress,” Orana said automatically.

Mistress Hawke hesitated, studying her. “You don’t have to call me that, you know. You’re free now. You aren’t a slave anymore.”

Orana blinked. What? “I… Mistress, I don’t understand. Are you turning me away?” she asked. The thought scared her. She didn’t want to be alone. She wouldn’t know what to do.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” she said. “You’re welcome here. In fact, I’d even be open to giving you a job. Would that be something you want?”

Orana furrowed her brows. Mistress Hawke wasn’t making any sense. What did it matter what Orana wanted? It was up to Mistress to tell Orana what to do, wasn’t it? Did she expect Orana to ask for work? What purpose would that serve? What was she even supposed to ask for?

Orana swallowed roughly. “I’m a good worker, Mistress. I’ll do any job you ask of me,” she offered. Hopefully that was the right response.

Lady Hawke smiled, but there was something sad about it. “I’m sure you would, but that’s not really what I meant. I was asking if you’d like to be officially employed by us. You would be paid a fair wage for your work, and we’d house you and feed you,” she explained.

Orana stared at Mistress, uncomprehending.

Hawke sighed. “You are familiar with the concept of paid servants, right? I know they have them in Tevinter — free people who work for money.”

Orana nodded.

“That’s what I’m offering you, Orana,” she continued. “You aren’t a slave anymore — slavery is illegal in the Free Marches, you know. You are free, and I am asking if you would like to work for me, as a free woman. You would be free to leave at any time, you would be paid, and you would never have to fear reprisal. How does that sound?”

Orana was quiet for a long moment. Her head was spinning. That word, free, was so… It couldn’t be true. This was surely a test, a way for her new Mistress to gauge her loyalty. She wouldn’t want a slave with delusions of freedom, after all.

“I — that won’t be necessary, Mistress. I’m a good slave, I don’t need such things. I promise to be loyal to you,” said Orana, bowing her head reverentially. When she returned her attention to Hawke’s face, she found that her new mistress did not look pleased. She didn’t look unpleased, per se, she just looked… Sad.

Kaffas. She’d said the wrong thing. Orana frantically thought of all the different ways she knew to apologize, to beg her mistress’s forgiveness and avoid a verbal lashing, if not a physical one. But before she could do anything, Hawke gently rested her hand on Orana’s shoulder. “Orana, I am not offering you freedom — you already have it, whether you want it or not. I will not allow you to work for me without being paid. If that’s what you want, you will have to find someone else to work for. Do you understand?”

Orana nodded, but really, she didn’t understand at all. Why would Mistress Hawke insist on paying her? She’d never had money before. She wouldn’t even know what to do with it. She knew what money could buy, of course. It could buy food, it could buy property, it could buy slaves. But what need did she have for food if she could simply eat her mistress’ leftovers? What need did she have for property if she could sleep in her mistress’ house? Orana didn’t even think about buying slaves — even if it were possible, the idea was patently absurd. What was she supposed to use money for, if not those things? And why would Hawke pay Orana, when Orana had made it very clear she would happily work for free?

Some of Orana’s confusion must have shown on her face, because Hawke sighed defeatedly and let her hand fall to her side. “I understand this is a lot to take in. We’ll work on it, okay? Just try to remember that I don’t own you, and I’ll never punish you, or hurt you, or make you do something you don’t want to do. Okay?”

Orana nodded. Hawke would be a kind and merciful mistress. That much, she could understand.

Hawke smiled, and the praise gave Orana a rush of satisfaction. She patiently waited for her mistress’ next instructions. “Well, Bodahn will write up a contract for you with all the details, but this will be your room for now, and we’ll have to get a key made for you to come and go as you please. Your duties will be housework like cooking and cleaning — we can adjust that, if you have a preference. You’ll work from Monday through Friday, and you can take weekends off. If you want to take another day off sometime during the week, just let me know ahead of time. Is that okay?”

Orana’s instinct was to agree with whatever her mistress wished, but she hesitated. Slaves don’t get days off — the concept was foreign to Orana. What was she supposed to do if she couldn’t work? She wanted to ask Hawke this, but it felt like a terribly silly question. Her mistress insisted that Orana was a free woman, but free women — women like Hawke — don’t need instructions on how to take time off. They just know.

It was taking Orana too long to answer, and Hawke tilted her head inquisitively. “Orana?”

Orana took a deep breath. It might be a silly question, but Mistress Hawke was kind, and she’d promised not to hurt Orana. “Forgive me, Mistress Hawke, it’s just… what do you want me to do on weekends, if I can’t work?”

Hawke hesitated before answering. “It’s not… It’s not about what I want you to do. Orana, your time off is yours to do with as you please. If you want to work, you can, and I will still pay you. But you don’t have to, and that’s the important thing.”

It was an odd relief, knowing she could still work on the weekends if she wanted. Work was familiar. Work was expected. “Thank you, mistress,” said Orana, and she meant it.

After Hawke dismissed Orana, she swiftly got to work. She spent the rest of the day doing laundry, cleaning dishes, scrubbing mud off the floor, and dusting the furniture. Even after all her chores were done, Orana found ways to keep working. She cleaned the soot out of the fireplace. She beat the rugs. She reorganized the pantry. One of Leandra’s dresses had a small hole in it where moths had eaten through it, and Orana found a sewing kit and patched it up, good as new. The sun had long since set, and Orana was still working.

Orana was glad for the work. When she was working, she could almost forget that Papa was gone.

Almost.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Orana woke early, as she always did, and set to work preparing breakfast for the household. She worked quietly, not wanting to wake anyone, the rhythmic sound of chopping vegetables and the soft crackle of the skillet keeping her company. As the sun’s first light seeped through the windows, Bodahn entered the kitchen, his stout frame silhouetted against the doorway. He held a bundle of parchment and a warm smile.

“Ah, Orana! There you are,” he said brightly, setting the papers on the kitchen table. “Mistress Hawke asked me to finalize the contract with you. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Orana wiped her hands on her apron and shook her head, puzzled. “No, Master Bodahn. What do you need me to do?”

Bodahn waved a hand dismissively. “Now, now, none of that ‘master’ business. Call me Bodahn, hmm?”

Orana nodded shyly. “Okay, Ser Bodahn,” she said.

Bodahn chuckled. “Well, close enough, I suppose. Now come, take a seat! This shouldn’t take long, but we might as well be comfortable,” he said. Bodahn settled himself at the table and carefully smoothed out the parchment he’d brought with him.

Orana hesitated. It felt wrong to sit at the dining table, where Mistress Hawke and Mistress Leandra and their guests sat. But Bodahn had pulled out a chair and sat down like it was the most natural thing in the world, looking at her like he expected her to follow suit. So, she approached the seat next to him and perched herself only halfway on the seat, back stiff and hands folded in her lap.

Bodahn smiled at Orana with what she thought was approval, then gestured at the parchment in front of them. “I’ve written up this contract just as Mistress Hawke instructed. It’s an agreement to make sure everything is fair and proper between you and the household.”

Orana nodded but felt a twinge of apprehension. She didn’t know what to expect from this. Contracts were something magisters and merchants dealt with—certainly not slaves.

“Now, all you’ll need to do is sign at the bottom, and we’ll be all set.”

Orana’s heart sank, looking at the parchment. The elegant, looping script swirled across the page pretty and neat and utterly indecipherable. She dropped her gaze, her hands fidgeting in her lap.

“Something the matter, my dear?” Bodahn asked gently, catching the way her fingers twisted anxiously.

Orana’s cheeks burned. “I can’t read,” she admitted. “It isn’t allowed in Tevinter. For slaves, I mean. I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Oh, no need to apologize!” Bodahn said brightly, as if the admission were nothing at all. “Plenty of folk can’t read—it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Really, I should have guessed. Tell you what -- I’ll read it out loud, and we’ll go through it together. How does that sound?”

Orana blinked at him, unsure how to respond. “Oh… Okay.”

Bodahn flashed a warm smile at Orana, then cleared his throat and turned his attention to the parchment in front of them. “This Employment Agreement,” he began, “is hereby entered into on the fifth day of Kingsway in the year 9:35, by and between the Amell Estate, herein referred to as ‘the Employer,’ and the individual known as Orana, herein referred to as ‘the Employee.’...”

Orana’s head spun as Bodahn continued, his words quickly becoming a blur of unfamiliar terms, like “compensatory” and “dispensation”. She wanted to ask Bodahn to stop, but the words died on her lips at the idea of interrupting him, of wasting his time.

But Bodahn, ever perceptive, paused mid-sentence. “You look a bit lost there, lass,” he said gently. “What’s on your mind?”

Orana blinked, startled by the kindness in his tone. She was not used to being asked what she thought. “I… I don’t understand what some of those words mean,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

To her surprise, Bodahn only nodded. “Aye, no shame in that. This is all a bit of legal mumbo-jumbo, isn’t it? Let’s break it down, then, shall we?” He grinned, and Orana found herself nodding hesitantly.

Bodahn began again, this time explaining each clause in simpler terms. He patiently described how the contract outlined the scope of her work, so that everything was fair and everyone knew what sort of arrangement they were agreeing to.

“‘In consideration for her services, the Employee’ -- that’s you -- ‘shall receive a daily wage of seventy five silvers, to be tendered at the conclusion of each workweek.’ That just means you’ll get paid every Friday, and you’ll get paid according to how many days you worked that week,” Bodahn explained. “‘The Employee shall retain full control over the use and dispensation of said wages, and the Employer shall neither demand nor request repayment of any portion thereof.’ That means your money is yours, lass! No-one can tell you what to do with it or make you give it up.”

“Oh -- except for Mistress Hawke, you mean?” asked Orana.

“ Including Miss Hawke, my dear! Your wages are yours . Not even Miss Hawke can take them from you, or she’d be breaking the law.”

Orana’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Why would Miss Hawke agree to such a thing? It’s her money, after all.”

“It isn’t her money, lass, it’s yours! You’ll have earned it from all the work you do to keep the house in order, and the money you earn, you keep. You can do whatever you like with it, and if anyone takes it from you, it’s theft. Making sense so far, my dear?”

Orana hesitated. It didn’t make sense, not really, but she didn’t have the words to explain why . She’d never owned anything that her masters couldn’t take from her at a moment’s notice. Even her time was not her own -- it belonged to her masters, because she belonged to her masters. She supposed that’s why getting paid was so strange to her -- in her mind, her time belonged to Mistress Hawke, and why would Mistress Hawke pay for something she already owned?

It hit her, in that moment, that she wasn’t owned, not anymore. Mistress Hawke had to pay her for her time because she was free . People kept telling her she was free, again and again, but Orana hadn’t really believed it until now. Something about having a contract made that so much more real, somehow. Hearing Bodahn reading it out loud, explaining what Hawke could and couldn’t ask her to do, the things she could ask for, what she could refuse to do -- it was overwhelming, because it proved she was really free.

Orana didn’t know how to be free.

“Everything alright there, lass?” Bodahn’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts.

Orana didn’t know, but she nodded anyway, and Bodahn continued.

With every clause explained, every page turned, it all got more and more surreal . She felt like she was only half-there, only half registering Bodahn’s voice saying things like “The Employee retains the right to refuse any specific task if the task is deemed unsafe, unethical, or contrary to her convictions, without fear of reprisal or penalty,” or  “the Employee may terminate her engagement at any time, with or without cause, upon providing oral or written notice to the Employer.”

Or best of all, “It is expressly agreed that the Employee shall be regarded as a free and autonomous individual under this Agreement.”

Orana didn’t know what autonomous meant, not until Bodahn explained it, but the word free rang in her ears like a mission bell. Such a simple word, but it meant so much.

By the time Bodahn finished reading, her head swam with unfamiliar concepts—freedom, dignity, fairness. It felt too good to be true, but it was all written right there, laid out in black ink.

“Well, my dear, do you agree to the terms?” Bodahn asked, setting down the contract.

Orana hesitated. This wasn’t a joke, was it? It felt like a dream.

If it was a dream, then the choice was easy. “I agree,” she said.

“Splendid!” Bodahn exclaimed. “I’ll just sign for you then, shall I?”

Orana nodded. Bodahn picked up the quill he’d brought with him and carefully signed at the bottom of the page, his handwriting neat and precise. Then he handed her a second copy. “This one’s yours to keep, lass!.”

Orana held the contract with a delicate grip, afraid to wrinkle it or tear it. “Thank you, Ser Bodahn,” she said, “I’ll keep it safe.”

***

That night, Orana sat at the edge of her bed in her nightclothes, gazing at the contract in her hands as if she could understand it if she just stared at it long enough. Here it was, the proof of her freedom made physical. She could hold it, touch it, fold it carefully and tuck it away in the small drawer beside her bed. The only thing she couldn’t do was read it. She let out a defeated sigh. What good was it, this proof of her freedom, if she needed someone else to know what it said?

She thought about how quickly her life had changed. Just a few days ago, everything had been decided for her—what she wore, when she ate, where she slept. There had been a comfort in that simplicity. She hadn’t had to make choices, hadn’t had to think about what she wanted, because what she wanted had never mattered.

Now, papa was dead, and Orana was free. She’d never again be beaten or whipped for the slightest mistake, she’d never again be denied meals or sleep, she’d never again be forced to work until her fingers bled. She’d also never see Papa again, and from now on, she had to think about what she wanted, make decisions, and all the other things free people had to do. It was daunting.

Orana took a deep breath and placed her contract on her bedside table. Those are tomorrow’s problems , she thought as she slipped beneath her covers. Now, it’s time to sleep .

Chapter Text

Orana was polishing the foyer’s banister when the knock came. It startled her, set her heart racing — she’d never done well with sudden noises. She took a deep breath to calm herself and opened the door to find Fenris on the stoop. He looked… drained.

Orana hesitated for a moment — she hadn’t expected it to be him. “Mistress Hawke is out,” she said. She realized belatedly that she’d forgotten her manners and worried that Fenris would be offended.

But all he said was, “I’ll wait.” His voice was even, but he wasn’t quite looking at her.

“Of course, ser.” She stepped aside and gestured to the foyer. He nodded once and walked in, standing where the light from the window fell across the floor. He didn’t remove his armor. Orana offered tea out of habit, but he declined, so she left him there and went back to her work.

She spent the next while cleaning the sitting room, dusting corners. The faint scrape of boots against the tile made her glance toward the hall again. She heard voices — Hawke’s low, Fenris’ rougher reply. She couldn’t make out the words. She’d gone back to the kitchen to put away dishes when she heard something — a faint thump, like someone bumping into the wall. Curious, she peeked back into the hall.

At first, all she saw was Mistress Hawke’s back. Then she realized Fenris was trapped between Hawke and the wall, her hands pressed against his chest, his back against the stone. Before Orana could fully process what she was seeing, Hawke kissed him. It wasn’t exactly gentle — it was hungry, demanding. Fenris didn’t move at first. Then he did, leaning forward, eyes closed, returning the kiss. She remembered, then, the rumors she’d heard about Fenris when she was in Tevinter — rumors about him warming Danarius’ bed.

She stepped back before they could see her and hurried down the corridor to her room, heart thudding against her ribs. She told herself it wasn’t her business, that it didn’t matter. But when she reached her room, she shut the door and leaned against it, staring at nothing.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, she thought. Mistress Hawke was kind. Different. She’d promised. And wasn’t Fenris supposed to be free? He’d run away all those years ago. Had he simply traded one master for another? Maybe this was just the cost of freedom.

Orana went to bed and forced her mind blank. Tomorrow was laundry day.

***

The next few days, Mistress Hawke was different. She smiled less, spoke less, and spent more time alone in her study. Fenris didn’t come by again.

Orana didn’t know what to make of it. It wasn’t her place to ask, and yet… she couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. The mistress looked the way she used to feel after being punished— hollowed out, empty.

One afternoon, Orana brought tea into the study. Mistress Hawke was there, staring at the same page of a book she hadn’t turned in ten minutes.

“Would you like me to bring dinner here tonight, Mistress?” Orana asked softly.

Hawke looked up, blinking like she’d just remembered where she was. “Hm? Oh — no, thank you. I’ll eat later.”

Orana hesitated. “Forgive me, Mistress, but… are you unwell?”

Hawke’s lips pressed together before she managed a faint smile. “No, just tired. It’s been a long week.”

Orana nodded. She hesitated again, then said quietly, “If it’s about Ser Fenris… I didn’t mean to see anything, the other night. I only heard a noise and went to check.”

That made Hawke pause. Her expression changed — confusion first, then realization. “Oh, you… saw us together?”

Orana lowered her eyes. “When you came home. I saw you with him in the foyer. Against the wall.” She swallowed. “I didn’t tell anyone. I understand. You don’t need to explain yourself.”

Hawke stared at her, clearly unsure what she was hearing. “You understand… what, exactly?”

Orana hesitated. “Well, the arrangement you and Ser Fenris have,” she answered. When Hawke looked no less confused, she continued, “You were very kind to him, Mistress. He didn’t look frightened. I’m sure it’s much more agreeable to him than when he served Danarius. I don’t know much about Danarius, but I heard how cruel he was to Fenris, in the nights,” she explained.

For a moment, Hawke said nothing. Abruptly, she stood from her desk and turned away from Orana. Her voice, when it came, was shaky. “You misunderstood what you saw, Orana.”

Orana frowned. “Apologies, I only—”

“Please,” Hawke said, and Orana couldn’t tell if she was angry or sad, “leave me, Orana.”

Orana’s chest tightened, fear settling in her stomach. “Yes, Mistress,” she said, bowing her head and backing toward the door. She didn’t understand what she’d said wrong, but she worried that she’d pay for it later.

She closed the door gently behind her. For a moment, she stood in the hall, unsure what to do. Then, from the other side of the door, she heard a sound — faint, but unmistakable.

Mistress Hawke was crying. Quiet, broken sobs that no one was meant to hear. Suddenly, Orana realized how wrong she’d been — people didn’t cry like that over slaves, or mere bedwarmers. People only cried like that over people they loved.

Orana realized, then, the magnitude of what she’d just revealed about Fenris’ past — if Hawke was in love with Fenris, knowing he’d been hurt like that must be awful.

She felt shame rise up her throat, a bitter taste. She wanted to knock, to explain, to apologize properly, but she didn’t. She only stayed until the sounds faded, then walked back to her room.

She laid on her bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling. Freedom, she thought, was a confusing thing.

Chapter Text

The first time Orana went grocery shopping was the first time she realized how little she knew about money.

For as long as she could remember, her life had been dictated by others—orders, duties, expectations. She’d never had to think about money before, not in the way free people did. Coins were simply a thing to be exchanged between magisters and merchants. She wasn’t part of those conversations; her role had been to carry the goods, not to question how much they cost. The concept of earning her own money was strange enough, but the idea that she had control over how to spend it? That was a freedom she had never imagined she could have.

She had been working for Hawke for two weeks when the pantry began to run low. There was no bread left, and the vegetables were nearly gone. Orana had been saving her wages, slowly building up a small pouch of sovereigns from the work she’d done over the past week, so Orana decided to take the initiative and go to the market herself. She felt proud as she tucked five sovereigns -- her five sovereigns -- into a coin pouch, eager to contribute to the household she was beginning to feel a part of.

She decided to leave her silvers behind. She knew they weren’t worth as much, and honestly, she wasn’t sure why anyone would even want them, since they were strictly worse than sovereigns.

As she approached the stalls, a strange mix of pride and fear filled her chest. This was the first time she would be buying something for herself—or, rather, for Hawke. She had never needed to ask for prices before, never needed to question a merchant. It felt like stepping into unknown territory.

The first stall sold fresh bread. Orana held up a sovereign, hesitating. “Is this enough?” she asked, her voice quiet, uncertain.

The merchant blinked at the coin, then quickly nodded. “More than enough,” he said, handing her the bread with a strange smile.

Orana repeated the same process at the vegetable stalls, offering a sovereign each time. Each time she presented a sovereign, the merchant would smile, quickly take the coin, and hand her the goods. By the time she returned to the estate, her pouch was empty, but her arms were full of groceries.

When Hawke returned home that evening, she noticed the groceries right away.

“Did you go to the market today, Orana?”

Orana nodded. “Yes, mistress. I thought we needed more bread, and the greens were running low…”

“That was thoughtful,” Hawke said with a smile. “Did you use the money I left on the table?”

Orana shook her head. “No, mistress. I used my own.” She lowered her eyes slightly, unsure if that was the right thing to say.

Hawke frowned, though not with anger. “I appreciate the thought, Orana, but I don’t want you to spend your wages on the household. I’m responsible for providing the necessities. Your wages are for you .”

“Yes, mistress -- my apologies, I didn’t think --”

“No need to apologize, Orana, just something to remember next time. Now, how much did you pay? I’ll reimburse you,” said Hawke, reaching for her coin purse.

Orana felt herself blush, feeling equal parts embarrassed by her mistake and overwhelmed by Hawke’s generosity. “Five sovereigns,” she said softly, her voice filled with uncertainty.

Hawke’s eyes widened. “Five sovereigns? For bread and vegetables?”

Orana’s heart began to race. Clearly she’d done something wrong. “Y-yes... I thought it would be enough.”

“Oh, Orana,” Hawke said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. “It’s more than enough. In fact, it’s too much. Five sovereigns can buy food for weeks—maybe even months. What you bought should’ve only cost a handful of silvers at most.”

Orana’s stomach dropped. She had thought she was being helpful, but now, it seemed she had made a terrible mistake. “I -- I didn’t know sovereigns were worth that much,” she admitted, trying very hard to keep her voice steady. “I just held up a sovereign, and the merchants took it. I thought that was... how it worked. I’m so sorry, mistress, please forgive me,” she pleaded. Her pulse quickened as panic set in. Hawke had been so generous—what if this mistake changed everything? What if Hawke decided she wasn’t worth the trouble, that she couldn’t be trusted with money? What if… what if Hawke decided that Orana didn’t deserve her freedom after all?

She needn’t have worried. Hawke quickly stepped closer, her expression softening. “No, Orana, it’s not your fault. This is all new for you. I should have explained things better.”

Orana lowered her eyes, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, mistress,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean to waste—”

Hawke interrupted her softly. “You didn’t waste anything -- luckily, I’m rich enough to spend five sovereigns on groceries,” she joked with a smile. “But I do want you to understand the value of money. That way, next time, you won’t feel uncertain.”

Orana nodded, her fingers nervously tracing the edge of her apron. She still felt the weight of her mistake, but Hawke’s calm demeanor eased the anxiety somewhat.

Hawke moved to sit at the kitchen table, gesturing for Orana to follow suit. Orana only hesitated for a moment before sitting down. She was relieved that Hawke wasn’t too upset, but in the absence of punishment, she wasn't sure what to expect.

Hawke rummaged around her robes for a moment and pulled out her coin purse. She untied it and dumped its contents -- an assortment of bronze, silver, and gold coins -- on the kitchen table.

“First things first, tell me everything you know about money.”

Orana thought for a moment before responding. “I know Mistress Hadriana paid fifty sovereigns each for me and Papa,” she started. Hawke’s face went a little sad when she said this, but she gestured for Orana to continue. “I know that there are coppers and silvers and sovereigns. I just know that sovereigns are worth the most, silvers are worth less, and coppers are worth least of all. And… now I know that five sovereigns is too much for groceries,” Orana finished, still feeling a little guilty.

“Alright. Do you know how to convert between sovereigns, silvers, and coppers?”

Orana shook her head, eyeing the coins that scattered the table. 

Hawke nodded. “There are a hundred coppers in one silver, and a hundred silvers in one sovereign. Coppers are barely enough to buy anything by themselves -- most basic things, like food and clothing, cost some number of silvers, or a combination of silvers and coppers. Sovereigns are for really expensive things. A good workhorse costs about ten sovereigns. Fenris’ new sword cost thirteen. We bought this house for seven hundred and fifty sovereigns. Make sense?”

Orana furrowed her brows. “But how do I know what’s fair? The merchants... they didn’t seem upset when I offered the sovereigns.”

“Yes, well, merchants won’t hesitate to take advantage of you if they think they can get away with it,” said Hawke, a note of disdain in her voice. “If you offer them a sovereign, they’ll take a sovereign, whether that’s the right price or not. That’s why it’s important to know how to bargain.” she explained. “In the market, it’s common for people to negotiate. The merchants might start with a high price, but they expect buyers to push back, to offer less. That’s part of the system.”

Orana’s stomach knotted at the thought of confronting merchants and negotiating prices. “I’ve never had to... I don’t know how to do that.”

Hawke smiled encouragingly. “It’s new, but you’ll learn. You don’t have to be aggressive about it. It’s more about confidence—and understanding what something is worth before you pay. How about we go back to the market tomorrow together? We can practice.”

Orana’s chest tightened. The idea of haggling with strangers felt overwhelming, but she nodded. “Alright, mistress. I’ll try.”

***

The next morning, Hawke and Orana set out together for the Hightown market. As they walked through the bustling square, Orana stuck close to Hawke’s side, her eyes scanning the rows of stalls. The thought of negotiating felt foreign, but she trusted Hawke.

“Alright, let’s start with something simple,” Hawke said, leading Orana toward a fruit vendor. The table was piled with ripe apples, their red skins gleaming in the sunlight. Hawke smiled at the merchant and picked up one of the apples.

“How much for these?” Hawke asked casually.

The merchant grinned. “Two silvers for a dozen.”

Hawke glanced over at Orana. “What do you think? Fair price?”

Orana blinked, unsure. “I don’t know…”

Hawke handed the apple to Orana. “Take a look at them. Are they in good condition? Do they look like they’re worth two silvers?”

Orana inspected the apples closely. They were fresh, but not perfect—some had small bruises, and a few looked slightly overripe. “Maybe… not all of them,” she admitted hesitantly.

Hawke nodded approvingly. “Exactly. If the goods aren’t in perfect condition, you can ask for a lower price.” She turned back to the vendor. “How about one silver for the dozen? Some of these apples have bruises.”

The merchant hesitated but eventually shrugged. “Alright, one silver.”

Hawke beamed, reaching into her coin purse and handing over the coin. Then, she picked up the crate of apples. “Have a nice day!” she called over her shoulder as she walked away.

Orana quickly followed, amazed at how easily Hawke had done that. She had simply asked, and the price had dropped. She had imagined it would be much more… confrontational.

Orana was still puzzling over it as they wandered through the market, eventually stopping at the bread stand. The merchant looked up at them, ready with his price. “A loaf for three silvers,” he said cheerfully.

“Three?” Hawke raised an eyebrow. “That’s triple what it was last week.”

The merchant shrugged. “Prices went up.”

“I’m sure they did,” Hawke replied, unimpressed. “But I’m paying the same price I paid last time. One silver for the loaf.”

The merchant shifted uncomfortably. “Well… for you, two silvers.”

“One,” Hawke said, her voice steady. “Or I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

The merchant scowled, and for a moment Orana was sure he’d refuse. Then he nodded. “Fine. One silver it is.”

Hawke handed over the coin with a satisfied smile. “See?” she said to Orana as they walked away with the goods. “You don’t have to accept the first price you’re given.”

Orana nodded, still processing the interaction. “But you could only do that because you knew the price had gone up.”

“Sure, that’s how I did it this time, but you don’t need to know those things in order to bargain. Sometimes, it’s enough to say ‘that’s too much’.”

Orana tilted her head quizzically. “Well, how do you know when to challenge them?”

“It's about knowing what things are worth,” Hawke explained. “A loaf of bread shouldn’t cost three silvers, and if you know that, you can speak up. You don’t have to be loud or aggressive, just confident. Merchants raise prices when they think someone won’t argue. Of course, you don’t always have to haggle,” she conceded with a smile. “It’s about balance—knowing when the price is fair and when it’s not.”

They stopped at another stall, this one for vegetables. “Go on,” Hawke said, nudging Orana forward. “Try this one.”

Orana hesitated but walked up to the merchant. “How much for the green beans?”

“Two silvers for a bundle,” she said.

Orana thought for a moment. She wasn’t sure if two silvers was fair or not, but Hawke’s words echoed in her mind. She didn’t have to accept the first price.

“I’ll give you one silver,” she said softly, hoping her voice didn’t tremble.

The merchant scratched her chin. “One and a half.”

Orana instinctively reached for her coin purse before catching Hawke’s eye. Again , she mouthed.

Orana hesitated. “One,” Orana repeated, glancing at Hawke for reassurance.

The merchant scoffed. “You’ve got a lot of nerve for a knife-ear,” she sneered. “Two silvers. Pay up or leave,” she demanded.

Orana grinded her teeth at the slur. She could see Hawke moving closer out of the corner of her eye, but before she got any closer, Orana spoke. “I suppose I’ll pay two silvers then, but you should know, I will tell my employer about this.”

The merchant narrowed her eyes at Orana. “Your employer? What’re you on about?”

“Oh, didn’t you know? I work for the Amell Estate. Mistress Hawke? I’m sure you’ve heard of her. She’s a very powerful lady, and so kind to us elves. Did you know, the last time someone called one of her companions knife-ear, she had them exiled from the city?”

The merchant visibly blanched. Orana smiled innocently. “Anyway, two silvers, was it?”

“Maker be damned, fine ,” the merchant grumbled. “One silver it is.”

Orana resisted the urge to gasp in astonishment. She handed over the coin, her heart racing. When she turned to Hawke, her chest filled with pride. She could hardly believe she’d done that -- it was so very unlike her! In Tevinter, she’d been called rattus all the time, and it had never provoked such a reaction. She supposed being treated with respect had given her a new kind of confidence.

When she met Hawke’s eyes, she was beaming. “Orana, that was amazing! ” she exclaimed.

Orana blushed. “I--I don’t know what came over me, honestly, it just… happened.”

“Well, I’m so glad you stood up to her. She had no right to treat you like that.”

Orana didn’t know how to respond -- she wasn’t exactly used to people saying such things. “Did I do it right?” she asked instead. “The bargaining, I mean.”

“You did great, though hopefully most of your transactions are less confrontational,” said Hawke. “Do you want to keep practicing?”

Orana nodded. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” she clarified.

“Of course,” said Hawke with a smile.

Hawke guided Orana through more transactions. Like Hawke said, most of them were perfectly mundane, though Orana could tell that some of them were charging her more because she was an elf. Her bargaining wasn’t always successful, but she came to realize that failing to negotiate a lower price wasn’t so bad -- it just meant she had to pay the original price. With every transaction, Orana grew a little more confident.

By the time they returned home, Orana was still turning over everything she had learned. She set the groceries down in the kitchen, feeling a quiet sense of accomplishment she hadn’t expected. The idea of handling money, of bargaining and negotiating, still made her nervous—but now, it didn’t seem so impossible.

Hawke placed a hand on Orana’s shoulder as they finished unpacking. “You did really well today,” she said, her voice warm and full of pride. “You didn’t let anyone take advantage of you.”

Orana glanced down at the coin pouch still tied to her belt. There was so much she had never known about money, but today, she’d taken her first steps towards understanding. “Thank you, mistress,” Orana said softly. “I’ll practice again the next time we need groceries. And I promise not to make the same mistake again.”

“Oh!” Hawke exclaimed, holding up a finger for emphasis. “That reminds me -- I still need to pay you back for groceries,” she explained, reaching into her jacket for her coin purse.

“W-what? But -- it was your money we spent on groceries today,” Orana pointed out.

Hawke smiled, counting out coins in her hand that Orana couldn’t see. “I’m not talking about today. I’m talking about yesterday.” She held out her hand, five sovereigns gathered on her palm.

Orana gasped. Hawke was paying her back ? Orana had assumed that her five sovereigns from the day before were forfeit -- it was her fault she’d lost them, after all.

“I meant what I said yesterday,” said Hawke, lifting Orana’s hand with her free one and dropping the sovereigns in her palm. “ I am responsible for any household expenses. Money for groceries always comes from my coin purse, not your salary. You paid five sovereigns for groceries, so I owe you five sovereigns. It’s as simple as that.”

Orana stared at money, stunned at her Mistress -- no, Hawke’s generosity. “I -- I don’t know what to say…”

Hawke just smiled. “Goodnight, Orana.”

As Hawke turned to head upstairs, Orana lingered in the kitchen for a moment, staring at the coins in her hand. She picked one up, turning it over in her hand, the weight of it feeling different now. It wasn’t just a coin. It was a symbol of something more—a liberty she hadn't known she should've had.

With a soft breath, Orana put the coin back in her pouch. Maybe she didn’t have all the answers yet, but she was starting to understand the value of more than just money.

Chapter Text

The market was bustling, as it always was, with merchants calling out prices and customers haggling over wares. Orana moved carefully through the crowd, her steps deliberate as she visited the stalls she’d come to know from previous trips. She selected bread, fresh vegetables, and a few odds and ends Hawke had mentioned needing. The process of buying groceries had become a little easier for her now, even if she still felt a slight nervous flutter each time she approached a vendor.

As she made her way to the final stall, a glint of light caught her eye. Orana paused, glancing at a small booth she hadn’t noticed before. There, hanging from a wooden display, was a delicate necklace, the silver chain catching the afternoon sun. It was simple, but beautiful, with a small blue stone set in the center. Orana stopped for a moment, staring at the piece of jewelry. She’d never worn anything like it. Slaves weren’t permitted adornments, and even now, with her new freedom, such things seemed... frivolous.

The merchant noticed her interest. “A fine piece, isn’t it? Handmade. Only four sovereigns.”

Four sovereigns. It was a lot, especially for something she didn’t need. Orana hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of her coin pouch. She could afford it. But… it was just jewelry. A luxury, not a necessity. She had come here for groceries, not trinkets.

Shaking her head, she pulled her hand back. “It’s lovely, but I’ll pass,” she said softly, turning away from the stall and continuing on with her shopping. The thought of the necklace lingered in her mind, but she quickly dismissed it. It was an unnecessary expense—one she had no reason to make.

***

Later that evening, Orana stood in the kitchen, sorting through the groceries as Leandra entered, her soft slippers barely making a sound against the floor. Orana, simultaneously happy to see her and nervous of what she might say, quickly straightened her posture, as she always did in Leandra’s presence. There was something almost regal about Leandra, though her manner was far warmer than the imperious nobles Orana had served in the past. Leandra had a way of making anyone feel at ease, her voice soft yet vibrant, as though carrying the echoes of a grander life she never quite left behind. 

She paused in the doorway, her sharp eyes immediately noting the bags of groceries Orana had brought. “Oh Orana, you’ve been busy, haven’t you? Let me see—oh, those apples look wonderful!” Leandra said, crossing into the kitchen.

Orana tried to hide her blush -- praise was still not something she was accustomed to. “Thank you, Mistress,” she said in a small voice. “I bargained for the apples, just like Mistress Hawke taught me,” she said, a flicker of pride in her voice. “I think I got a good deal.”

Leandra’s face lit up with approval. “Oh, how lovely!” she remarked as she leaned over the counter, peeking curiously into one of the bags. “Those merchants always try to take advantage of newcomers. But once you show them you mean business? Oh, they’ll respect you. I just knew you’d pick it up quickly, Orana.”

Orana smiled faintly, her hands busy unpacking. “Thank you, mistress.”

Leandra waved a hand. “No need to thank me. You’re the one who did all the work. And you’ve done so beautifully keeping this house running. I can barely get Marian to remember to bring home a loaf of bread, much less handle the entire market trip!” Her tone was teasing, and Orana found herself relaxing a little.

“Anything else catch your eye while you were out?” Leandra asked. She was probably looking for gossip, but Orana didn’t pay attention to such things while she was out. Too many other things to keep track of.

She hesitated, her mind flashing back to the necklace. She paused before speaking, her voice softer. “There was this necklace at one of the stalls. It was beautiful.”

Leandra perked up immediately, her curiosity piqued. “A necklace? Do tell! What did it look like?”

“It had a silver chain,” Orana explained, her voice picking up a faint trace of wonder. “And a blue stone in the center. It... caught the sunlight.”

Leandra clasped her hands together, her eyes brightening with delight. “How lovely! Blue stones are so elegant, don’t you think? I used to have a brooch with a sapphire that sounded just like that. Malcolm gave it to me when we were courting—ah, but that’s a story for another day. Did you buy it?”

Orana shook her head quickly. “No, mistress. It wasn’t something we needed. It would’ve been wasteful.”

Leandra’s brows knitted together, the motherly concern unmistakable in her expression. “Wasteful? My dear, why on earth would you think that?”

Orana hesitated, her hands stilling as she searched for the right words. “It wasn’t something important. It wouldn’t help with cooking or cleaning or... anything practical. I couldn’t justify spending the money when there are more useful things to buy.”

Leandra tutted softly, shaking her head as she placed a hand on Orana’s arm. “Orana,” she began gently, “sometimes the things that aren’t ‘important’ are the most important of all. A necklace won’t scrub the floor or cook dinner, no, but it can remind you that life isn’t just about surviving. It’s about living .”

Orana hesitated. “But... I’ve never bought something just because I wanted it. It feels... wrong. Indulgent.”

Leandra’s gaze softened, and she smiled—a warm, knowing smile that only a mother could give. “Let me tell you something, dear. When we came to Kirkwall, there wasn’t much I could bring from our old home. One thing I did keep, though, was a little gold locket. It doesn’t do anything. It doesn’t feed anyone or keep a roof over our heads. But when I hold it, it reminds me of better days, of the people I love. And that... well, that’s worth more than any coin. That’s joy . You’ve been through so much, and you’ve worked so hard. Why shouldn’t you have something lovely to call your own? Something that makes you smile when you see it?”

Orana bit her lip, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. “I’m not sure... Mistress Hawke—she’s always so practical. She doesn’t seem like someone who—”

Leandra laughed softly, interrupting. “Oh, Marian’s practical, yes. But even she has her indulgences, believe me. The number of boots she owns is enough to outfit an army. She just hides it better than I do.” She gave Orana a conspiratorial smile. “And let me tell you, no one regrets buying a little bit of happiness.”

Orana wondered at Leandra’s words. It was strange to think that she could spend her wages on something for no reason other than that she wanted it. She had never had that kind of choice before, and even now, it felt strange and unfamiliar.

“I’ll think about it,” she said quietly, still unsure. Leandra smiled warmly, her hand lingering on Orana’s arm for a moment before pulling it back.

“Good. And if you change your mind, go back and get it, hmm? Life’s too short not to have a little beauty in it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I hear Bodahn—he probably needs help finding something in that cluttered pantry of his.”

With that, she left, humming softly under her breath, leaving Orana alone with her thoughts.

***

The next day, Orana found herself standing in front of the same stall, her heart pounding as she looked at the necklace again. It was still there, gleaming softly in the sunlight.

The merchant spotted her immediately, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he held up the silver piece. “Changed your mind?” he asked, a twinkle of recognition in his eyes.

Orana hesitated. She stared at the necklace for a long moment, Hawke’s words echoing in her mind. It wasn’t something she needed. It wasn’t going to fill the pantry or help around the house. But it was beautiful. And for the first time in her life, she realized that maybe wanting something because it made her happy was enough of a reason.

Slowly, she reached for her coin pouch and handed over the four sovereigns. The merchant beamed, carefully wrapping the necklace before placing it in her hand. As she walked away, the necklace safely tucked into her hand, she felt an unfamiliar but welcome warmth in her chest.

Chapter Text

Orana’s dream began in the dim, oppressive darkness of the holding caves outside Kirkwall. She stood among the other slaves, huddled close to her father, the damp air clinging to their skin. The faint drip of water echoed against the stone walls, and torches flickered, casting jagged shadows that made the space feel smaller, suffocating. Orana clutched her father’s hand tightly, her nails digging into his skin. He squeezed back, his calloused palm trembling.

“Quiet,” one of Hadriana’s enforcers barked, glaring at the group. His tone was sharp enough to slice through the thick silence, and Orana bit back a whimper. She glanced at her father, whose lips moved in a silent prayer to the Maker.

Then Hadriana entered, her crimson robes stark against the muted grays of the cavern. Her eyes were sharp, scanning the room with the practiced disdain of someone accustomed to command. In her hands, she carried a blade and a small, intricately carved chalice that glimmered ominously in the torchlight.

“I know he’s coming,” Hadriana said, her voice smooth and cold as steel. “Fenris.” She spat the name like venom. “That dog will sniff his way here soon enough. And when he does, I will be ready.”

Orana’s stomach churned as Hadriana’s gaze swept over the slaves. The magister’s smile curled cruelly as her eyes landed on Orana’s father.

“You,” she said, pointing the blade at him. “Come forward.”

Orana’s father hesitated, his body stiffening, and Orana clung to him desperately. “Please, Mistress,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Not him. Please—”

“Silence!” Hadriana snapped, and with a flick of her wrist, the enforcer nearest Orana struck her across the face. She stumbled, the sting of the blow blinding her for a moment. Her father’s hands moved instinctively to steady her, but the enforcers yanked him away before he could.

Her father’s voice, usually so steady and warm, broke into desperate pleas. “Please, Mistress,” he begged, his words tumbling out in a panicked rush. “Spare my daughter. She’s a good girl—obedient, hardworking. Take me, but leave her.”

“Touching,” Hadriana said coolly, gesturing for her enforcers to drag him to the center of the cave. “Bring him here.”

“No!” Orana screamed, trying to lunge forward, but one of the enforcers shoved her roughly to the ground. She hit the stone floor hard, her palms scraping against its jagged surface. “Papa!” she cried, her voice raw.

Her father twisted in their grip, trying to turn back toward her. “Don’t watch, Orana! Don’t—”

But she couldn’t look away. Even as tears blurred her vision, she saw Hadriana place the blade against her father’s wrist, drawing a deep, precise cut. Blood spilled into the chalice, and the magister began to chant in an ancient, guttural tongue. The air grew heavy with a pulsing energy that made Orana’s chest tighten.

Her father cried out, his voice echoing off the cavern walls. Orana screamed his name, her throat raw and burning, but it did nothing. She was powerless, paralyzed by fear and the hands of the enforcers holding her back.

Tendrils of blood red light erupted from the chalice, coiled around her father, winding tighter and tighter until he was forced to his knees. His face contorted in agony as his body arched unnaturally, the magic draining him of his strength, his vitality, his life. His screams faded into desperate gasps, then silence.

Orana’s breath caught in her throat as her father slumped forward, motionless as he kneeled in a pool of his own blood. Hadriana let out a shuddering sigh, her eyes glowing red with the power she’d siphoned from papa’s blood, and turned to the enforcers. “Dispose of him,” she said, her voice as indifferent as if she were ordering the clearing of scraps from her table. There was strength in her every movement now, unnatural and terrifying.

“Papa,” Orana whispered, her voice a fragile thread. She crawled toward his lifeless form, the enforcers’ laughter ringing in her ears. One of them kicked her aside, and she landed hard, her knees bruising against the stone.

The nightmare shifted. She was no longer in the caves, but in an endless void of black. Her father’s face appeared before her, his eyes lifeless and accusing. Around him, voices whispered, overlapping in an incomprehensible cacophony.

“Why didn’t you stop her?”
“You just watched.”
“You let me die.”

“I couldn’t!” Orana sobbed, her voice echoing into the void. “I tried, but I couldn’t!”

But the whispers didn’t stop. They grew louder, harsher, until they drowned out her own cries. The void closed in around her, suffocating her, pulling her deeper into the darkness. Her father’s face dissolved, replaced by the cold, unfeeling gaze of Mistress Hadriana.

And then she screamed.

***

Orana jolted awake, her body drenched in sweat, her throat raw from the scream that still hung in the air. Her chest heaved as she gasped for breath, her hands clutching the thin blanket like a lifeline. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and her chest felt like it might collapse under the crushing weight of her grief.

“Enchantment?” a small voice said.

She turned to find Sandal standing by her bedside. His wide eyes, so innocent and earnest, were filled with concern. He clutched one of his rune-carving tools in his hand, tilting his head as he watched her. “Enchantment?” he said again, a little more insistently this time.

Orana couldn’t hold it in any longer. A sob broke from her lips, then another, and soon she was weeping openly, her hands trembling as she covered her face. The weight of the dream—the memory—was too much, too vivid. She cried for her papa, for the helplessness she’d felt that night, for the years of torment that had shaped her life.

Sandal didn’t understand what had happened—how could he?—but he didn’t leave. Instead, he shuffled closer and sat on the edge of the bed, his hand resting lightly on her arm. He didn’t ask her to explain or try to stop her tears. He was just there , and his presence was calming in its own way. Every so often, he murmured, “Enchantment,” the word a small, steady comfort in the chaos of her grief.

Eventually, Orana’s sobs subsided into quiet sniffles. She wiped at her eyes with trembling fingers, her breath still hitching every so often. Sandal handed her a clean handkerchief he’d pulled from somewhere—she didn’t ask where—and she accepted it gratefully.

“Thank you,” she whispered hoarsely. Sandal didn’t reply, just patted her arm gently and stood up, wandering back toward his room with a quiet “Enchantment.”

Orana sat in silence for a long time after he left, her fingers twisting the handkerchief. She felt hollow, as though the nightmare had carved out something inside her. But she couldn’t dwell on it. She wouldn’t.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, pushing herself to her feet. Her limbs felt heavy, but she forced herself to move, to focus on something—anything—else. There was work to be done. If she stayed busy, she wouldn’t have to think. Wouldn’t have to feel.

Orana began her day long before the sun rose, the echoes of the nightmare lingering in her mind like shadows she couldn’t quite banish. But she scrubbed, swept, and tidied with a fervor that left no room for grief, determined to keep moving forward.

Because that was all she knew how to do.

Chapter Text

Orana had been working for two months straight when Hawke pulled her aside and asked why she hadn’t taken a day off.

“There are always chores to be done, Mistress Hawke,” Orana explained. “And besides, I like working. If I can work, why shouldn’t I?”

Hawke frowned. “Before you joined us, we were able to keep the house in order just fine. The house won’t fall apart without you.”

“I know that,” said Orana.

“So why don’t you ever take a day off?”

“I like working,” Orana repeated.

“And I’m glad you enjoy your work,” said Hawke, “but you can’t work all day, every day. You have to take time off once in a while.”

“Why?” asked Orana, genuinely not understanding the problem. She’d never before gotten in trouble for working too much. She didn’t even know it was possible to work too much.

“So you can relax, hang out with friends, have fun, have a life ,” Hawke explained, her tone imparting how strongly she felt about this. “Those things are important, Orana. If you never take time off, the only time you’ll ever leave the house is to get groceries.”

“Would that really be so bad?”

“Yes!” Hawke exclaimed, and Orana flinched a little. By now, she knew Hawke was not the sort to get angry or lash out, but Orana still flinched when she raised her voice, even if it wasn’t directed at her. Old habits, she supposed.

“I’m sorry,” said Hawke, rubbing her forehead, “I didn’t mean to raise my voice, it’s just… There was a time back in Lothering when my sister, Bethany, refused to leave the house. I never knew if she was afraid of getting caught out by Templars, or if she’d been bullied by the other kids, or if it was just melancholy, but for three months, she never left the house. She hardly got out of bed. It was hard to watch.” She took a deep breath. “And I know it’s not the same, but I worry about you, Orana. It would be good if you got out a little more, made some friends. That would be a good thing, don’t you think?”

Orana hesitated. “I… wouldn’t know the first thing about making friends,” she admitted quietly. “It was always just Papa and me, and without him…” She choked on the end of the sentence, suddenly fighting back tears.

Orana hadn’t really grieved her Papa -- she kept herself busy so she wouldn’t have to think about it too much. And Hawke, too clever by half, saw right through her.

“That’s why you work so much, isn’t it? You’re trying to avoid your grief.” She sighed. “That isn’t healthy, Orana. You have to face it sooner rather than later — you can’t keep letting it fester. Your father wouldn’t want that for you.”

Orana sniffled. Her bottom lip trembled. She was barely keeping it together, and honestly, she resented Hawke a little for poking at such a fresh wound. What right did Hawke have to tell Orana how to grieve? It was none of her business. This sort of thing was supposed to be private, but Hawke just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could she? Orana wanted to say it to her face, to get mad , but Hawke was her mistress, and --

And Orana was a free woman, wasn’t she? That’s what Hawke kept saying, anyway. And free women could say whatever they wanted, couldn’t they? They were free to speak their mind, free to be impulsive, free to be mad . Suddenly, Orana needed so badly to be mad, needed to show Hawke just how mad she was.

A niggling voice in the back of her mind told her she was being petty and ungrateful, that she’d regret this later, that she should just calm down and take Hawke’s advice, because Hawke was her mistress and Orana was supposed to listen to her, and --

Screw it.

“You have no right! H-how dare you imply -- you -- KAFFAS!” Orana all but screamed. She shook with anger, her hands were balled into fists. “Turpis porcus, me solum relinquas!” she snarled. Orana registered Hawke’s shocked expression before turning on her heels and bounding down the stairs, quickly making it to the entryway and throwing the door open, welcoming the cold night air that embraced her as she slammed the door behind her.

She started walking. Her breath came out in ragged gasps as she stormed through the dark streets of Kirkwall. Her anger was a boiling cauldron inside her, spilling over in every step. She didn’t know where she was going, didn’t care. Anywhere was better than that house, with Hawke’s piercing eyes seeing right through her, poking at wounds she wasn’t ready to let heal.

Orana felt the remnants of her anger mingling with guilt and confusion. She couldn’t grasp what Hawke wanted from her. Freedom was supposed to be a gift, but it felt like an impossible puzzle she wasn’t smart enough to solve. A free woman could grieve however she wanted—so why did Hawke’s words sting so deeply?

The further she walked, the more her anger began to cool, leaving behind a hollow, gnawing emptiness. Without the heat of adrenaline, the fire of her fury, the cold of the night began to creep in, and Orana shivered. She had no cloak, just her worn dress and some foot wrappings. The cold bit at her exposed arms, but Orana didn’t care. She wasn’t ready to go back. She didn’t want to face Hawke or anyone else. All she wanted was to keep moving, to keep running, so she didn’t have to think.

But Kirkwall was not a city where one could afford to get lost.

The shadows seemed to grow longer as Orana made her way into an unfamiliar part of the city. She barely noticed when she stepped off the main road, her feet carrying her through narrow alleys, until a rough voice cut through the fog of her thoughts.

“Well, well, look what we ‘ave ‘ere.”

Orana froze. Three figures emerged from the darkness ahead, blocking her path. She spun around, but two more thugs loomed behind her, cutting off any chance of escape.

“Out all alone at this hour, little elf? Didn’t anyone tell you it’s dangerous?” the first one sneered, his voice dripping with malice. He stepped forward, cracking his knuckles, and the others followed suit.

Orana’s heart raced. She hadn’t brought a weapon, hadn’t thought she’d need one. She couldn’t fight, couldn’t run—her mind scrambled for some way out, but all she could think of was everything she’d done wrong. How stupid, how careless—

With a fierce shout, Fenris emerged from the shadows, his lyrium tattoos blazing an ethereal blue, casting an eerie glow in the alley. In an instant, he was upon the thugs. His blade cleaved through the air, and they barely had time to react before the warrior dispatched them with ruthless efficiency.

It was over in seconds. The thugs were scattered, either unconscious or scrambling away, and Fenris stood over them, chest heaving with exertion.

He wiped his blade clean and sheathed it before turning to Orana. “Are you hurt?”

Orana shook her head, still trembling. The sight of Fenris—his tattoos glowing fiercely in the dim light, the sheer power in his every movement—filled her with equal parts fear and awe. “No… no, I’m fine, I… Thank you, master.”

“Don’t call me that,” Fenris snapped, eyes flaring with anger. Orana winced, ducking her head as if bracing for a blow. She wasn’t looking, but she could’ve sworn that she could hear Fenris’ expression turn to regret at his outburst. “I’m not your master,” he added in a softer tone.

Orana was caught off-guard by Fenris’ comment. She hadn’t even noticed she’d called him that. It didn’t even make sense -- he was an elf, after all -- but she supposed she wasn’t thinking about the shape of his ears when he tore through those thugs like a hurricane. After such a show of dominance, it was just… instinctive. She wondered again if she could ever be truly free.

Orana stammered. “I -- I’m sorry, I --”

Fenris sighed, running a hand through his white hair. “It’s fine. I’m just…” He trailed off, as if searching for the right words. “What are you doing out here, Orana?”

Orana’s heart sank, her mind immediately jumping to the worst conclusion. Of course, she was in trouble. She'd left the house without permission, wandered the streets unchaperoned. How foolish she'd been. "I'm sorry," she stammered, eyes downcast. "I didn’t mean to go without permission, I just—"

"No," Fenris interrupted, his eyes widening in alarm. He stepped closer, his expression earnest. "No, Orana, that's not what I meant. You... you are not a slave anymore. You don't need anyone's permission to go where you wish."

Orana blinked, confused. She had misread the situation again, hadn’t she? “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop apologizing,” Fenris interrupted, his tone a little harsher than it had been. When Orana shrank back, he cursed under his breath. He took a step back, holding his hands up in a calming gesture. Or what would have been a calming gesture, were it not for his spiky gauntlets. “You don’t need to apologize. I was only worried for your safety," he continued, his tone deliberately nonthreatening. Fenris regarded Orana curiously. “You… never answered my question. Is everything alright at Hawke’s? She didn’t send you out here by yourself, did she?” he asked.

“No, no,” Orana assured quickly, “She didn’t send me, I… I ran away,” she admitted. Orana’s gaze fell to the ground, ashamed.

Fenris frowned. "Orana," he said, more gently this time. "What happened?"

Orana bit her lip, feeling the sting of tears threatening again. She didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t know how to explain the mess of emotions swirling inside her. “I... I don’t know,” she mumbled, looking down at her feet. “I just... needed to get away.”

Fenris watched her carefully, his eyes narrowing as he picked up on the unspoken tension. He nodded slowly, seemingly piecing things together. "I understand," he said finally, his voice softening. "You don’t have to explain. Sometimes, it’s… overwhelming."

Orana looked up at him, surprised by the empathy in his voice. She didn’t expect that from him, not Fenris, who always seemed so cold and distant. "I can walk you back to Hawke's estate," he offered after a moment. "It's not safe out here."

"No!" Orana said quickly, more forcefully than she meant to. The thought of going back, of facing her mistress—no, her… her friend ?—was too much."I can't go back, not… Not yet."

Fenris hesitated, his gaze lingering on her, studying her. Orana half expected him to insist, to force her to return, but instead, he sighed. "Alright," he said reluctantly. "But I won’t leave you out here alone.”

Silence fell between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Orana wiped at her eyes, feeling embarrassed and vulnerable. She didn’t want to go back to Hawke’s estate, not yet, but she didn’t know what else to do.

"If you don’t want to go back to Hawke’s right now," Fenris began, his voice tentative, "you can come to my place for a while. It's… not much, but it's safer than wandering the streets."

Orana looked up at him, startled. "Your place?"

Fenris nodded, looking hesitant. "It’s an old mansion in Hightown. Abandoned. It’s… quiet. You’re welcome to stay there for the night, if you want."

She hesitated, unsure of what to say. She didn’t know Fenris well -- when Hawke had need of him, she would call on him at his estate, not the other way around. When Fenris did have reason to visit the Hawke estate, any conversation between him and Orana was brief and awkward. The thought of staying in his home was strange. But he was offering her a refuge, a place to gather her thoughts, and right now, that sounded like more than she could have hoped for.

"Alright," she agreed softly, feeling a strange mix of relief and apprehension. "Thank you."

Fenris nodded once, curtly, and turned to lead the way. Orana followed him, the silence between them heavy and awkward. Neither of them spoke as they walked through the dark streets, and Orana found herself glancing at him from time to time, trying to make sense of this strange man who had just saved her life.

He was an enigma, much like herself. A former slave, now free, but still bound by chains of a different kind. Orana wondered what it was like for him, living with the constant reminder of his past etched into his skin, burning through his veins.

They reached the mansion, a towering, crumbling structure that loomed over the street like a silent sentinel. Fenris pushed open the heavy door, its hinges groaning in protest, and gestured for Orana to enter. She hesitated for a moment, then stepped inside, feeling the cold air wrap around her like a shroud.

Fenris closed the door behind them and led her to a small sitting area, where a single armchair stood by the fireplace. He gestured for her to sit. "You can rest here," he said. "I'll be nearby if you need anything."

Orana nodded, sitting down in the chair. She watched as Fenris disappeared into the shadows, leaving her alone in the dimly lit room. The silence pressed down on her, and for the first time since she stormed out of Hawke’s estate, the weight of everything caught up with her.

Her chest tightened with dread. Had she ruined everything with Hawke? She had yelled, cursed, and stormed off like a child throwing a tantrum. And for what? Hawke hadn’t done anything wrong. She was only trying to help, to care for her, and Orana had repaid her kindness with anger.

What if Hawke didn’t want her back? What if this was the final straw?

The thought made Orana’s stomach churn. She had nowhere else to go, no one else who would take her in. Fenris had offered her refuge for the night, but this wasn’t home. Home was with Hawke, with the bustling warmth of the estate, the laughter, the sense of belonging she had started to feel.

And now, she had jeopardized all of it.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back. She couldn’t let herself cry, not again. Not here. Not now. But the guilt gnawed at her, the doubt whispering that she had made a terrible mistake, that she was too broken, too damaged to ever fit into the life Hawke had given her.

Maybe she wasn’t ready to be free. Maybe freedom wasn’t something she was meant to have.

Orana curled up in the chair, pulling her legs to her chest, trying to make herself as small as possible. Her mind kept spinning with worries, the same thoughts circling over and over, until exhaustion finally began to creep in.

She closed her eyes, trying to push everything away. Maybe she could fix things tomorrow. Maybe Hawke would forgive her, and they could talk, and everything would be alright.

But what if it wasn’t?

The fear lingered as Orana slowly drifted off, the weight of her worries pulling her down into a restless sleep.

Chapter Text

Fenris sat just outside the sitting room, not daring to move until he heard Orana's breathing even out as she fell asleep. His gaze was fixed on the floor, his thoughts a tumultuous mix of anger, confusion, and something he couldn't quite name. He’d found Orana by chance, wandering Kirkwall’s streets after waking from a nightmare, and the fear in her eyes had been too familiar to ignore.

He wasn’t sure what possessed him to bring her here. It wasn’t like him to offer shelter, let alone comfort. He had saved her life, of course. He would have done that for anyone—not because he cared, but because it was the right thing to do, and because he remembered what it was like to be powerless against those who would hurt him. But this—offering her refuge in his home—this was different.

He should not care.

But it was hard not to care when he saw in her the same confusion and fear he had once felt, when freedom was still new and he didn’t know the rules. Orana’s wide, uncertain eyes, the way she called him "master" without thinking, how her body flinched in response to the slightest rise in tone—every little detail reminded him of the pathetic little thing he once was, the shadow of a free man, a well-trained dog without an owner to hold his leash. It was unnerving.

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back against the wall. He didn’t want to remember those early days, not now, not ever. He wasn’t like her. His freedom had been forged in violence and blood; hers was offered with kind words and gentle reassurances. It should have been easier for her. Yet somehow, it wasn’t.

Kaffas , why had he brought her here? Fenris had thought it would be easy to ignore her. She was just another one of Hawke's charity cases, after all. He should have left her at Hawke’s estate. Let Hawke deal with her.

Hawke… Hawke would need to know that Orana was safe. She would be worried—no, more than worried. Hawke would be frantic, pacing the floors of her estate, berating herself for not handling things better. A sudden ache settled in his heart at the thought of it. He wanted to go to her, to reassure her, but at the same time, he dreaded facing her. Being near Hawke always brought up a storm of emotions he wasn't prepared to deal with, especially now.

With a grunt, he pushed off the wall and made his way down the stairs and through the foyer. He would tell Hawke. She deserved to know that Orana was alright. But he would keep it brief. No lingering, no drawn-out conversations. Just the facts.

The walk to Hawke’s estate was not long, but it was enough to clear his head, to focus his thoughts. He kept his gaze forward, shivering a little in the cold breeze. He still hasn’t gotten used to these frigid southern falls and winters.

As he approached the door to Hawke’s estate, he felt the familiar pang of anxiety twist in his gut. There was a rift between them, an unspoken tension that hung in the air every time they were near each other. Fenris tried not to think about it as he knocked.

The door flung open, revealing a frazzled Hawke with her eyebrows drawn together with worry. “Fenris! Thank the Maker you’re here!” she blurted out, barely giving him a chance to speak. “Orana’s gone. I need your help to find her. I’d go myself, but I think I’m the last person she wants to--.”

Fenris raised a hand to stop her. “She’s safe.”

“What?” Hawke blinked, momentarily stunned. “You found her?”

He nodded. “She was wandering in the lower city. Some thugs tried to corner her. I... took care of it.”

Relief flooded Hawke’s face, her shoulders sagging as if a great weight had been lifted. “Is she hurt? Is she—”

“She’s fine,” Fenris cut in, his voice steady. “But she…” He hesitated, unsure how Hawke would react. “... isn’t ready to come back yet. She’s at my place now, sleeping.”

“At your place?” Hawke remarked, sounding surprised.

“Would you rather I left her  to sleep in the gutter?” Fenris shot back. He hadn’t meant for it to sound so biting, but Hawke’s surprise annoyed him more than it should have. Yes, I brought her home. No, I don’t know why.

“No, of course not,” Hawke replied softly. “I just didn’t expect…” She trailed off, her eyes focused on some point past Fenris’ shoulder. A moment passed before she shook her head and met Fenris’ gaze. “Would you stay for a bit?” she asked, stepping aside and gesturing for Fenris to come in.

Fenris hesitated. He’d done what he came here to do. He told himself that would be it, a simple conversation, no need for painful memories or big feelings. He could say no, say he should look after Orana and go back to his mansion for the night… but, Maker help him, he loved Hawke, and there was no way he’d leave without making sure she was okay.

Wordlessly, Fenris walked through the door. Hawke closed the door after him and led him to the living room. They took their places on opposite ends of the couch, and Fenris couldn’t decide if the space between them eased the tension or made it worse. He pushed the thought aside as Hawke leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, her face buried in her hands.

“It’s my fault,” she started. “I pushed her too far. I thought I was helping, but I just made things worse.”

“What…” Fenris stopped himself from saying what did you do? , wary of coming across as accusatory. “... happened?” he said instead.

Hawke laughed humorlessly, lifting her head from her hands. “I just wanted her to take a day off! She works nonstop . Day and night, every day -- she barely leaves the estate! I… I don’t want this house to become her new prison…”

Fenris frowned, recalling his own escape from Danarius. In the beginning, when there weren’t plans to make, enemies to run from, or slavers to fight, he had no idea what to do with himself. Without something to do, his thoughts had time to spiral, feeding his self-doubt and fear. It was unbearable. He turned to drinking as a way to silence those dark, dangerous thoughts. Even then, he knew it wasn’t a lasting solution, and it took him a long time to discover other ways to fill the empty hours.

Before Fenris could make a comment, Hawke sighed. “But I did it wrong. I made it personal. I said…” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

There was a long pause. Fenris shifted his weight uncomfortably. He didn’t know what to say. He was not practiced in the art of comfort. The walls felt too close, the silence too heavy, and Fenris could feel unease growing like a splinter under his skin. He shouldn’t have stayed.

Hawke smiled a little. “She actually got mad at me. Really, seriously mad.”

Fenris raised his brow. “Really?” he asked, surprised. It was hard to imagine Orana -- quiet, timid Orana -- getting mad.

“Oh yeah,” Hawke confirmed. “She told me off in Tevene -- called me turpis porcus , whatever that means.”

Fenris let out a low chuckle. “It means ‘ugly pig’.”

Hawke’s eyes widened in disbelief before she burst out laughing. Her laugh was like music. Fenris wished she would laugh more. It seemed a rare occurrence, these days.

She shook her head as her laughter died down. “I’m not even offended. I’m… actually kind of proud,” said Hawke.

Fenris looked at her curiously. “She insulted you, ran away, and… you’re proud?”

“She stood up for herself,” Hawke explained. “Before tonight, all I’d ever gotten from her was total obedience. I’m proud that she’s finally willing to speak up, disagree, express any emotion besides compliance. That’s got to count for something, right?”

Fenris scowled at the hearth, an irrational jealousy bubbling in his stomach. Hawke was right. For all that Orana seemed to cling to her enslavement, she had enough rebellion in her to show anger to the woman who was ostensibly her mistress. She had fought back, spoken her mind, and thrown Hawke’s kindness back in her face. Freeborn people might consider such behavior rude, but Fenris saw it for what it was -- strength. A strength Fenris hadn't had when he'd first escaped. It had taken him years to learn how to be assertive, to stop backing down and start speaking up, and yet Orana had done it in two months. Was it Hawke’s influence? Was Orana simply better suited to freedom? Was his own conditioning too deeply ingrained for him to be truly free? Fenris wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

It was taking Fenris too long to respond, and Hawke was looking at him curiously. He cleared his throat. “Yes, that’s… good. Very good. You should be proud,” he rambled.

Hawke leaned back on the couch, arms crossed and gaze fixed on Fenris. “What’s bothering you?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he lied.

“It’s about Orana, isn’t it?” Hawke prodded. “She makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t she?”

Fenris’ scowl grew more severe. “What business is it of yours?”

“For one, you’re my friend, for another, Orana is part of the household,” Hawke reasoned.

“That does not entitle you to know my thoughts!” Fenris snapped. “I am not your… experiment .” Fenris sneered the last word, shooting Hawke a pointed look.

An uncomfortable silence settled between them at Fenris’ outburst. Hawke deflated a little, eyes falling to the middle distance. “You’re right,” she admitted. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to treat you like that.” Hawke huffed out a sigh. “Andraste, I just can’t get anything right, can I? I can’t even have a conversation with a friend without screwing it up…” she lamented.

Fenris shifted uneasily on the couch, his fingers tightening around the edge of the armrest. He immediately regretted the sharpness in his words. Maker, why couldn’t he just keep his temper in check? Hawke didn’t deserve his ire. None of this was her fault.

“No, Hawke I’m sorry,” he muttered, barely above a whisper. He clenched his jaw before adding, “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. That was unworthy of me.”

Hawke glanced up, her expression softening slightly as she studied his face. “It’s alright,” she said, offering a small, tentative smile. “I probably needed to hear that. You know how I get. It’s… easy to forget that I can’t talk everyone’s problems away. And that there are problems that aren’t mine to fix.” She looked down at her hands, fingers nervously playing with the fabric of her sleeves. “Anyway, I didn’t mean to push you. You don’t have to talk about it if you’re not ready.”

For a long moment, Fenris said nothing. He didn’t want to tell her. He hated feeling vulnerable, but this was Hawke, and she deserved honesty -- if not about everything, then at least about this.

With a frustrated sigh, he ran a hand through his hair. “It’s just… she… Orana… I don’t know.” Fenris shifted, his voice uneven. “When I first escaped Danarius, I didn’t know what to do with myself. For the first time in living memory, I had no one to serve, no one to tell me what to do. I was… lost. Confused. The only thing I knew for certain was that I could not go back to Danarius, and even that I doubted sometimes.”

Hawke shifted slightly, turning to face him more fully, but she didn’t say anything, giving him the space to continue.

Fenris’ fingers tapped restlessly on his thigh. “I was so scared, back then. Lost, uncertain, struggling to understand what it means to be free.” He closed his eyes, trying to block out the memories that threatened to overwhelm him. Memories of apologizing too much, of flinching at every loud noise, of agreeing too easily to other people’s words, of calling every human “master” or “mistress” without even realizing it. Memories of having no home. No Hawke.

It was the feel of Hawke’s hand on his arm that grounded him in the present. The touch sent a shiver down his spine. He met Hawke’s gaze and found her looking at him with unspoken intensity. It had been so long since they’d touched. And whose fault is that? he thought, unhelpfully.

The reminder was enough to break the spell. Fenris tore his eyes from Hawke’s and gently pulled his arm back towards himself. Hawke’s hand fell to rest in the space between them on the couch, an unspoken offer, or maybe a question, one she was too afraid to say aloud.

Hawke cleared her throat, breaking the tension that had settled between them. “So… Orana makes you uncomfortable because she reminds you of yourself?”

Fenris shook his head immediately. “No. She’s nothing like me.” The words came out too quickly, too forceful to be believable.

Hawke tilted her head, unconvinced. “She isn’t?”

Fenris’ fists curled on his knees, and his gaze flickered toward the floor. “She’s weak,” he said, but even he didn’t sound sure of it. “Fragile. She clings to her chains like they’re a lifeline. She grovels, like… like a wild dog .”

Hawke squirmed uncomfortably, but didn’t say anything. They were ugly things, Fenris’ words, and completely unfair to Orana -- even Fenris knew it, and guilt roiled in his gut as he spoke. He even recognized, somewhere in the back of his mind, how familiar those words were. In the not-so-distant past, they had directed towards him , used to make him feel worthless, less than, inferior, and he hated it. He didn’t want to examine what it meant that he was so ready to spit those words in someone else’s face, just to pass off the hurt. 

He wasn’t like Orana. He wasn’t . His next words were directed more at himself than Hawke. “ I fought. I earned my freedom,” Fenris argued. “Hers was gifted, and still she squanders it.” The bitterness in his voice lingered in the air like smoke.

“You don’t really believe that,” Hawke said evenly. “Or you wouldn’t be so angry.”

Fenris shook his head sharply, a scowl on his face. He didn’t look at Hawke.

Hawke let the silence sit for a moment before breaking it. “I don't think you hate Orana. Not really,” she said, her voice gentler now. “You hate what she reminds you of. You hate remembering what it felt like to be her.”

“No,” Fenris growled, but there was no force behind it, just exhaustion. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then tell me I’m wrong,” Hawke countered softly.

Fenris exhaled sharply, studiously ignoring the growing pit of anxiety in his stomach. The way Hawke cut through the lies he told himself so easily, like she could see the truth of him just from looking—it unsettled him. Frightened him, though he would never admit it. He’d spent years keeping everyone at arm’s length, walls built so high no one could touch him. And yet here she was, this woman that broke all the rules, who'd somehow found her way past his carefully constructed walls and into his heart. Hawke defied comprehension. She was his weakness, yet he couldn’t bring himself to cut her out of his life.

Fenris opened his mouth, closed it, and finally muttered, “No, you're right, I don’t hate her.” A pause hung in the air, heavy with unspoken words. When he finally spoke again, his voice was raspy. “I just… don’t want to remember. I don’t want to feel it again.”

Hawke didn’t say anything at first. She let his words settle, let the silence breathe between them. When she finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “Your past will always be a part of you, Fenris, but you don't have to carry the weight of it alone. Not anymore.”

Fenris said nothing. They were pretty words, and some of them were true, but most of it was naive. Hawke -- lovely, well-intentioned Hawke -- couldn't lessen the weight of his past. No-one could. There were no words, no condolences, no well wishes that would change what was done to him, or make it easier for him to bear.

Fenris’ eyes dropped to his open hands, hands which had killed and maimed and crushed the hearts of men; hands which, just as often, had pampered and served and worked to please men who didn’t deserve it, or even appreciate it. Once, some months ago, they had tried to be gentle, loving, but then Fenris had to go and ruin that too. Death and destruction -- that was all they were good for. Danarius had made sure of it.

The sound of Hawke's voice saying his name -- Fenris -- cut through his thoughts like a knife. When he met her eyes again, she gave a small, sad smile. “I’m not trying to fix you, Fenris. I just… I need you to know I'll always be there if you need me.”

Fenris swallowed thickly, his throat tight, and for a long moment, neither of them said anything. What was there to say? Hawke didn’t have to say it out loud for it to be true, but the words settled heavy in his heart all the same. She shouldn’t care this much -- he shouldn’t care this much. It didn’t matter -- they were both fools.

The silence was broken only from the fire in the hearth -- a crackle here, a pop there. It was calming, and Fenris felt the tension leave his shoulders.

After a long pause, Hawke spoke again, her voice gentle but firm. “What about Orana?”

Fenris regarded Hawke curiously. “What about her?”

“I mean… you could talk to her. It might help. You have similar backgrounds."

Fenris scoffed. "What, because we are both former Tevinter slaves? I was a bodyguard. She did housework. Danarius kept me by his side always. Hadriana likely didn't even know Orana's name. Our experiences could not be more different," he explained.

“I know you’re not the same, but you know what it’s like -- doesn’t that count for something? Who else in Kirkwall knows what it’s like to be enslaved to a Tevinter magister?" Hawke argued. Her tone was gentle, but firm. "You could help each other. You could, at least, help her . You know what she's going through -- tell her how it was for you, when you first escaped. It might help, to know someone else has gone through it before.”

“No. I refuse. I am not talking to her about that,” Fenris said, voice sharp with finality. “I don’t even want to talk to you about it.”

Hawke sighed, but didn’t seem surprised by his reaction. “Look, I’m not saying you need to pour your heart out. But… you understand what she’s going through in ways that I never could. Maybe you don’t want to revisit that part of yourself, but what if she needs to hear it? I know you hate opening up to people, but if you won't do it for yourself, at least consider doing it for Orana.”

Fenris stared at the floor, his jaw tight. The idea of talking to Orana about such things made his skin crawl. He had spent years trying to bury his past, to lock it away in the darkest corners of his mind where it couldn’t hurt him anymore. The thought of dragging it all up again—for her, of all people—felt pointless.

“She doesn’t need my help,” he muttered.

“Bullshit," said Hawke, the expletive successfully catching Fenris' attention. "You’ve been where she is. You know it's not easy. Back when you first escaped, wouldn't it have been nice to have someone to talk to? Someone you could trust?”

Fenris shot her a sharp look. “Talking won't fix anything. What's done is done. You can't undo years of enslavement with words."

"That's not the point. You aren't talking about it to undo anything -- you're talking about it so that remembering that part of yourself doesn't hurt so much."

Fenris shook his head. "I have enough troubles of my own to deal with, Hawke. And besides, I don’t have the answers she needs.”

“I’m not saying you have to have answers,” Hawke argued. “Maybe it’s not about answers. Maybe it’s just about letting her know that she’s not alone.”

Fenris opened his mouth to argue, but the words died on his tongue. He hated that Hawke made sense. He hated that she could see through him so easily, that she could touch on things he didn’t want to admit. He didn’t want to talk to Orana. He didn’t want to dredge up his past, didn’t want to face the echoes of his own pain in her eyes.

But he remembered how lost she had looked when he’d found her tonight, how small, how lost . He had been that lost once, too.

With a sigh, Fenris rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding Hawke’s gaze. “Even if I wanted to… I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Just ask her if she needs to talk," Hawke answered, looking hopeful. "You don’t have to talk about yourself if you don’t want to. But at least give her the chance to say something, if she needs to.”

Fenris was silent for a long moment, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to face Orana’s pain, didn’t want to face the pain it stirred in himself. But Hawke was right—Orana deserved the chance to speak, if she wanted to. And maybe… maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible to let her know that someone understood.

With a reluctant sigh, he nodded. “Fine. I’ll talk to her.”

The smile Hawke gave him was tinged with fondness, and maybe a little pride. “Thank you, Fenris. I think it’ll help, even if it’s just a small step.”

Fenris grunted, rising to his feet. “We’ll see.”

As he made his way to the door, Hawke’s voice stopped him. “Fenris.”

He paused, glancing back at her.

“Just… don’t be too hard on yourself,” she said softly. “You’ve come a long way, too. More than you think.”

Fenris met her gaze, and dared not read the expression on her face as open affection. He didn’t respond, but the words settled uncomfortably in his chest as he turned and left the estate.

The walk back to his mansion was quiet, the streets of Kirkwall nearly empty at this late hour. His mind, however, was far from still. He thought about Hawke’s words, about Orana, and about the anger that simmered just beneath his skin—the anger that had never really left him since the day he escaped Danarius.

When he arrived home, the mansion was dark and silent. He paused outside the sitting room door, listening to the soft sound of Orana’s breathing. After a moment, he quietly slipped into the room, removing his gauntlets as he trundled over to his bed on the far side of the room. He laid down still in his armor -- he did that sometimes, and he wasn’t comfortable changing with Orana still here -- and tried, futilely, to quiet his mind. It was hard enough sleeping after a conversation like the one he’d had with Hawke, conversations which dredged up everything he didn’t want to remember, and this time, he had homework .

He took a deep breath. Tomorrow. He would talk to her tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Orana woke with the sun, what little of it snuck through the cracks in the boarded-up windows of Fenris’ mansion. It was the cold that had roused her more than anything else, the fire in the hearth long since extinguished. Orana shifted in the armchair, stiff and sore from sleeping in such an awkward position. Bleary-eyed, she rubbed her eyes and stretched, her joints protesting as she stood.

Her gaze swept the room, and for the first time, she saw just how filthy Fenris’ living space was.

The fireplace, darkened with soot, had clearly not been cleaned in years. The windows were boarded up, allowing only slivers of weak morning light to filter through the gaps. There were cracks in the wall where the building had settled, and matching ones on the marble floor. Red stains bled across one stretch of wall, a frankly unsafe quantity of glass shards strewn beneath them -- wine bottles thrown in anger, perhaps? And then there was the stuff . Empty wine bottles lay haphazardly on the floor and against the walls, their contents long dried into sticky stains. Books were strewn about in no discernible order, most of their spines not even cracked, and there was a broken table leg lying abandoned in a corner. A faint layer of grime clung to everything, giving the room a dull, lifeless sheen.

Orana frowned. How could anyone live like this?

It wasn’t her place to judge, of course. Fenris had been kind enough to let her stay, and she wasn’t about to repay that kindness with disrespect. But still, the first thing that came to her mind was work . She needed something to do, something to focus on. She didn’t want to sit idly, letting her thoughts spiral into guilt or worry. Cleaning would help. At least then she could make herself useful.

She glanced toward the bed, where Fenris lay sprawled on his side, his breathing deep and even. For a man so guarded while awake, he seemed oddly vulnerable in sleep. She rose as quietly as she could, careful not to disturb his sleep.

Orana took stock of the room. She didn’t have proper cleaning supplies, but she’d learned long ago how to make do. A faint drip, drip, drip led her to a bucket full of water collected from a leak in the ceiling. On the mantle, she found a rag that wasn’t too threadbare and got to work.

She started with the soot. Orana scrubbed the fireplace and the surrounding stone until the blackened streaks faded to a dull gray. She cleared away the broken glass by the red stains on the wall, scooping the shards into a pile to dispose of later. Next, the walls—she used the damp cloth to wipe away the sticky remnants of wine stains as best she could. Not all of them came out, but the ones that remained could be hidden or disguised later.

Orana moved quickly, efficiently, her hands darting from task to task with an ease born from years of practice. When she came across Fenris’ scattered belongings—an old book here, a whetstone there—she placed them in neat stacks or tucked them into corners, minimizing clutter wherever possible.

By the time the room looked halfway presentable, Fenris was still asleep, his breaths slow and steady. Orana allowed herself a satisfied smile. She glanced toward the door, debating whether to stay or explore further. Her curiosity won out.

The moment she stepped into the hallway, Orana froze. The sight that greeted her made it clear that, as bad as it had been, Fenris’ room was, in fact, the best kept room in the house.

The smell hit her first—a pungent mix of mildew, dust, and something sharp she couldn’t quite place. Furniture lay overturned, some of it broken beyond repair, splinters and scraps scattered across the marble floors. Suspicious red stains— Maker, is that blood? —spattered the tiles in places, dried and darkened with time. And the dust—thick enough to dull every surface, settling like a shroud over what might have once been elegant furnishings.

For a moment, Orana just stood there, stunned by the sheer scope of the mess. It was overwhelming. How in Andraste’s name did I not notice this last night? she wondered. She supposed it was dark, but still . How could Fenris live like this? This was his home -- why would he leave it in disrepair?

The mess was overwhelming, but Orana knew better than to let herself be paralyzed. She took a deep breath, rolled up her sleeves, and got to work.

***

Fenris woke to the sound of distant movement. He blinked, his senses sharpening immediately. Someone was in the mansion.

For a heartbeat, he tensed, his body poised to spring from the bed and grab his sword. But then he remembered—Orana. He frowned, rubbing a hand across his face. So Orana was already up -- but what was she doing?

Fenris sat up, and immediately he felt wrong . His room was wrong . It was clean, the familiar piles of clutter gone, the wine stains on the wall almost completely erased, the glass shards beneath them swept into a neat pile. Even his bedroll had been tidied, the blanket folded with precision. He frowned, an irrational anger stirring in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t asked her to do this. Why would she—?

The sounds of scrubbing, faint but rhythmic, reached him again. He cursed under his breath, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and shoving himself to his feet. His home was a disaster, but it was his disaster. Orana had no right to just… change things.

He moved swiftly, his irritation building with every step. When he pushed open the door to the main hall, his annoyance surged at the sight of the once-decrepit, now merely filthy foyer. Orana was crouched by the floor, scrubbing at one of the marble tiles with a rag that had once been white, and around her, the debris of his disordered life had been swept away. What furniture he had that wasn’t broken beyond repair had been righted and arranged in a sensible sort of way, and the years-old slavers’ bloodstains had been washed away. The air smelled faintly of soap and wood polish.

Fenris quickly descended the stairs to where Orana was cleaning. “What are you doing?” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to make Orana freeze mid-scrub.

She looked over her shoulder, blinking up at him as though he were the one acting strangely. “Cleaning,” she said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Stop,” Fenris demanded.

“What? Why?”

“Because I said so!”

“I—” Orana hesitated, glancing around at her work as if unsure what part of it had offended him. “It’s filthy,” she said at last, making a sweeping gesture to their surroundings. “I thought you’d want it clean.”

“Well, I don’t ,” Fenris said through his teeth. “So please stop .”

Orana let out a frustrated sigh. “Mistress Hawke is right about you,” she muttered, just loud enough for Fenris to hear.

That caught him off guard. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Mistress always says you don’t take care of yourself,” Orana explained in a sharp tone. “And she’s right.”

Anger simmered in the pit of his stomach. “And Hawke was right about you ,” Fenris rebuked. “You are incapable of doing anything but work . You can’t even stop when asked!”

Orana’s hand clenched around the rag she was still holding, her jaw tensing as if holding her tongue took physical effort. “This isn’t about me,” she said in a measured tone. “You don’t take care of this place. It’s unlivable.”

“It is livable,” Fenris bit back. He gestured around them, his movements stiff from frustration. “I live here, don’t I?”

Orana frowned at him, brows furrowing in exasperation. “ Barely . It’s filthy. And if you won’t do something about it, I will,” she explained, her tone defensive.

“But I don’t want you to!” Fenris snapped, louder than he’d intended. Orana flinched, and he immediately regretted it, his anger draining as quickly as it had come. He sighed, raking a hand through his hair again. “I didn’t mean to yell,” he muttered. “I just… This isn’t your responsibility.”

“I know,” she said, her voice quieter now. “But I don’t mind, really. It needs to be done, and I can do it. There’s no harm in being useful.”

“That’s not the point,” said Fenris. He didn’t know what the point was, exactly, but her explanation rankled him. He struggled to put it into words, his voice rising as he added, “You’re not a servant. You don’t have to be… useful .”

Orana glared, her brows knitting together. “I’m helping you. You should be thanking me, not this .”

Fenris’ hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I don’t want your help.”

“Well, I don’t want to sit around doing nothing!” Orana snapped back, surprising him with her sudden outburst. She was facing him fully now, and Fenris was alarmed to notice the sheen of tears in her eyes. “Do you know what it’s like to have no purpose? To sit in silence while your thoughts eat away at you?” Her voice wavered, less angry now and more desperate. And in a moment of clarity, Fenris understood, perhaps too well, why Orana felt the need to fill her time with work. 

Fenris crossed his arms over his chest, his jaw tight. “Yes,” he said after a pause, his voice quieter but no less tense. “I do. But this…” He gestured vaguely at the cleaned space around them. “This isn’t how you deal with it.”

“Then how?” Orana demanded, her tone somewhere between anger and desperation. “Because I don’t know what else to do.”

Fenris faltered, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to form a response. What was he supposed to say? He didn’t have answers. He didn’t even know how he had dealt with it—he just had. Somehow. Or hadn’t. Kaffas, why had he gotten involved?

Finally, he let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Just… stop. Take a break. Eat something.”

Orana raised a brow skeptically. “Eat something? That’s it?”

“Yes. For now, at least,” Fenris said, his tone softer now. “If you’re going to stay here, you’re not going to clean anymore. So sit down, eat something, and let’s… talk ,” he said, as if the word were distasteful somehow.

Orana stared at him, and for a moment, Fenris thought she would say no. But after a moment, she sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Fine,” she muttered, wiping her hands on a rag she had hanging from her waist. “Lead the way.”

Chapter Text

Fenris led Orana into the kitchen. Dust blanketed every surface, and the faint smell of stale alcohol and mildew hung in the air. He moved to a cabinet and pulled it open, revealing a haphazard collection of containers and bags. After rummaging for a moment, he produced a half-loaf of bread, a pouch of nuts, and a small jar of dried cranberries. He set them on the table with an air of finality.

“Here. Breakfast,” he said simply.

Orana blinked at the meager offering, trying to decide how best to phrase her next question in the least judgemental way possible. “Do you just… eat these as they are?” she asked, casting Fenris a sidelong glance.

Fenris shrugged. “Why not? It’s food,” he replied, moving to take a seat at the table. It hit Orana then that Fenris really did consider this an adequate meal, and fully intended to eat his bread, nuts, and fruit as-is.

Orana reached for the loaf, giving it a small, experimental squeeze. “It’s stale.”

 “It’s not that stale,” he said, seated now. He opened the bag of nuts and popped one in his mouth, shell and all.

Orana regarded Fenris, feeling slightly horrified and trying very hard not to let her feelings color her expression. “Fine,” she said, “but if I’m eating it, I’m doing something with it first. I’ll toast this,” she explained, holding up the bread. “And the fruit—if you have sugar or honey, I can make jam.”

Fenris frowned. “You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to,” Orana cut him off, her tone sharper than before. “I want to. We both have to eat, after all.”

Fenris grumbled, but seemed to relent. He gestured to one of the cupboards. “I think there’s honey somewhere in there,” he supplied as he stood up from his chair and walked over to the hearth.

Orana rummaged through the cupboards until she found a small tin of honey, some sugar, and an old iron skillet. Fenris, to his credit, had the fire going before she even asked, the glow of the flames casting warm light over the otherwise dim kitchen. Then, apparently deciding to stay out of the way, he moved to lean against the kitchen doorway and watched Orana work. 

Orana put the berries in the skillet, along with a splash of water from a pitcher she’d found, and set the skillet on the hearth. The faint scent of sweetness filled the air as the berries softened, and she mashed them into a pulp with the back of a spoon. She added a small dollop of honey and a pinch of salt to balance the sweetness, stirring carefully. As the mixture thickened, Orana turned her attention to the bread, cutting it into slices and toasting it over the fire. The smell of warm, sweet fruit filled the kitchen, mingling with the faint aroma of toasted bread as she placed the now toasted slices on a plate. Then, she took the jam off the fire, putting the skillet on the table.

Orana found some utensils before sitting down at the table. She picked up a piece of toast for herself and started spreading the jam with a spoon. It wasn’t until her first bite of toast that Orana realized Fenris was yet to sit down himself. He was looking at her strangely. Orana felt that familiar discomfort settle in her chest, the fear that she’d done something wrong. But with Fenris, it was easier to banish that feeling than it was with Hawke. She wasn’t sure why -- if it was because he was an elf, or a former slave like her, or if it was because his good opinion didn’t matter quite so much as her employer’s. Whatever the reason, Orana’s anxiety quickly faded, and she met Fenris’ gaze confidently. “Well? Aren’t you going to sit down? Or are you only here to watch me eat?” she challenged.

Fenris blinked at her for a moment before making a vaguely affirmative sound. He pushed off the wall and pulled the chair out from the kitchen table, taking his seat. He picked up the spoon Orana had got for him and started spreading jam on his own piece of toast.

At his first bite of toast, Fenris’ eyes lit up. “... It’s good,” he remarked.

Orana shot him an annoyed look. “You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

“I didn’t mean --” Fenris cut himself off with a frustrated sigh. “I was trying to give you a compliment. I… do not typically eat meals of this caliber.”

“It’s toast . With jam .”

“And it’s very good.”

Orana shook her head. His lack of standards was bizarre to her. He was free . He could eat whatever he wanted, and he chose to maintain a diet of mostly stale bread and dried fruit? She considered pressing the matter, but decided against it.

She took a bite of her own toast. It wasn’t bad, certainly, but… “Well,” she said aloud, “it’s nothing like what I could make back in Tevinter.” She paused, smiling wistfully. “We used to have real ingredients. Fresh bread, sweet cream… Maker, the spices alone! You can’t find them here.”

Fenris’ chewing slowed. He glanced at Orana through the corner of his eye. “Did you cook often?” he asked.

“Oh, no, not really,” Orana explained, suddenly shy. “I mostly spent my time cleaning, but my papa cooked. I would help him, sometimes, and he taught me everything he could. We weren’t supposed to eat the good stuff, but papa would always sneak me some of the food he was making, if he could get away with it. And… sometimes when he couldn’t,” she added, remembering the times he got caught, and the beatings he took in her place. Her eyes gaze dropped down, guilt and grief rising up like a wellspring.

“He must have really loved you,” remarked Fenris, sounding… wistful?

“He did,” Orana replied, her smile tinged with sadness. “He said I was his whole world, and that I deserved more than what life had given me. Even if it was just a piece of bread or a spoonful of stew.” She hesitated, glancing at Fenris. “Did you… have anyone like that? Someone who…” She faltered, unsure how to phrase it. “Cared?”

Fenris stared at the piece of toast in his hand, brows furrowed and eyes unfocused. “No,” he said eventually, his tone flat. “Not like that.”

“Oh,” Orana murmured, unsure how to respond.

“It’s nothing,” said Fenris, too quickly, like he wanted to move on. “I endured. And there were some good things. Like the food.”

Orana let her gaze drift to the far wall, remembering. Papa had always told her to savor little joys, to take what she could in a life that offered so little. Even when the kitchen had smelled of nothing but gruel, when the other slaves had sighed and shuffled their feet in exhaustion, he’d find something to smile about. Sometimes it was the way fresh bread smelled when it came out of the oven. Sometimes it was the light filtering through the high windows, painting the stone floor gold.

“What did you make?” asked Fenris, and the question snapped her out of her reverie.

Orana smiled softly, leaning back in her chair as she thought of the food she’d grown up with. “Oh, all kinds of things. Papa loved experimenting. We made khachapuri a lot -- it was one of Mistress Hadriana’s favorites. I always loved it, when papa could sneak me some. The way the cheese bubbled in the center, still hot from the oven…” She trailed off, mouth watering as she remembered the way it tasted.

Fenris gave a quiet huff of amusement. “Hadriana wasn’t the only one. Khachapuri was everywhere. You couldn’t walk through a market without seeing it somewhere. Always paired with a cup of mulled wine during festival days.”

“Oh, yes, I remember!” Orana said, her voice growing more animated. “And borek—layers of thin dough and cheese, sometimes stuffed with meat or spinach. Papa used to make it for the overseers. I would sneak scraps when I could.” She smiled. “I always thought it was the most decadent thing in the world.”

Fenris nodded, fondness tugging at the corners of his lips. “Dolma was good, too,” he added. “The stuffed grape leaves. Danarius didn’t care for it, so whenever it was served, he would let me eat the leftovers.”

“And baklava for dessert,” Orana added eagerly. “Sticky with honey, the layers of pastry so delicate they melted on your tongue.” She sighed. “They don’t make anything like that here in Kirkwall. Everything is just so… bland . No spice, no color…” She gestured vaguely at the dreary kitchen around them. “Even the food feels gray.”

Fenris leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “It’s a port city,” he offered. “Practicality over luxury.”

“I know,” Orana sighed. “But sometimes I miss the markets in Minrathous. The colors, the smells—spices from across Thedas, fresh pomegranates, sweet rolls… And the music. Do you remember the street performers? The ones they had at Dumat Plaza on Summerday?”

Fenris’ nodded. “I do. They played until well past midnight, as I recall, though I was rarely allowed to enjoy it. I never left Danarius’ side.”

Orana tilted her head. “Mistress Hadriana wouldn’t let us go, either” she admitted. “But the magister that owned us before Mistress Hadriana let us watch. I was young but I still remember. I loved the fire dancers most of all -- the way they threw flames into the air like it was nothing! Have you ever seen them?”

“Of course,” said Fenris. “Danarius always hired the best performers. I never understood it -- doing something so dangerous, just for a dance.” He paused, the hint of a smile on his face. “But I enjoyed watching them.”

The conversation settled into a comfortable quiet for a moment, both of them lost in their memories. At first it was nice -- remembering the food, the music, the festivals. Then Orana remembered why she didn’t have those things anymore, and suddenly it scared her, how happy those memories made her. Why did it make her happy, to remember when she was a slave? It’s like… she missed it. How could she miss it? The good parts weren’t separate from the bad. They were tangled together, inseparable, like threads in a tapestry. The spices and the songs and the food—all of it existed in the same world where her papa had been bled to death, where she had scrubbed floors until her fingers bled, where she had stood silent and still as her masters walked by, never daring to meet their eyes lest she face another beating.

Why did she miss it? She was fairly sure she wasn’t supposed to. What did it mean that she did? Was it really Tevinter she missed? Or was it just papa? Could it be both? Did that make her weak? Or ungrateful? Or worse… did it mean she liked being a slave? That some part of her wanted to go back to that life?

She let out a soft, shaky breath and finally looked up at Fenris. He was quiet, his arms crossed as he leaned back in his chair, his gaze far away. The silence between them stretched long and heavy, and she hesitated, unsure if she wanted to break it. But her questions churned restlessly inside her, demanding to be spoken.

“Do you think…” Her voice came out tentative, and she had to swallow before she tried again. “Do you think it’s wrong? To miss it? Tevinter, I mean.”

Fenris’s jaw tightened. He stared at the floor for a long moment before speaking, his voice low and uncertain. “It’s complicated,” he said. “You can hate it. And still miss it.”

Orana glanced at him, her brow furrowing. “But… how?”

Fenris shrugged, uncomfortable under her gaze. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice awkward and halting. “I just… sometimes I do. Miss it, I mean. Even when I hate it.”

When he didn’t say more, Orana sighed. “Tevinter took everything from me. My freedom, my home… my papa.” Her throat tightened as she spoke, but she forced the words out. “How can I come out of something so terrible and still miss it? It doesn’t make sense.”

Fenris leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table. His gaze dropped, his eyes fixed on the grain of the wood beneath his fingers. “It makes more sense than you might think,” he said quietly. Orana expected him to continue, but he didn’t. He seemed to be debating something with himself -- whether to speak, what to share. When he finally spoke again, it was with a note of determination. “When I left Tevinter, I hated it. Hated everything about it. The magisters, the blood magic, the world they built for themselves on the backs of people like us. I wanted to burn it all to the ground.”

His jaw tightened, and his voice grew rougher as he continued. “But there were moments I found myself thinking about the things… the life I left behind. That life was… familiar. And there’s comfort in familiarity. Sometimes, I yearned for the familiar, for the life I once had.”

Orana stared at him, that uncomfortable feeling in her stomach intensifying. “You… wanted to go back?”

Fenris clenched his jaw, eyes unfocused, unable to meet Orana’s eyes. “Sometimes,” he admitted. There was a peculiar quality to his voice, now -- it was gravelly, thick with an emotion Orana couldn’t name. “For years after I left, I didn’t know what else to do with myself, besides fight and run. As much as I hated slavery, as hard as I fought for freedom… it was…” He trailed off, his lips parted as if ready to speak, but the words never came. His eyes darted here and there as if searching for the right words. But maybe there are no right words, not for things like this, and Fenris seemed to realize that, too. “I don’t know how to explain it,” he continued. “I… as a slave, I knew my place. It… made sense. And freedom made no sense at all. Not at first, anyway.” Fenris paused. His shoulders were tense, his brows furrowed as he took what seemed like a conscious breath. “There were times, on the run, when I missed Danarius. He… made me believe he… loved me, in his own way. He made me believe it was right, the things he did to me, the things he made me do.” Another conscious breath. “I thought… I thought I deserved it. That I should be grateful Danarius had ‘chosen’ me.” He spat the word like poison. “It was an honor to be the favorite.”

Orana tilted her head, curious. But the questions she had, it didn’t feel right to ask. When she was a child, she always envied the favorites. There were benefits to being the favorite -- better food, better lodgings. She’d complained about it to her papa, sometimes. He always told her the cost wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t until she was older that she knew what that meant. Still, she always wondered if it was really that bad.

She didn’t ask. He had that haunted look in his eyes, and it felt… too far. “But, it being an honor… you didn’t believe that, did you? Not really.”

“I didn’t have the luxury of disbelief,” Fenris said bitterly. “I didn’t know to question it. Not then. It wasn’t until I left that I realized…” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. “It’s… I hate Tevinter. But… I also miss it. And I don’t know if that’s wrong, or if it means anything at all, but… I know I am no less deserving of freedom because of it.” He met her eyes, for the first time since the conversation got heavy. “And neither are you.”

That proclamation, that truth eased something in Orana’s mind. The guilt, the fear—neither vanished entirely, but they settled into something bearable. It was okay that she didn’t have everything figured out right now. Her grief for her papa, her anger at Tevinter, her yearning for the life she’d lost—it was all a tangle of emotions too vast and too messy to unravel all at once. And that was okay.

Maybe being free didn’t mean she had to be perfect. Maybe it just meant she had the space to try. To stumble. To figure out, piece by piece, who she was now, without the chains. She deserved to be here, alive, breathing, choosing what to do with her days. Just as Fenris did.

Her gaze lingered on him. Not long ago, Fenris was practically a stranger to her. Yesterday, she’d barely exchanged more than a few words with him, and what she had known of him had come mostly from Mistress Hawke’s stories—a warrior, ferocious and unyielding, a man who carved through slavers like a knife through butter. She’d seen it herself, when he saved her from thugs last night. That image of him had been intimidating. Terrifying, even. And yet…

Here he sat, in his decrepit kitchen, eating toast with jam, comforting her in a way no-one else could. For all his rough edges, for all the anger that simmered beneath the surface, Fenris was kinder than he gave himself credit for. Wiser, too. He had given her something she hadn’t even known to ask for: permission . Permission to try and fail, permission to hate and love, permission to find contentment in contradiction. Permission to be .

How strange it was, to face something as daunting and wonderful as freedom and know she need not be afraid, because now, she wasn’t facing it alone.

She and Fenris sat with their thoughts for a moment, neither ready to break the silence. After a time, Orana’s attention turned to the state of the kitchen -- the mess on the table, the ingredients still out on the counter, their dirty plates, the skillet with remnants of jam drying to the bottom -- and she started categorizing tasks, planning what to do in what order.

Fenris must’ve seen the intent in her eyes, because he stood up then, and started gathering the dirty dishes before she could even say anything. “You cooked,” he said, “I’ll clean.”

“Oh, no, there’s no need,” Orana said quickly, already starting to rise. “I don’t mind—”

Fenris gave her a pointed look that stopped her in her tracks. “This is my kitchen, not yours. It is not your job to clean it,” he said, his voice calm but unyielding. “I will not hear arguments. Sit.”

Orana pursed her lips. She sat back down, trying to ignore the unease she felt in her stomach. He’s right, this isn’t your job, you can let him clean his own house, she told herself, though she still felt wrong , just sitting there, not helping, not being useful . She chastised herself for the thought. It’s not your job, she repeated to herself. Maybe if she kept reminding herself, she’d believe it.

She could hear Fenris moving around the kitchen, putting things away and gathering things to clean. When she could hear him start to scrub the dishes, she twisted in her chair to watch. He wasn’t doing a very good job. By the time he was done with the skillet, there were still stubborn bits of jam stuck to the edges. It was obvious he never trained for domestic chores.

Orana bit her tongue, resisting the urge to get up and do it herself. She turned back around. “Do you think Hawke’s mad at me?” she asked suddenly.

Fenris paused. She heard him set the plate he’d been drying onto the counter. “No,” he said finally. “Worried, maybe. But not mad.”

Orana nodded slowly. She probably knew, deep down, that Hawke wouldn’t be mad at her for this. Still, hearing it from Fenris was a comfort.

She pushed herself to her feet, brushing crumbs off her lap. “I should probably go back soon,” she said quietly, though she didn’t make any move to leave.

Fenris inclined his head. “It’s your choice.”

The two of them stood there for a moment longer, neither speaking, the quiet stretching between them. Then Orana let out a small, tired sigh. “You’re not as scary as you look, you know.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching again into something that might have been a smile. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Orana smiled back, faint but genuine. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Chapter Text

Orana stared at the door to the Amell Estate, working up the courage to knock. It was silly of her to be so apprehensive — after all, she spent the whole morning preparing for this — but it was so much more daunting now that she was really there, outside the safety of her mind. In her mind, everything was logical and expected. Real life was rarely so kind. 

It wasn’t that she was scared Hawke wouldn’t take her back — not anymore. Last night, everything had seemed so bleak and hopeless that Orana had genuinely considered it possible that Hawke wouldn’t want her back. Now, in the light of day, after speaking with Fenris, she knew better. She knew that if she just knocked she’d be let in, and if she just spoke to Hawke, they could put this whole situation behind them. She knew this — so why was it so hard to just knock?

The sound of the door creaking open pulled Orana out of the nervous mire of her mind, and she found herself face-to-face with a fully armored Hawke.

Hawke gave a jolt and a gasp. “Oh—Orana,” Hawke remarked, pulling off her helm and easing her posture into something gentler. “Are you…” she started, trailing off with an uncertain look on her face.

“I’m alright, Mistress,” Orana reassured. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and rushed out her apology — “I’m so sorry for running off like that, it was terribly childish and rude,” she started. Her voice only shook a little, and she allowed herself a little pride at that. “I only hope you would consider allowing me to return. I promise, I would never do something like that again,” she concluded. Her eyes dropped to the ground beneath her feet, unable to look Hawke in the face as she passed her judgement.

“Oh Orana,” said Hawke, “Of course you’re welcome back — you were perfectly within your rights to leave. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Orana released a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Her relief lifted an almost physical weight off her shoulders, and she felt herself stand taller.

Hawke was regarding Orana with a kind look on her face, but something about her demeanor was… subdued. She stepped aside, gesturing to invite Orana into the warmth of the estate. “Come on in. I… think we need to talk.”

Those words rarely preceded anything good, but Orana kept a tight rein on her anxiety, simply stepping inside and following Hawke as she led them to her study.

The study was warm and cozy, filled with books and gentle lamplight. Hawke motioned to a plush chair, taking a seat across from Orana. For a moment, silence hung heavy between them, punctuated only by the faint crackling of the fireplace.

“I owe you an apology as well,” Hawke finally said.

Orana blinked, a little stunned. This… wasn’t what she was expecting. She’d expected Hawke to demand an explanation. She was the one who ran, after all — what did Hawke have to apologize for?

Hawke leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her eyes boring holes in the carpet beneath their feet. “I… have a tendency to play the hero,” she explained, smiling ruefully. “When I see people struggling, my instinct is to help. Even when it isn’t my place, even when my interference just complicates things more, it seems I have a chronic addiction to fixing everyone else’s problems.” Hawke sighed. “My brother Carver used to say my love was suffocating… I suppose that’s probably what he was talking about.”

Orana hesitated. What did this have to do with her? She tried to think of something to say, but her mind was blank.

“All that to say, I realize I've been pushing you,” Hawke continued. “You deserve your privacy. However you spend your time, whatever reasons you have for it — that’s your choice, and it’s not my place to interfere. I realize that now. I promise, from now on, you won’t need to worry about my judgement.”

Hawke’s words touched something in Orana, something that made her feel equal parts guilty and grateful. She couldn’t deny, it felt good to hear Hawke promise not to pry into her personal life — but privacy was not something Orana was used to having, and she couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt that Hawke felt she needed to apologize when she was only trying to help. In Tevinter, she had no expectation of privacy — if she was asked a question, she had no choice but to answer, and more often than not, the answer would be twisted and used against her, yet another means of control. Hawke’s curiosity was, at least, born of kindness rather than malice. She should be grateful for that.

And yet, she didn’t want to be grateful. She didn’t want to constantly have to worry about the weight of Hawke’s kind curiosity, prying into every part of her life she kept hidden, even from herself. She wanted the freedom to keep some parts of herself hidden — and that’s exactly what it was, wasn’t it? It was freedom to choose what to share and who to let into her life. She wasn’t in Tevinter anymore — she was free, and she didn’t have to tolerate those things anymore. So, she let go of her guilt and let herself accept Hawke’s apology, a palpable relief washing over her.

Orana gave Hawke a smile, betraying none of her meandering thoughts. “Thank you, Mistress, I — I appreciate that,” she said.

 “Of course,” said Hawke with a smile, “But there is one caveat — I want you to understand that I care about you, Orana. I consider you a friend. And while I respect your boundaries, I also hope you know you can always come to me. If you need help, if something’s troubling you or you need advice — just tell me. I'm here for you, but I can only help if you let me know what's happening.”

Orana studied her hands in her lap, feeling suddenly exposed by Hawke’s quiet sincerity. She didn’t have to tell Hawke anything — the conversation could end here and Orana knew Hawke would leave it at that. But she knew she couldn’t keep bottling everything up inside. She remembered this morning, making breakfast with Fenris and everything he said… She sighed. She didn’t really want to talk about this, but if she didn’t say something now, she probably never would.

“I want to ask for help,” she murmured, glancing up shyly. “But… sometimes I just don’t know how to talk about what’s inside my head. It feels easier to bury it. To work instead. Especially since…” She swallowed hard. “Especially since papa died.”

Hawke hummed softly in acknowledgement, leaning back in her chair and gazing into the middle distance. When she finally spoke, it was with a sort of sadness in her tone. "When my father died, I didn't know how to talk about it either,” she admitted. “We were always on the run from the Templars, trying to stay ahead, always one step away from danger. It wasn’t easy for us, with so little stability in our lives, but father always made it seem like one big adventure, you know? He believed all that mattered was that we were together. Then he was gone and…” She took a shaky breath, stood up and went to stand by the fire, watching the flames like they held an answer, somehow. A silence settled over the room, the sort of silence Orana didn’t feel the need to fill with talk. 

It was strange, but so much of what Hawke said about her father reminded Orana of hers. Papa wasn’t like the other slaves Orana knew — he made the most of everything, worked within the rigid constraints of his slavery to give Orana the best life she could have in their circumstances. No matter how hard Orana had to work, no matter how much her masters demanded of her, no matter how much it hurt when she got punished, the one thing Orana never doubted was that she was loved. And when he died…

“It felt like the whole world lost color overnight.”

Hawke was talking again, seamlessly picking up the thread of the conversation, unaware how perfectly her words completed Orana’s unfinished thought.

“But there wasn't time to mourn,” Hawke continued, “not really. We had to keep moving, and all of a sudden I was the one my family looked to for direction. The eldest, the one who’s supposed to have all the answers.” She laughed humorlessly. “I remember thinking it wasn’t fair. I was only seventeen — why did I have to be in charge? But there was no use thinking like that so I just… buried all the hurt, and focused on surviving.”

Hawke pried her eyes from the fire and fixed her gaze on Orana. Her eyes were glassy now, reflecting little pinpricks of firelight. “I know it’s not the same — you and I, we grew up in very different places — but I imagine some of this is probably familiar to you. Hiding your pain because survival is more important, staying busy to keep your mind off of what you’ve lost — trust me, you’re not the only one trying to outrun your grief. But…” Hawke’s eyes dropped away from Orana as she meandered back to her chair and looped around behind it, leaning over the back with her arms crossed.

“When we made it to Kirkwall,” she continued, “when we finally had some semblance of stability, it started to catch up to me. At first, there were still ways to run from it — we were broke, we were refugees, and we were squatting in my uncle’s house. There was no shortage of things to do, things to fix . But now? Now I’m a noblewoman. I’m rich, I’ve restored my family’s estate, and my mother is well provided for. I don’t need to worry about survival anymore, and when you stop surviving and start living… that’s when it all catches up to you. You look back and everything you’ve lost, everything you’ve suffered comes into focus. Only then do you realize how much it hurts.”

Orana felt a pang of grief, Hawke’s story reminding her so much of her own. It did hurt. It was almost a physical hurt, the pain of her papa’s death, and trying to ignore it only seemed to make it worse.

Orana swallowed past a lump in her throat, dropping her eyes to where her hands were fidgeting restlessly with the hem of her dress. “So h-how did…” She cleared her throat and tried again. “How did you get over it?”

Hawke straightened up and gave Orana a sad smile. “I wish I had a good answer for that, something you could do that would make everything better.” She rounded the back of the chair and sat down. “But the truth is, you don’t. You don’t get over it. You just learn how to live with it.”

Orana looked back at Hawke with a stricken look on her face. “You mean I… I’m going to feel this way forever?” Her voice shook as she asked the question, unable to imagine this pain, this loss becoming her new state of being.

“No, the pain will come and go. There will be days you won’t feel it at all, and there will be days it’s all you can think about. But I will tell you this — it helps to talk about it.”

Orana didn’t realize she was crying until she let out a watery laugh, a genuine smile laced with a bitter sadness — “Papa’s the one I would talk to,” she said simply.

“So talk to him.”

“I c-can’t,” Orana sniffled. “He’s dead.”

“You can still talk to him.”

Orana wiped the tears from her face and regarded Hawke, perplexed. She wondered, briefly, if Hawke was making a joke at her expense, but Hawke wouldn’t do that.

Hawke stood up. “Can I show you something?”

Orana nodded, taking a deep breath and gathering herself as she stood to follow Hawke out of the study. She led them through the back of the house and into a small courtyard Orana hadn’t known was there. It was nestled between the house and the garden walls, sheltered and quiet, a pocket of peace hidden away from the rest of the bustling estate. A stone path wound lazily through patches of soft, vibrant moss and clusters of colorful weeds whose blooms rivaled flowers in their beauty, shades of rich purples and fiery oranges bursting defiantly from cracks and crevices. Here and there, mushrooms of subtle, earthy tones nestled among stones, their delicate shapes oddly captivating. At the far end of the courtyard stood a modest stone shrine, simple yet lovingly maintained. Its base was surrounded by candles, some tall and others mere stubs, remnants of their wax gathering on the stone.

Hawke approached the shrine and knelt in front of it, gently brushing away fallen leaves and bits of moss that had gathered at its base. “Hi dad,” she said, and Orana finally understood what Hawke had meant.

“I’m sorry I don’t visit more often,” Hawke murmured, her fingers tracing idle patterns across the worn stone of the shrine. “Things are busy now. Everyone always seems to need something—I barely have a moment to myself. It makes me wonder if that's how you felt when we were young.” She offered a faint smile, fragile and fleeting. “I wish you were here, dad. I miss you.”

Orana shifted her weight from foot to foot, unsure if she should leave, if she was interrupting something private and precious. But Hawke glanced back over her shoulder and extended her hand, beckoning Orana forward to kneel beside her. Orana hesitated for only a heartbeat before stepping forward to join Hawke. She knelt, folding her hands in her lap as she looked curiously at the shrine.

Hawke sighed, her voice carrying a wistful quality when she spoke again. “I found this place by accident,” she explained. “We’d only just moved into the estate, and things were chaotic—everyone settling in, renovations going on constantly. I was looking for somewhere quiet, away from all the noise, somewhere I could just… think.” Her gaze softened, and a gentle smile touched her lips. “I stumbled into this courtyard—it was neglected, overgrown, forgotten by everyone. But somehow, it felt peaceful. The weeds, the moss, the way it felt like nature was quietly reclaiming everything… well. Father was always good at finding beauty in overlooked things. He saw potential where others saw waste. I suppose that’s why this place spoke to me. So I built the shrine here, as a way to remember him. I come here whenever I feel lost or overwhelmed. I always feel better when I leave.”

Orana smiled at the way Hawke talked about her father, touched by the subtle way her voice changed when she talked about him.

Hawke tilted towards Orana, regarding her curiously. "Do they handle the dead differently in Tevinter? Do you not keep memorials for loved ones who've passed on?"

Orana hesitated, uncertain how to explain. "It depends on your station," she explained softly, eyes fixed on her hands. "Magisters, their families, the powerful and wealthy—they have grand ceremonies, monuments, and their names carved in marble to honor their memory. But when a slave dies, their body is discarded or burned without ceremony. Slaves weren’t allowed to keep memorials for their loved ones, either. We kept our grief on the inside, I suppose."

Hawke sighed. “I suppose I should have expected an answer like that… Forgive me my Ferelden sensibilities, but to deny people their right to mourn? It’s just… awful.”

Orana smiled. “I don’t mind your Ferelden sensibilities — I think I may even prefer them.”

Hawke gave a light chuckle. A moment passed in comfortable silence as Hawke turned thoughtful.

“It may sound grim, but… I think there’s something beautiful about the fact that we all die, in the end,” said Hawke, peculiarly at ease. “Slave or Magister, Ferelden or Tevinter, elf or human, Andrastian or Qunari, it doesn’t matter — in the end, we all have one life to live, and we all try to make the most of it. We all have people we love. Even if we lose them later, it doesn’t make the loving any less worthwhile.” Hawke closed her eyes, lifting her face to the sky as if speaking her words to the wind. “There’s something universal about grief, too,” she continued. “If nothing else, grief is evidence that you’ve loved.”

Orana felt a gentle ache deep in her chest, a bittersweet feeling she didn’t have the words to describe. She had never heard anyone talk about loss the way Hawke had. An hour ago, Orana would have said there was nothing beautiful about losing someone. A cruel twist of fate, maybe — an injustice, definitely. But beautiful? What kind of monster would find death beautiful?

Now, though, kneeling in this hidden place, forgotten by the world and all the more beautiful for it, Orana could believe it. She could believe it, because in this place, when she thought of her papa, she felt all the love she had ever felt for him and none of the pain she had felt when he died. A brief respite — the pain would return — but it was welcome nonetheless. Here, she could remember him as he lived, rather than be haunted by how he’d died.

She wished she could come back here sometime. But this was Hawke’s sanctuary, a private place for her to remember her father. It wasn’t her place to intrude.

“You’re welcome here anytime, you know,” said Hawke, as if she could tell the turn Orana’s mind had taken. “If you wanted, you could even put up your own shrine for your father.”

Orana's eyes widened slightly, a lump forming in her throat. "That's very kind of you, Mistress," she said, shaking her head slowly. "But… this is your place. Your father—”

“Would be happy for me to share this place with someone I care about,” Hawke interrupted, smiling gently. “I promise, if it bothered me I wouldn’t have offered.”

Orana took a deep breath, weighing Hawke’s assurances against her inborn anxiety, and gave a slow nod.

“Good,” said Hawke, pushing herself to her feet. Orana moved to do the same, but Hawke raised a hand to stop her. “I have to go — some business with the Viscount — but please, spend as long as you’d like here. The world can spare you for a moment more, I’m sure,” she said. As she left, her step seemed a little lighter than it was when they came.

Orana hesitated after Hawke was gone. There was work to do, and surely she should start making up for the chores she’d missed since running away yesterday, and…

Well. Just one moment more.

Chapter Text

Orana stood at the threshold of a grand building, the second in as many days, working up the courage to go inside. This time, it was the Chantry, not the Amell Estate, and instead of mentally rehearsing her apologies, Orana was preparing herself to ask for a Brother named Sebastian.

She had met him before, in passing—once in the halls of the estate, another time at the market when he and Hawke exchanged pleasantries—but they hadn’t spoken. Still, she knew enough to know he was a holy man, and a kind one by all accounts. She’d heard he was a prince of some kind, and it wasn’t hard to believe — he had a royal look about him. She’d also heard he’d lost his whole family in some kind of betrayal. Even if he was a prince, his grief couldn’t be so different from her own. If anyone could counsel her, if anyone could understand, surely it would be him. At least, that’s what she thought this morning, when she made the decision to come here. Now, though, she was starting to second-guess herself, as she often did.

It was easy to imagine, in an abstract sort of way, opening up to someone about her grief. Now that she actually had to do it, though, it seemed impossible. She knew it wasn’t — she’d gone through all of this with Hawke once before, hadn’t she? — but this was different, somehow. With Hawke, she hadn’t actually had to explain what was troubling her. Hawke knew — all Orana had to do was admit that she needed help. Now, she was initiating the conversation, so she would have to explain. She really, really didn’t want to — but she knew she should. Ever since her conversation with Hawke, she felt an acute sense of lack , all the time. It seemed everything reminded her of her Papa, now that she allowed herself to remember that he was gone. She didn’t know what to do with it all. There was so many things she didn’t know, she mused bitterly, and she was so sick of not knowing things.

So, Chantry. Sebastian. Asking for help. Kaffas .

Orana took a deep breath, turning her attention to her surroundings. The stone steps leading up to the Chantry were mostly empty, save for a pair of older women chatting softly near the herb garden. Orana lingered near the base of the steps, arms crossed tightly, eyes flicking up toward the massive arched doors that guarded the entrance. She hadn’t taken a single step closer.

The building itself was massive—taller than any estate in Hightown, save maybe the Keep—and perched at the top of a long stretch of stairs that felt more like a procession route than a public walkway. Golden statues hoved above the courtyard by the entrance -- armored figures with rigid shoulders and upright spears, gleaming despite the sea-wind. Banners hung from the walls like blood-red drapery, each bearing the sunburst of the Andrastian faith.

She didn’t know much about architecture, but she’d seen enough of Minrathous to know that this building was Tevinter. It was the angularity of everything that gave it away, she thought. The rest of Hightown didn’t have the same sort of austere, severe look about it. A magister had owned this estate once—someone had told her that—and it still looked like it. Even after being turned into a Chantry, its bones were the same. And yet… it didn’t feel exactly like Tevinter. Something about it had changed.

There were little signs of it, if you looked. A certain plainness. A lack of polish, maybe. The benches that lined the courtyard were just regular wood, no cushions, not even armrests or backs. There were no magical sigils, no torches burning blue. The stone hadn’t been enchanted to stay warm in winter. The lanterns were plain iron. The Chantry banners didn’t shimmer like silk — they were probably made of linen, maybe canvas. She noticed small signs of weather damage — edges bleached from sun, seams mended where they’d frayed. In Tevinter, those banners would have been replaced long ago.

A group of people stood by the Chanter’s Board, reading the messages tacked to its surface. There was no clear order to them. A man in merchant’s robes stood beside a woman in a patched shawl; a pair of elven boys hovered behind them, whispering as they waited their turn. No one seemed to mind. One of the boys gave the merchant directions, and the merchant nodded his thanks. It was odd that a place that looked like this was a place where people like that—those who worked and those who didn’t have to—stood side-by-side.

Someone brushed past her with a mumbled apology, starting the long ascent to the Chantry doors. Orana swallowed roughly, turning her attention back to the stairs before her. She stood there long enough for her nerves to return in full force. What if she wasn’t allowed inside? Hawke had said the Chantry welcomed everyone, but what if that was only true in some places? In Tevinter, elves weren’t kept from the Chantry exactly, but they weren’t welcome either. What if this was the same? And what if her limited knowledge of the Chant got her kicked out? What if only the faithful and devout were allowed inside? The thought made her consider turning around and walking back to the estate before anyone noticed her.

“You’ve been standing there for some time,” a woman’s voice called to her.

Orana turned, startled. A woman stood a few steps above her, robed in the colors of the Chantry. Her face was lined with age, her expression kind and a little curious. She didn’t look surprised to see an elf loitering at her doorstep.

“I—sorry,” Orana said quickly. “I wasn’t sure if I should go in,” she explained, gesturing past the woman to the Chantry.

“There’s no need to apologize,” the woman said, descending the steps toward her. “All are welcome here, regardless of the shape of their ears or the strength of their faith. My name is Elthina,” she introduced herself with a slight bow at the neck. “I’m the Grand Cleric here. May I ask your name?”

“You—” Orana stammered, caught off-guard. She might not know much about the southern Chantry, but she knew that name, and she knew Elthina was the highest-ranking Chantry official in Kirkwall. “you’re the Grand Cleric. I—I didn’t realize— I’m so sorry, I should have—” She dropped her eyes and tried to think of the correct gesture, whether to kneel or bow or cross her arms or place a hand to her chest—none of it felt right and all of it felt wrong. She was already doing it badly.

But before she could sort herself into a proper display of respect, Elthina reached out and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“There’s no need for that,” she said kindly. “Titles are just that—titles. They help people keep track of who signs the letters and who lights the candles, but they don’t mean very much in moments like this.”

Orana released a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “I — thank you, er…” she trailed off, unsure what the proper form of address for a Grand Cleric was.

“Just call me Elthina, child,” the Grand Cleric prompted. “And you are?”

Orana dipped her head shyly. “My name is Orana,” she answered.

“A lovely name,” Elthina said with a smile. “And what brings you to us today?”

Orana hesitated. “I was hoping to speak with Brother Sebastian,” she said. “If he’s not too busy.”

Elthina gave a small chuckle. “I’m sure he can spare a few minutes,” she explained. “He’s been sorting hymnals for the archive this morning — I’m sure he’d welcome a reason to stop. Come, I’ll take you to him.” She turned to the stairs and gestured for Orana to follow.

Orana hesitated for only a moment before falling in step beside Elthina. They ascended the seemingly endless steps to the Chantry in relative silence before finding themselves before those grand, arched doors. Elthina went inside, and Orana followed suit.

Inside, the air was cool and calm. Shafts of sunlight streamed through stained glass, painting the tiled floor in a kaleidoscope of colors. The space was nearly empty save for a few scattered supplicants. Candles burned in neat rows before a statue of Andraste, and the faint murmur of prayer echoed gently beneath the vaulted ceiling. 

The sanctuary gave way to a side hall, narrower and lined with alcoves holding statuary and old books. As Orana and Elthina made their way down the hall, they passed a few closed doors and one open reading room, and Orana could hear the faint sound of someone turning pages. The Grand Cleric stopped in front of one of the doors, left slightly ajar, and tapped her knuckles against the wood.

“Brother Sebastian?”

There was a pause, then a man’s voice replied, low and even. “Yes, Grand Cleric?”

Elthina pushed the door open another inch and glanced inside. “Someone is here to speak with you,” she said. “If you have a moment.”

Orana stepped forward as Sebastian stood up from the desk. He looked much as she remembered — tall and handsome, in a storybook way, with neatly coiffed brown hair and kind eyes. It seemed to take him a moment to place her face, but he flashed her a smile as she approached.

“Of course,” he said. “Please, come in.” He gestured to a chair on the other side of the desk he’d been sitting at. Orana nodded, going to sit down as Elthina left the room, the door clicking as it closed behind her.

When Orana looked up again, she was surprised to see Sebastian dragging his chair around the desk to her side and sitting down, a couple feet space between him and Orana. Her confusion must have shown on her face, because Sebastian smiled kindly and said, in his distinctive Starkhaven lilt, “Having a desk between us is a bit too formal, I think — unless you’d prefer…?”

“No, no, this is fine,” Orana quickly assured. She twisted her hands in her lap, unsure what to say.

“You work in Hawke’s household, don’t you?” Sebastian prompted. “It shames me, but I do not recall your name.” He paused, a furrow in his brow. “Was it Aria?”

“Orana,” she corrected.

“A beautiful name,” said Sebastian with a smile, “My apologies, Orana. What brings you here, then?”

Orana swallowed thickly. This is it , she thought. Just spill it out.

“I’m… I’ve been trying to figure out how to grieve someone,” she started. Sebastian raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue. She sighed — no getting away with being vague, then.  “My papa,” she clarified. She tried to ignore how her throat was starting to feel tighter. “He died. Not recently, but… I didn’t really let myself think about it before.”

Sebastian nodded, but didn’t say anything. At first, it annoyed Orana — must she bare her whole soul before he says something? — but, after a moment of reflection, she realized she had more to say.

“I’ve been working a lot,” Orana continued. “Keeping busy. I thought if I didn’t think about it, it would be fine. But it isn’t. I get these moments where it just… swells up out of nowhere. And I don’t know what to do.”

She swallowed and glanced at Sebastian, noting the sympathetic slope of his eyebrows. “I asked Hawke, and she helped. She told me how she remembers her father. She even showed me a shrine she keeps, just for him. It was nice, for a while, but it didn’t feel… right. For me, I mean. To do the same thing.”

Sebastian’s voice was gentle when he finally spoke. “So you’re searching for your own way.”

Orana nodded. “I thought maybe someone like you — someone holy — might know what I’m supposed to do. Or… what people do. The right way to remember someone.”

Sebastian folded his hands, thoughtful. “There is no ‘right’ way to grieve,” he said. “We are each left to carry our losses the best way we can. But however you grieve, faith can guide us, help us find meaning in our sorrow. The Maker knows your grief as intimately as you do — when language fails you, turn to Him to find the way forward.”

He paused, brows furrowing before continuing. “When Andraste despaired for her people, the Maker said to her, Heart that is broken, beats still unceasing, An ocean of sorrow does nobody drown. Within My creation, none are alone. It is good that you are sharing your burden with others — it is a sign of healing, even if the wound still hurts.”

Orana was quiet for a moment before speaking. “I’m grateful to Hawke and the others, they’ve been very kind, but I still feel alone, somehow. I’ve felt this way for a long time,” she admitted. “Even before he died, really. After Hadriana bought us, he changed,” she remembered. “He tried to keep smiling, but I could tell he wasn’t feeling it. I think… I think he was afraid for me.”

Sebastian dropped his gaze to the floor, but he said nothing, allowing her to continue.

“I didn’t know how to help him.” Orana continued. “I was too scared. I tried to be good, so he wouldn’t have to protect me as much. I thought maybe that would be enough. But it wasn’t.” Her voice cracked. “He died anyway.”

Sebastian bowed his head. “I’m sorry.”

Orana nodded stiffly, her throat burning. “He died in front of me. And I couldn’t stop it. She—she cut him, used his blood for a spell. Afterwards, she — she just tossed him aside, like he was nothing.” She wiped at her cheek, not surprised to find tears there, just annoyed she couldn’t keep them at bay. She took a steadying breath. “I haven’t talked about that, what actually happened… to anyone, really. I think I’ve been afraid that if I did, it would mean it really happened. That it wasn’t just some horrible nightmare I could forget if I tried hard enough.”

Sebastian sat very still, hands clasped, gaze lowered.

After a time, he said, “What happened to your father was a cruelty beyond imagining. That you lived through it, and still carry yourself with such gentleness… you are stronger than you think, Orana.”

Orana shook her head. “I don’t feel strong. I just feel tired. And guilty. And angry, sometimes. But then I feel guilty for being angry.”

Sebastian gave her a rueful smile. “That is grief, Orana. It is a simple thing, really. There are no guidelines — however long it takes, whatever emotions it brings up, these are all normal.”

He hesitated before continuing. “When I lost my family… I thought it was my fauly, that if I hadn’t squandered my youth playing the rake, if I’d just been more dutiful, more vigilant, they’d still be alive. It was not fair, to think that of myself. There was no-one to blame for their deaths except their killers. It isn’t fair, but we have to live with it somehow, and blaming ourselves accomplishes nothing.”

A silence passed between them. Eventually, Orana asked, “What did you do? When they died?”

“I got my revenge,” Sebastian said. “I wrote a post on the Chanter’s board offering a bounty for whoever could kill the mercenaries who murdered my family. Hawke took the bounty. Later, she even helped me hunt down the ones who hired them. After that, there was no more revenge to be had, and I felt… empty.” He sighed. “I do not regret avenging my family. I do not even regret enjoying taking my revenge, Maker forgive me. But avenging my family did not bring them back.”

Orana nodded. “So what did you do?”

“I prayed,” he answered. “It gave me meaning, purpose. Prayer can be a powerful thing.” He paused, brow furrowed in thought. “But what helped the most was honoring them, anyway I could. My father treasured our garden at home, so I tend to the Chantry’s herb garden when I can. My mother loved to sing, and when I sing in the Chantry choir, it feels like she’s there with me. When faced with a difficult decision, I remember my brother, his unshakable morals, and I ask myself what he would have done. Remembering them that way… It doesn’t make them any less gone, but it allows me to remember them as they were.”

He looked at her meaningfully. “Grief is not only the ache of what was lost — it is also the imprint of the love that remains. You can honor him in any way that makes sense to you.”

Orana didn’t speak right away. She was too full of thoughts. She could try praying, she supposed, but she’d never done it before. How would she know she was doing it right?

She glanced at Sebastian, frowning slightly. “Can I ask… when you say to pray—how do you mean that? What do you actually do?”

Sebastian looked pleased at the question. “I speak to the Maker,” he said simply. “Like I would speak to a father, or a dear friend. Sometimes aloud. Sometimes in my heart. It depends on the day.”

“But how do you know if He even hears you?” Orana asked.

“Because He is always listening, always looking out for his children. The Maker is not absent, Orana, though I understand why so many believe He is.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “But He listens to all who seek Him. Even those who aren’t sure what they believe. Especially them.”

She glanced down, skeptical. “But what if I don’t know what to say?”

“You don’t have to know,” Sebastian assured. “What matters is not the polish of the words, but the sincerity. Even silence can be a prayer.”

She considered that for a long moment. “I’ve never prayed before.”

“That doesn’t disqualify you,” he said gently. “You don’t have to earn the Maker’s attention. It is freely given.”

Orana kept her gaze fixed on the floor. “Would you… would you show me?”

Sebastian nodded and stood, beckoning her toward a side chapel off the main hall. She followed, her footsteps quiet on the stone. The chapel was small and clean, with a simple statue of Andraste at the far end and a few candles flickering at its base. Light filtered in through a narrow stained-glass window, casting gold and green shapes on the flagstones.

He knelt without ceremony and motioned for her to do the same. When she hesitated, he only said, “You don’t have to speak if you’re not ready. Just be here.”

She nodded, coming to kneel beside him. Sebastian closed his eyes and bowed his head. After a pause, he spoke, his voice low and even. “Maker, in our sorrow, let us not forget Your presence. In our confusion, remind us that You are constant. Grant peace to the living, and rest to the lost. Please, hear our prayers, and guide us in our grief.”

He glanced toward her, giving her space to speak if she wanted to. Orana hesitated, heart fluttering in her chest. But the words caught in her throat. Eventually, she only murmured, “Thank you,” and stared at the flickering candle instead.

Sebastian did not push her to speak further. He simply nodded, content with the silence. After a long moment, they stepped back into the hallway.

When he led her to the Chantry’s front steps again, Orana paused, unsure how to express the knot of gratitude, confusion, and weariness twisting inside her.

“I appreciate you speaking with me,” she said at last.

Sebastian bowed. “Anytime, Orana. Maker be with you.”

***

That evening, Orana couldn’t sleep. She sat up at the edge of her bed, the candle beside her guttering low as she glanced around her room. Everything was tidy. Her contract was still folded neatly in the drawer. Her new necklace hung on the hook by her mirror. A vase of late-autumn sprigs she’d picked from the garden sat on the sill, half-forgotten. Scattered evidence of her free life, little victories displayed like trophies. What would her papa think of all this, she wondered? She sighed. There were so many questions she wanted to ask her papa. If she asked the Maker instead, would he answer? She rubbed her palms on her nightclothes and exhaled shakily.

Maybe… she could try.

She got up and lit a second candle, placing it gently on the floor in front of her, just like the one in the Chantry. She knelt before it, unsure what to do with her hands. She folded them in her lap. Then unfolded them. Then pressed her palms together like she’d seen Sebastian do, then felt foolish and let them drop again.

She stared at the candle.

“Um,” she said aloud. “Maker?”

Her voice sounded small in the room. She glanced at the door, half-expecting someone to walk in and see her like this—kneeling on the floor, talking to no one.

She swallowed and tried again. “I… I don’t really know if you’re there. Or if I’m doing this right. Or if it counts, since I’ve never learned the Chant, or been blessed, or—” She broke off with a huff. “Sorry. I’m bad at this. I guess you know that.”

She stared at the flame, as if it might answer her.

“My papa died. I think… I think you know that too. But I’m telling you anyway. Because maybe if I say it out loud enough times, it’ll stop feeling like I wasn’t supposed to let it happen.”

She twisted her hands again. “I miss him. A lot. I’m not sure what to do with that.”

Another long silence followed.

Eventually, she shook her head. “This is stupid,” she whispered, voice hot with shame. “You’re not even listening. I don’t know why I thought—”

She cut herself off, standing up abruptly. The candle flickered but stayed lit. Orana stared at it another moment, then blew it out.

She climbed into bed and pulled the blanket over her head. Her eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. She just lay there, arms folded across her chest, and let the silence stretch.

Prayer, she decided, wasn’t for her. Maybe it helped Sebastian. Maybe it helped a lot of people. But it didn’t help her. It just made her feel more alone.

Chapter Text

The knock at the door came in the late afternoon, three quick raps, and Orana’s heart quickened slightly in that small, irrational way it sometimes did when someone knocked unexpectedly. She set down the feather duster she’d been holding and wiped her hands on her apron, wracking her mind to think who it could be as she made her way to the front door. She didn’t think they were expecting anyone — Leandra was out with some friends, and Hawke had left hours ago for what she said would be a quick trip to Lowtown.

Orana opened the door and found Fenris standing on the threshold, looking slightly windblown and characteristically uncomfortable. He had a book in one hand—worn leather binding, a title she couldn’t read—and a look in his eyes that could’ve passed for sheepishness, if Fenris were given to that sort of thing.

“Oh,” she said, caught off guard. She hadn’t seen him since the night he took her in. “Messere Fenris.”

“Orana,” he replied, stiffly. Then, after a short pause: “I came for… an appointment. With Hawke.”

Orana blinked. She felt that old fear of inadequacy rising up, worried that she had forgotten something important, but she quickly tamped it down. Hawke hadn’t mentioned anything about Fenris coming over earlier that morning, and she wasn’t even here to meet him. It stood to reason that Hawke forgot about it, and that was not Orana’s fault.

“I’m afraid Mistress Hawke is out at the moment,” Orana explained. “She might have forgotten your appointment — she didn’t mention anything of it to me.”

Fenris clenched his jaw, eyes dropping to the book in his hands. He sighed. “I see. I’ll take my leave, then.” He half-turned, moving to step away.

“Wait,” Orana said, surprising herself. “She shouldn’t be long. Come in — you can wait for her in the living room.”

Fenris stopped, turning back to Orana with a raised eyebrow. He hesitated. “I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he offered.

“You wouldn’t be intruding,” said Orana. Then, realizing he might take that as politeness rather than honesty, she added, “It’s no trouble, and Lady Hawke is always glad to see you.”

Fenris dropped his head a moment too late to hide his blush. Orana tactfully suppressed a smile. After a moment, he nodded.

“Alright.”

They didn’t speak as she led him to the sitting room. The fire had gone low, and the cushions weren’t fluffed, but it was tidy and warm enough. She gestured to the armchair closest to the hearth, and he sat heavily, setting his book on a side table.

“I’ll put on some tea,” she said, more to fill the silence than anything else. “And we’ve got some lemon biscuits left from this morning, if you’d like.” she offered as she passed through the foyer toward the kitchen.

Behind her, Fenris let out a faint huff. “Is this how it is now?” he said.

Orana slowed. She turned back, peeking around the doorframe. “What do you mean?”

His eyes flicked to hers before averting his gaze, jaw clenched. “You’re just being so—” He hesitated, gesturing vaguely, “—polite.”

She blinked at him. “That’s literally my job.”

They stared at each other, and for a moment, Orana thought Fenris was offended. Then, he let out a low chuckle. “You’re right… And I’m a terrible guest. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Orana smiled despite herself. “Now who’s being uncharacteristically polite?”

That scared another chuckle out of him, and Orana felt the tension leave her shoulders. She had to admit, being formal with Fenris was sort of strange, now. She couldn’t put a finger on why — strictly speaking, they still barely knew each other. Still, it was better like this.

In the end, Fenris relented and allowed Orana to get tea and biscuits, but only if she got some for herself as well. She made a show of compromising, but really, it wasn’t a compromise at all — none of the work she had left to do was pressing, and she was looking forward to having a chance to talk to Fenris.

When Fenris and Orana were settled on their respective chairs, the tea tray between them, Orana found her eyes drawn to the book Fenris brought with him.

“You can read?” she asked. To others, the question might be insulting, but Orana and Fenris both knew literacy was a privilege, one denied to most slaves. Still, Fenris had been free much longer than she had, and when Fenris hesitated, she worried she’d crossed a line.

“Not exactly,” he answered after a moment. “Hawke is teaching me. That’s… what the appointment is for.”

Orana did the courtesy of ignoring Fenris’ blush at the admittance. It wasn’t difficult — she was surprised by Fenris’ answer, and found herself enchanted by the idea of learning to read. But… “Is it not too late? I thought only children could learn.”

“It is more difficult, perhaps, but not impossible. I’ve just managed to memorize my letters.” Fenris looked at Orana curiously. “Would you want to learn? I’m sure Hawke would be happy to teach you as well.”

Orana thought for a moment. It was tempting. Literacy was assumed here in the South. Words were everywhere, and wandering Kirkwall streets surrounded by signs she couldn’t read made her feel inadequate. But...

Orana sighed. “I hear how Lady Hawke speaks of you, and I see how you act around her.” Fenris looked startled, then ducked his head. It made Orana smile, even if there was something sad about it. “I don’t know the story, but I know I shouldn’t intrude.”

Fenris hesitated, obviously self-conscious about his stubborn blush. “That… may be so. But it shouldn’t stop you from asking. Having time with Hawke is… important, to me, but… I’d give it up gladly, to give you the chance to learn how to read.”

Orana didn’t respond right away. She was a little stunned, in truth — it seemed inconceivable that Fenris and Hawke would hold Orana’s literacy above spending time together. They were a warrior and a champion, and in love. Orana was just a servant.

She tried to imagine what it would be like, to be taught to read by Hawke. In her mind, it was awkward, frustrating, and above all, nerve-wracking. In her mind, she failed miserably and had to face Hawke’s disappointed face.

She shivered. “It’s… not just that. I don’t think I want Hawke to be the one to teach me, in truth,” she admitted. “She is, after all, my employer. It’s… hard to look past that.”

Fenris considered her for a moment, before nodding. “I can understand that well enough. Who would you prefer, then? There must be someone you could be comfortable with.”

Orana considered this. Her first thought was Varric. As one of Hawke’s closest friends, he was frequently around, and Orana knew that he was a famous author. But… the fact that he was a famous author was daunting in and of itself. No, Varric was not an option.

Sebastian, perhaps? He was kind enough when she went to speak to him in the Chantry. She thought, for a moment, that she had found the perfect candidate, until she realized that Sebastian would, in all likelihood, try to teach her the Chant, and make her literacy about becoming a good Andrastian. She supposed there was nothing inherently wrong with that, and she was curious about the Chant, but the idea of learning to read solely to read the Chant left a bad taste in her mouth.

 Orana had a sudden idea. “Bodahn handles Lady Hawke’s papers,” she thought out loud, “and he’s always been so kind to me. Do you think…?”

Fenris grinned, regarding Orana with something like pride. “I’m sure Bodahn would be happy to teach you, Orana.”

Orana smiled to herself, sipping from her tea as her thoughts rushed by. Anticipation, curiosity, ambition — what futures could she have, if she learned to read? Her mind was awash with possibilities, all of which halted at a single thought — 

Papa would have loved it if she learned to read.

The ever-present ache his absence left in her heart intensified. How cruel it was, that freedom came at so high a cost. She wondered, often, if it was worth it. Papa would have said it was. Orana wanted to believe that too, but some days, it just didn’t feel that way.

Some of her turmoil must have shown on her face, because Fenris’ voice banished the din of her mind. “Orana? Is something wrong?”

Orana flashed him a smile. “Not a thing.”

Fenris frowned, clearly unconvinced. Orana cleared her throat, dropping her gaze to her hands as she grappled for something to talk about. “What do you do for fun, Fenris?” is what she landed on. She felt her cheeks warm. Stupid question, she thought to herself.

Fenris raised a brow quizzically. “What?”

“Hobbies, I mean,” said Orana, trying to salvage the question, “I… find that without work, I am aimless. I wondered what you do to pass the time, when you are by yourself.”

Fenris looked away, deep in thought. It was a long moment before he spoke again.

“To be honest,” he said, “I am not much better off than you. Most days, I train, or sharpen my sword, or oil my armor. The… only recreational thing I do by myself is drink. A bad habit — I would not recommend it,” he warned. He looked back at Orana. “I must admit, I’ve been wondering about hobbies as well. I wonder if I am capable of learning something just for the fun of it, something that has nothing to do with killing.”

His eyes became unfocused, and Orana knew he was somewhere else. She looked down at her lap, lost in thought. What a pair they made — two slaves, one free six years and the other free only three months, and in all that time neither of them had learned how to have fun.

“We… could try together,” said Orana, almost thoughtlessly. Her mind caught up with her mouth at the startled look on Fenris’ face.

“Together? What do you mean?”

“Well, we could find hobbies to learn, and do them together? So it’s not so scary?”

Fenris stared at her, and Orana’s cheeks flushed. She quickly looked away, putting down her teacup and standing up, eager to escape before she could embarrass herself further.

“Wait,” Fenris’ voice stopped her. She dared look back at Fenris, and was surprised to see him grinning sheepishly. “I… would like that. It just… never occurred to me before.”

Orana let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “To be honest, Fenris, that doesn’t surprise me at all. What is it Varric calls you? Ah yes — an angsty porcupine.”

Fenris made a noise that was somewhere between a scoff and a snort. “That dwarf talks far too much,” he replied.

Orana smiled as she gathered up their used cups and plates. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and walked back into the kitchen. As she cleaned up, she glanced out the window — it was dark now. She sighed. She wished Lady Hawke wouldn’t lose track of time so often. It made it so difficult to plan meals.

As if on cue, Orana heard the key turn and the front door swing open. She grinned to herself as she quickly dried her hands and hurried back into the main room. She turned into the foyer to see a bloodstained Hawke stumbling into the entryway. Fenris was already there, a tentative hand hovering over her shoulder. Orana couldn’t quite keep her smirk to herself.

“So sorry I’m late,” Hawke was saying, “there was an ambush — stupid Coterie —” Hawke spat out in between attempts to rip off her boots.

Orana went over to help Hawke with her coat. “Would you like me to run a bath, Mistress?” she asked.

“Thank you, Orana, that would be divine,” she exhaled. Turning her attention to Fenris, Hawke’s expression softened. “Sorry to make you wait — you can head to the library, it’s all set up. I’ll join you as soon as I smell less like a butcher shop,” she said with a smile.

“It’s no trouble, I… am pleased you remembered, at least,” said Fenris, which earned him an exasperated smile from Hawke. Fenris turned to head to the library, but paused, meeting Orana’s eyes and saying, “Thank you for the tea, Orana, it was excellent.”

Orana felt warmth blossom in her chest. It turns out angsty porcupines aren’t so bad, once you get to know them.

Chapter Text

Orana did not like Merrill. She didn’t like Merrill at all.

If Merrill weren’t a blood mage, things might’ve been different. Orana had, luckily, never had to bear witness to the blood mage’s foul magic, but knowing there was a blood mage in their midst was bad enough, even without seeing it first-hand. Orana could never be at ease in Merrill’s presence, even if she was Hawke’s friend, and a naive well-meaning fool. None of that mattered — Merrill was the same kind of mage as the one that killed her father, and Orana wasn’t a slave anymore. She didn’t have to be okay with Merrill just because she was a mage.

It was unfortunate, then, that Orana was presently cooking a Dalish meal with Merrill’s assistance — an endeavor that had taken just short of two hours, and was liable to take two more, if Merrill didn’t shut up.

The whole thing was Hawke’s idea, regrettably. Apparently, Merrill cooked for the party when they were camping on the wounded coast, and Hawke absolutely loved it. She and Merrill conspired to cook a Dalish feast back in Kirkwall, so that Hawke could try more of Merrill’s food.

Orana had no idea what about Dalish cuisine appealed to Hawke — the process of making it, at least, was miserable, and it didn’t look or smell that appetizing either. Most of the dishes were made with plants that were considered weeds in Tevinter — which, of course, meant they had to be foraged day-of. Orana was at least spared this step of the process — Merrill brought all the ingredients they’d need. Some of these “ingredients” looked more like refuse than anything worth eating: knotty roots that took forever to peel, bitter greens that reeked of damp earth, dried mushrooms that smelled alarmingly like old boots. She failed to see how any of these things were better than real ingredients you could plant in an herb garden or buy in a market stall. That way, at least, she’d be sure that the food would be edible.

Then, of course, there was Merrill’s irritating habit of eschewing measurements entirely and simply following her whims. Orana generally took pride in making delicious food, but in this case, she actually hoped the food tasted as bad as it looked, because It would be nigh-on impossible to recreate any of these dishes with Merrill’s willful lack of recipes. Orana had no idea what she’d do if Hawke wanted her to make these for her after today.

The worst of this process, though, was the talking. There was scarce a moment of silence in the kitchen since they started the whole affair, and Orana had contributed precious little to the conversation — if it could be called that. Mostly, Merrill just talked, whether Orana was listening or not, and it seemed she could talk about nothing but the Dalish. Once in a while, Merrill spoke a lyrical string of Elvhen, which Orana found inexplicably infuriating. Perhaps it was the assumption that, because Orana was an elf, she must know Elvhen. She did not, and she found her distaste for the Dalish growing by the minute.

Orana found the process of making Dalish bread to be the most infuriating. It was nothing like proper bread — its dough was potato-based, for one, and for another, it had no yeast. It could hardly be classified as bread, in Orana’s opinion, but Merrill swore by it — she said it had to be baked flat “because we don’t carry proper ovens, you see.” Which seemed besides the point, because they were in Hawke’s kitchen, which did have a proper oven.

Orana was trying to make the bread like Merrill showed her, she really was, but she was having little luck. The dough stuck stubbornly to Orana’s fingers, no matter how much flour she worked into it. It refused to smooth, tearing when she tried to stretch it thin, clumping when she pressed it flat. She gritted her teeth and tried again, hands moving with the practiced rhythm of someone who knew how bread ought to behave, only to feel this wild, uneven thing fighting her. Merrill, of course, was unbothered, chattering away while she made perfect flat circles of dough like it was second-nature.

“Back home,” Merrill said cheerfully, as if Orana had asked, “we’d cook these on the stones by the campfire. Not just any stones, mind you — they had to be smooth and flat. The good ones were rare, so when you found one, you kept it for years. That’s why we’d carry them in our packs, even though they’re so heavy. A proper stone makes the bread taste right, you see.”

Orana tugged the misshapen circle off the counter and slapped it onto the pan. It landed in a crumpled fold instead of lying flat. She tried to smooth it with the spatula, but the edges stuck and stretched, tearing into ragged strips.

“One year,” Merrill went on with a smile, “we dropped our best stone and it cracked right down the middle. It startled the cook so bad he practically sent the stew flying! Bits went everywhere — poor Ashalle ended up with stew in her hair. She said it smelled for weeks after. Oh! And the Halla spooked and ran off with the Keeper’s tent ropes tangled around its antlers. It was chaos. Funny, though.”

The bread smoked unevenly, one corner blackening while the center sagged wet and pale. Orana flipped it over anyway, scowling as the charred part crumbled against the pan.

Merrill leaned nearer, as though she could not help herself. “Don’t worry if it looks odd. They’re meant to look odd. Dalish bread’s never perfect — it’s supposed to remind you of the land, all rough and uneven. My clan used to say if your bread came out too round, you’d gone soft from city living.” She smiled at her own words.

Orana gritted her teeth and ignored her. She got started on her next piece of dough.

“You know, the Dalish would welcome you, if you went to them.”

Orana tactfully did not scoff. “I doubt that. Your people call elves like me flat-ear, don’t they?”

Merrill tilted her head consideringly. “Well, yes, but — well, you were a slave, weren’t you? In Tevinter?”

Orana eyed Merrill suspiciously. “Why?” she asked.

“Well, you’ve been denied your heritage, your history! That isn’t your fault, you poor thing — the Dalish would accept you readily, I’m sure.”

“If you say so,” Orana grumbled. She’d hoped that was the end of it — it was taking all of her self-control not to snap at Merrill.

She would not be so lucky. “So would you do it, then?” said Merrill. “That would be splendid — you could be so happy, I’m sure!”

“No, I will not join the Dalish, Merrill. For all you claim to care about our people, your kind seem to care much more about dead elves than living ones.” Orana snapped.

Merrill deflated a little, and Orana tried to ignore the guilt in her stomach at her outburst. Merrill didn’t deserve her sympathy — she was a blood mage, after all. Orana turned her attention back to the bread she’d been making, and she found it burnt. She cursed under her breath in Tevene and pulled it off of the griddle. A lost cause — she went to start over with a new ball of dough.

Merrill, meanwhile, just looked at Orana with a sad sort of look on her face. “You have a point, I suppose,” she said eventually. “We can be a bit… Well. Lost in the clouds.”

Understatement of the age, thought Orana.

“But,” Merrill continued, “you don’t have to join the Dalish to adopt some of our traditions. We’ve preserved the old ways — even if you don’t care for them, they are worth learning about. It’s our history — don’t you think that matters?”

Orana shrugged. If she were honest with herself, she was a little curious. Dalish did not really exist in Tevinter, for obvious reasons. She… wouldn’t mind learning about them, in an abstract sort of way. Without all the self-righteousness and condescension.

Merrill was quiet for a moment as her attention returned to the bread she was making. “You know, we Dalish don’t burn our dead.” she said conversationally. “When someone dies, we lay them to rest in the ground, and then we plant a tree over their resting place. They live on in death, that way.”

Orana waited for Merrill to continue, but she didn’t. Well, no skin off my nose she thought. She tried to convince herself she wasn’t interested in the Dalish, and especially not Merrill’s brand of Dalish, but the longer the silence went on, the more she had to admit she was burning to know more.

Eventually, she caved. “What else do the Dalish do, for mourning?” she asked.

Merrill couldn’t quite repress her grin. “The whole clan comes together, and there’s singing — the Uthenera. It isn’t a sad song, really. More like… a way to let go. Everyone tells stories, too. Sometimes they’re funny, even. I remember once we sent off an old hunter who had the most dreadful aim, we laughed so hard when we remembered the story about how he shot a wolf right in the heart, and we were all so surprised, until we found out he was aiming for its head!” Merrill chuckled, then winced, as though realizing how irreverent that sounded. “It helps, though. To laugh, I mean. To remember the good things.”

Orana listened, more intently than she would ever admit. She thought about what Merrill said long after they’d finished making the meal — which turned out well, somehow. She wasn’t as annoyed at that as she thought she would be.

She was still thinking about it when she lay in bed that night. She thought about her father, as she often did — but this time, she thought to herself, I wonder if he would want me to plant a tree for him. She pondered this, until she realized it really didn’t matter what he would have wanted, because she wanted to plant a tree for him, as much for herself as for her father. It was that realization that cemented the idea in her mind.

The next morning, she planted a tree in the small courtyard where Hawke’s shrine was kept. It was a maple tree. She knew Papa would have loved it, because Papa loved maple syrup. The thought made her smile.

Chapter Text

When Fenris heard a knock at his door, usually it was Hawke — so when he opened the door to find Orana standing there, he was surprised.

“I was thinking we might try gardening,” she said without preamble.

He paused, mentally and physically. “…Gardening.”

“Yes.”

He gave her the look he usually reserved for Varric’s worst ideas. “You want me to plant flowers.”

“Plants,” she corrected. “Not necessarily flowers. I thought it could be a fun hobby!” Orana paused, looking suddenly uncertain. “You… meant what you said, right? That you’ll learn new hobbies with me?”

Fenris hesitated. He had meant it at the time, but… being confronted with the opportunity to actually do it was something else. “Of course I meant it, I just —”

“Great!” Orana pushed past Fenris determinedly. “There’s that empty courtyard behind the house. It’s wasted space. We could clear it and make something of it. Let’s go!”

Fenris closed the door behind her and resisted the urge to grumble. He was sure this would be a disaster, but he’d promised to try, and Fenris was a man of his word — or, well, trying to be. He followed Orana through the house to the abandoned courtyard. It hadn’t been touched in years; weeds clung to the cracked flagstones and old furniture lay warped and sun-bleached. He half expected Orana to give up at the sight of it, but she just rolled up her sleeves and said, “Let’s get to work.”

Fenris would begrudgingly admit he was impressed by her optimism.

They spent the afternoon clearing the courtyard. Fenris handled most of the heavy work, hauling rotted wood and sweeping debris with a soldier’s efficiency. This, he thought, was easy. He was made to destroy, after all.

Orana kept watch from the steps, offering the occasional suggestion until he snapped, “Do you want to take the shovel?”

She grinned. “No, you’re doing wonderfully.”

By evening the space was cleared, open and surprisingly bright. Fenris leaned on the shovel, sweating but satisfied. “Now what?”

“Now,” Orana said, “we plan what to plant.”

Fenris considered this. “Elfroot is always useful. Deathroot is useful for grenades and poisons. Spindleweed and blood lotus wouldn’t grow in this soil, but we might be able to grow rashvine on the walls —”

“Fenris,” Orana groaned, “the point of a garden is to look nice. It’s not about having the most useful plants.”

Fenris frowned. “What’s the point of doing all this work to grow something that can’t even be used?”

Orana looked at him, hands on her hips, the very picture of exasperated patience. “It’s about making something that’s beautiful for its own sake.”

Fenris scoffed. “It’s a waste of space and time.”

“It’s not a waste if you enjoy it,” said Orana. “I think it could be nice to plant something, and keep it alive, and see it grow, don’t you?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. There wasn’t a counterargument for that that didn’t make him sound like an asshole. So he settled for a scowl instead. “Fine. What do you suggest, then?”

Orana squinted out at the courtyard, mentally painting over the blank earth. “I think daisies would be nice, over there in the corner… we could put some marigolds along the wall, too —”

Fenris stifled a laugh — it came out like a snort.

Orana frowned at him. “What’s wrong with marigolds?”

He couldn’t help but smile. “Nothing, as long as you don’t make copper versions to give to a colleague in a misguided attempt at flirting.”

Orana raised an eyebrow at him, clearly baffled. Fenris was equally baffled that Orana hadn’t heard the story of Aveline and Donnic’s pathetic romance, so he suggested they break for dinner so he could tell her the whole story. By the end of their meal, they were both clutching their sides laughing — Fenris hardly managed to get to the end of the story before he lost it. His kitchen rang with the sound of laughter, Orana’s light and airy, his deep and rumbling. Fenris marveled, briefly, at how strange it was that they were laughing so freely. Laughter was not common currency among slaves in Tevinter, and even here in Kirkwall, circumstances were not exactly right for laughter. Somehow, that didn’t stop them here and now, and Fenris decided, for once, to let himself forget everything else and just laugh. When the laughter ebbed, the quiet that followed felt oddly full. Fenris leaned back in his chair, the ghost of a smile still on his face. Orana was wiping tears from the corners of her eyes, still hiccupping little giggles as she tried to catch her breath.

Fenris found himself looking at Orana with fondness. It was strange — they’d only known each other some months, but they had a certain understanding of each other, it seemed. They shared a language not built from words, but from habits: the constant scan of a room, the need to make oneself small and unnoticed, the little rebellions that meant nothing to anyone else. It was the grammar of people who had belonged to someone once, and never would again. He knew no-one else that spoke this language, except Orana. It wasn’t that no-one else understood him — Hawke understood him better than most, as did Sebastian, Donnic, even Varric and Isabela to some extent. They all understood him, but it was an outsider’s understanding, no less valuable but still inherently different. Orana made him think of peace, of stillness. The feeling wasn’t the fierce, charged thing that Hawke roused in him—no pressure to go further, no ache of what-could-have-been. This was something gentler, more and less at the same time.

There was something about the feeling he had when he was with Orana — something that pricked at the back of his consciousness. He felt he must have had this kind of connection with someone, once in the unreachable depths of his memories. The thought should have made him sad, but he just felt glad to have this again — whatever this was. Friendship wasn’t quite the right word, but it would do for now.

She caught him staring and raised a brow. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, setting his empty cup down. “I was… thinking.”

“About?”

His gaze drifted to the half-eaten dinner on the table and the wilted sprig of parsley on Orana’s plate. His mind wandered back to copper marigolds, and felt his mouth twist into a frown. “It’s a funny story,” he said. “But only because it ended well. Aveline’s foolish gesture worked. Donnic understood her heart despite the clumsy execution.” His fingers tapped lightly on the table. “If it hadn’t… it would just be sad. A story of someone trying and failing,” he thought aloud. The thought drew his mind, inevitably, to Hawke.

He remembered the first time she’d touched his arm after one of their long, sharp arguments. He remembered the warmth, the softness of it, and the way he had pulled back anyway. The way she had smiled through the rejection, gentle and unflinching. The way she always forgave him more easily than he forgave himself.

Something in his voice must have given him away, because Orana’s smile softened. “You’re thinking about Lady Hawke.”

Fenris looked down. “I’m thinking about how some people get happy endings, and others don’t.”

Orana was quiet for a long moment. Then, gently: “You’re not dead yet, you know.”

That startled a faint laugh out of him. “True.”

She smiled. “Then maybe your story isn’t finished.”

He wanted to believe that, but hope had always been dangerous. He gave her a grateful nod anyway, and she let the subject drop.

She stood up, bringing the dishes to the sink. “Now, if you’re done brooding —”

“I don’t brood,” Fenris protested, mostly out of habit at this point.

“You absolutely brood,” she said, smiling. “But that’s alright. I suppose we all do it sometimes. Anyway, we were talking about plants before we got distracted. I’ll compromise with you—some herbs, some flowers. Some useful plants, some pretty plants.”

He folded his arms, pretending to deliberate. “Very well. I suppose I can tolerate a few marigolds if I get elfroot.”

“And I’ll allow elfroot if I get daisies,” Orana countered.

“What about Embrium?” Fenris asked after a pause. “It has healing properties. And it’s not unpleasant to look at.”

Orana’s eyes lit up. “Embrium! That’s perfect — the red will complement the marigolds. How do you feel about daffodils?”

The corner of Fenris’ mouth twitched upward. “I’ll give you your daffodils, but then you have to give me deathroot.”

Orana whirled on Fenris, lip curled in disgust. “But deathroot is so ugly! Come on, pick something else.”

Fenris let out a chuckle. “You’re so easy to rile up.”

“Bastard,” Orana mumbled, drawing another snicker from Fenris.

He tapped his finger on his chin, making a show of thinking about it. “I suppose I could settle for rashvine.”

Orana tilted her head, imagining it. “That’s — actually not bad, I could live with that,” she agreed. “Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves — we should start with elfroot, since it’s nearly impossible to mess up,” she decreed. “Then we’ll do the embrium, and then — well, I guess we’ll wait and see.”

Fenris found himself imagining it—the courtyard no longer gray and lifeless, but dotted with color and scent. He glanced at Orana again, her expression bright and certain, already sketching invisible rows of flowers in the air with her hands.

He couldn’t help but think that, for all her uncertainty, she had a gift for seeing what could grow in ruined places. Maybe, with her help, he’d learn to see it too.