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Merrill is the last to leave them; not pulled by any particular obligation, but finding herself feeling very un-elflike and wanting to settle back in at home.
Hawke bends down so she can plant a kiss on his cheek. To his credit, Fenris only scowls at his own farewell kiss.
Hawke finds it endlessly amusing Fenris would maintain a nomadic lifestyle.
“Don’t you have a wine cellar to be running through? Or slavers?” he teases.
“If you are moving, so am I.”
They go west in the Marches. Fenris asks if they should make south towards Ferelden; Hawke is nonresponsive. Seven years and he isn’t sure he’s ready to go home.
The war spreads out. When they were all still together, it wasn’t unusual to aide in the skirmishes they encountered on the roads. Now, they seem to always arrive too late, buildings smoking and full of corpses.
Hawke would frown and give the cause the only name he can these days, but there’s always something disheartening about accusing Anders in unison with Fenris.
Instead, he prods at the rubble with his boot, trying not to think too hard on Lothering. Fenris is in the distance, looking more inquisitively at the same.
If they hadn’t left Barkspawn back in Kirkwall, he might have been doing the same elsewhere on the farm.
It is Fenris’s sudden, uncharacteristic leap back that catches the corner of Hawke’s eye. He doesn’t reach for his sword, but Hawke does.
“Kaffas, Hawke. There’s a baby in this ditch.”
A baby was the last thing Hawke would expect to find left in this place.
“Alive?” he asks, still clearly mystified as he walks towards Fenris. Fenris doesn’t respond, awkwardly picking up the baby instead. It is clear he’s never touched an infant in his life.
Quietly correcting him, “No, you have to support the head.”
“She was left behind,” Fenris says more to himself than to Hawke, not taking his eyes off the baby, wrapping the shredded blanket closer around her. There is a tinge of sadness to Fenris’s words; Hawke feels a growling sort of anger instead.
“Why someone would do that…”
Fenris shrugs, although he clearly has an idea why.
Hands on his hips, in the pose nine year-old Carver called the ‘bossy prick,’ Hawke declares, resolved, “We’re taking her with us.”
Fenris’s trance finally breaks, “Yes, we are.”
Pleased at the mutual agreement, “She needs a name.”
“A name?”
“Well, we can’t call her Ditch Baby.”
Fenris chuckles, “I suppose not.”
Quickly, “Maeve.”
“You thought of that fast.”
“It’s a good, honest Ferelden name.”
“Like Garrett.”
Exaggerating a frown, “That hurts.”
Fenris’s attention is called back to the baby.
“Maeve,” his tests; she wriggles in seeming agreement.
Warm and snug in shelter, Hawke begins to compose letters. Fenris volunteers to help.
Hawke can’t help being nosey and seeing the word ‘daughter’ in Fenris’s composition to Aveline gives him pause.
Knowing Hawke’s snooping, Fenris simply says, “I know the weight of words.”
It is settled then: their daughter.
Arms around Fenris, “She could be, you know. Your coloring; my wild hair. Give it time and she might even grow into a Hawke family nose.”
Fenris’s laugh rumbles under Hawke’s fingertips.
----------
The hardest thing is finding milk for Maeve.
Hawke complains after shilling over far too much for a skin of goat milk, more for the sake of complaining.
“From the minute I was old enough, mother was giving me grief about settling down and giving her grandchildren. Never Carver or Bethany; babies get to stay babies. No, it was always, ‘Marian, don’t waste those good hips.’ Even if I had given birth to Maeve, my tiny tits would be useless.”
“I like them well enough,” Fenris says absently, helping the milk-soaked rag into Maeve’s mouth.
“Thank you,” Hawke laughs, annoyance forgotten.
They’re by a riverbank, ideal for bathing. Hawke is left alone with Maeve in her lap; Maeve’s soft grip tight around her calloused fingers. That is when it dawns on her.
She hands Maeve over to Fenris; their daughter already cooing in delight. Hawke is well-assured of Maeve’s love for her, but there is no denying the certain bonds she made with Fenris when he pulled her from the ground.
Hawke almost doesn’t say it, then twists her neck back towards them, “At least if she’s a mage, it’s not on us.”
A muscle twitches in Fenris’s jaw. He remains silent as Hawke walks down to the shore.
Upon return, she runs her fingers through her wet locks, then mimics the action for Maeve, who crawls towards her. Fenris looks off into the distance.
“I don’t want Maeve to think –” Fenris begins, but never finishes.
Hawke waits; knows it’s best to wait. Maeve makes popping noises with her mouth.
“You made my life damnably hard, having to reconsider mages.”
Hawke shakes her head, “I know; such a pain.”
Fenris’s voice is unsteady, “I don’t want Maeve to see the same things you had to see. With me. To feel even for a minute that I might hate her for what she could be.”
“She won’t. For one, you’ll have years of adjusting your wrong-headed attitude by then.”
Fenris, thankfully, chuckles at her joking tone.
“For another, you love her more deeply already than I think either of us can imagine now. It won’t change because she’ll turn twelve and her hands start turning into little fireballs.”
Fenris doesn’t immediately respond, but Maeve begins to move back to him.
“You always are determined to see the best in me,” he concedes to Hawke.
“A charming trait Maeve shares with her mother,” Hawke points out as Fenris kisses the top of Maeve’s head.
“No, that would be my stubbornness, which only rivals your own.”
Hawke grins broadly.
----------
First, there is ‘weaning,’ then there is teaching Maeve to communicate in ways other than screams and contented burbling, both of which use a good deal of arm-flailing.
Hawke gets it in her mind it would be a lovely idea if Maeve’s first word was ‘papa.’ It was her first word as well and when she tests it on Fenris, he makes a contented sort of noise which affirms he rather relishes the new title.
It would be a great surprise for him to return to a speaking Maeve, except Hawke can’t seem to catch her attention.
“Maeve, poppet, over here.”
Maeve pouts. She hasn’t learned words yet, but she has learned Hawke’s favorite persuasive face.
“Yes, it’s all very nice you can guilt papa as well as me, but try saying ‘papa,’ hmm?”
“Ma.”
Hawke is uncertain if it’s the latest in a series of unrecognizable babyish noises.
“What was that?”
Rocking forward in her seated position, Maeve grasps to where Hawke sits.
“Ma!” she repeats.
Hawke snatches Maeve up, planting a very dramatic kiss on her cheek.
“Aren’t you just the little teaser? Never mind, ma is very pleased with you. You’ll have to do a repeat performance for papa when he returns and I expect he’ll like the same treatment when you learn his name.”
“Ma!”
Fenris smirks when Hawke regales the tale over again, but the pride in Maeve is genuine.
“Are you sure you weren’t trying to have her first word be you?”
Hawke scoffs, “Please. ‘Ma’ is dreadfully close to you know what.”
As if she understands, Maeve screws up her face in confusion.
“One day, you’ll find out your ma’s name isn’t Hawke, it’s Marian. Congratulations on being the second person who can get away with nearly calling me that. Only your Uncle Carver can call me that, and he’s off and very far away being cold and miserable. Just the way he likes it.”
“I promise to at least not teach her how to spell it.”
Maeve giggles.
Fenris tests the veracity of Hawke’s statement later in bed; if she could reach the pillow to smack him, she would, far too distracted.
----------
They’ve devised slings and carriers for the journeys; but Maeve insists on walking for a period, hundreds of short strides to their long ones.
“Not walking fast enough!”
Hawke and Fenris chuckle at her demand they cannot fulfil.
“How good is your grip, poppet?”
“Good!” she confirms, probably with no idea what a grip is.
Hawke unhooks the sheath from his belt, slinging it across his shoulders like a yoke.
“Fenris, pick her up and have her grab on.”
“I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
“My father did this all the time. I mean, it worked better when he had Bethany and Carver on each end, but it’s the same principle.”
Fenris lets out a ‘hmm’ of disbelief, but doesn’t argue. Maeve’s whoop at her newfound height seems to placate him, until the sheath begins to slip from the sword.
“This probably worked better with a mage’s staff,” Fenris muses, catching Maeve in time.
With an exaggerated gasp, “What’s this, Fenris admitting a mage would be better? Is the world ending?”
Dryly, “Perish the thought.”
Instead, Fenris hoists Maeve onto his shoulders.
“Now I’m as tall as you, da.”
“Well, it hardly seemed fair that you should tower over your poor papa and your da,” Hawke reasons.
“I wouldn’t mind.”
Maeve makes a great noise of distaste, not unlike Fenris when her papa and her da kiss.
----------
It’s hot enough, but Fenris takes up his accustomed curl facing away from Hawke. Normally one to grumble for a change of position, Hawke only presses her nose and lips to his shoulder, content.
She’s almost settled when there’s a soft scrape of the door. Whatever Fenris says is muted by Hawke’s startled ‘Andraste’s tits!’ as she snatches the sheet off the bed. Fenris dives for the discarded smallclothes.
Hawke attempts as normal as possible, “What is it, poppet?”
“It’s hot. I can’t sleep,” Maeve whines, yawning.
“As long as it wasn’t anything else,” Fenris mutters. Hawke snorts.
Hawke pats the newly unoccupied space between her and Fenris.
“Come sleep with papa and ma.”
Maeve doesn’t seem so sleep deprived when she willingly hops onto the bed, pressing herself into Fenris’s limp but not unwelcome arms.
Hawke’s heart leaps a little at the sight of Fenris’s tattoos dimly glowing only as they do to her touch. Nothing new, but comforting all the same.
“This was your plan all along,” Fenris muses, speaking to Hawke as much as Maeve.
Maeve nods furiously.
“You will only be warmer here.” Fenris doesn’t exactly chide, for the chuckle is on the edge of his voice.
“But I’m with you and ma!” Twisting around to face Hawke, “Ma, why are you still sitting up?”
“Can’t I enjoy this sweet picture from up here?”
“No!” Maeve puts a small hand on Hawke’s arm, not nearly strong enough to pull her down, but Maeve has a strong enough will.
“You’ll crush her.”
Hawke mock gasps, “As if I would be so careless.”
Seeing the opportunity, Hawke lets Maeve snuggle up against her back. Fenris laughs quietly, draping an arm loosely over Hawke’s hip.
“I win,” Hawke whispers.
In a low voice, “Hardly.”
“Is it so wrong to want to wake up in your arms for once?”
“Such sentiment from you.”
“Varric’s books give me ideas.”
Hawke catches Fenris’s nearly-inaudible swear and chuckles. Maeve’s mouth is slightly open, drool starting to stick to Hawke’s back.
“Charming.”
Hawke lies in the dark, listening to first Maeve, then Fenris’s measured sleeping breathing, before drifting off herself.
----------
It’s tiny fingers tracing into his back that wakes Hawke up.
“Good morning to you too.”
“You’re hairy,” Maeve whispers in slight awe.
“I’ve been told that before.”
“By papa?”
“Among others. Watch out, I’m turning over.”
Fenris’s arm shifts as Hawke relocates, but remains resolutely asleep.
“So much,” Maeve whispers again.
Hawke chuckles, “I used to do this to my parents too. Well, not the invasive tickling.”
“There’s some white,” Maeve points. Hawke quickly looks down in distress.
Sighing, “I suppose there is. My father was much greyer when I your age and he was younger than me now. Small comforts.”
Maeve stops the asymmetric patterns on Hawke’s chest, twisting around to look at Fenris.
“Papa’s only got white hair.”
“And we both love it, hmm?”
Maeve nods in agreement. She begins to trace the very deliberate patterns of lyrium across Fenris’s chest. Hawke sucks in a breath.
It was a long road; between the nightmares and the pain, any touch would have sent Fenris spiraling. Only by some grace of the Maker did Hawke’s touch begin to provide relief. Now Maeve may do the same.
There are no flinches, only a deep inhalation as Fenris drifts towards awake.
“You’re a good girl, you know that, right?” Hawke says as he presses a kiss to the top of Maeve’s head.
Maeve squirms and giggles, remembering only the night before being told very emphatically she was naughty for not bringing in enough mud for everyone to play with.
She squirms away from Hawke’s arms, finding the space to get on her knees, which gives her just the slight height to bend over and whisper something into Fenris’s ear. He doesn’t open his eyes, but a smile begins to curl at the corners of his mouth.
“What secret can’t you share with da?”
“I told papa I’m going to grow as much hair as you.”
Hawke lets out a hardy guffaw; Fenris frowns.
Fenris’s voice cracks with its first use for the day, “Must you? It isn’t even dawn.”
“Someone’s grumpy. Maeve?”
Maeve kisses the tip of Fenris’s nose. Fenris grunts, not displeased; Maeve grants Hawke his own kiss. They both quietly wait for Fenris to fully wake.
----------
Being impoverished and constantly on the move is nothing new to Hawke. If anything, he marvels how his parents managed to scrape together anything for a proper home, let alone food and clothes for the twins and him.
“Look what I found!” Maeve declares one afternoon.
Hawke bends over, all interest at this great discovery. He lets out an undignified yelp when it turns out Maeve’s treasure is a handful of spiders found in the hovel corner. Fenris is cruel and laughs.
They find a rag doll shortly after that. Maeve names her for the aunt she’s never met and she goes on all sorts of adventures, too often involving spiders.
Bethany, the doll, is wrapped in fine, if faded, red Orlesian silk. Hawke almost applauds Maeve’s guile at getting Fenris to relinquish the favor, but if anyone should inherit the gift, it is her.
“Is Bethany going to one of those balls at the Winter Palace?”
Cheerily, “No. I wrapped her for the pox. She’ll be safe.”
Maker, but is Maeve becoming a gruesome child, now reaching the height of his knee.
She reads aloud from the books Hawke bothered to grab in flight from the estate, taking care to go over the family names in Aristide’s firm hand, then briefly in Gamlen’s shaky hand, finished out by Leandra’s, looking insistently like her father’s.
Fenris returns from the nearby village with the supplies they sought, and surprisingly, a letter. By some miracle mail does find its way between Kirkwall and all their brief homes, but they’d only just arrived here.
Maeve hops out of Hawke’s lap, jumping for the open letter, but Fenris keeps it well out of reach, face grim.
Some irrational nagging fear seizes Hawke, blood running colder than when Maeve brings the spiders in.
“Bethany.”
Fenris shakes his head.
“The Chantry’s captured Varric. They’re looking for you.”
----------
Hawke’s really put her foot in it this time. She wanted too many things at once, and somehow landed the worst option.
There’s a taste for blood in her mouth for Coryphus. There was a stone in her heart: guilt on Varric’s behalf. The resentment towards the Grey Wardens feels suspiciously like old resentment towards Carver.
“Come home soon!” Maeve chirped.
“We will be here for you,” Fenris said in a low voice.
Maker, if he were here, he probably could have talked her down from this. The prospect of bringing Maeve to Aveline or Merrill in Kirkwall – they’ve gone this long keeping her secret and safe from there, why start?
The road to Adamant is wet and muddy. Hawke hates it. Hates how five years ago, she knew unquestionably this would be the right decision. It might still be, but her judgement’s gone faulty.
Fuck, Varric could have at least had the decency to come along for the ride, instead of leaving her here with a bunch of virtual strangers who glare at her as if it is somehow her fault.
The Inquisition passes a travelling merchant. The army ignores it; Hawke stops to finger at the lace of a fine Orlesian doll.
Over her shoulder, Dorian notes, “If you are a connoisseur of toys, surely a mage such as yourself would rather the Tevinter make?”
“That would be inappropriate,” Hawke replies, clipped.
No one in the Inquisition, save Varric, knows of Maeve. She does not elaborate further and she does not buy the doll. A severed head might be more to Maeve’s taste in a few years anyway and she must understand why her ma left her in the dead of night.
Alright, maybe not a head, the still-learning Mother Hawke says in the back of her mind.
Only a few days out from Adamant, with his hands shoved under his arms, Alistair makes mention of being on something of a search for ‘Morrigan’s boy.’
Hawke’s heart sinks, too familiar with the secretive tone regarding one’s child who should not exist.
Maeve almost slipped from her mouth months before. Alistair was too far gone in his drink; Hawke pleasantly buzzed, but the careless remembrance of Maeve’s endless capacity to bring a smile had seemed appropriate at the time.
She keeps her silence for Alistair; for Fenris; for Maeve.
Corypheus will be done with and the world safe for Hawke’s daughter.
----------
Fenris crumpled the letter, each word a new brand; the weight of what Hawke’s given up.
Anger should grow, but it does not. The burning desire for a bottle of wine or twenty flares up, but he hasn’t touched the stuff since an infant Maeve espied him even moderately drunk.
A dead sort of numb grief collects in his arms and he must do something.
Maeve chatters to herself in the room over. Fenris pushes the door open.
Voice thick, unsure he can manage a thought, “Another bought of the pox for Bethany?”
“No, she’s Inquisitor Bethany now in her ballroom best. And she’s going to save all of Thedas.”
Fenris presses a kiss to Maeve’s crown, working the braids anew as Hawke taught him.
Maeve will save Fenris.