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"Marian." Calls Leandra, tone clipped.
Hawke purses her lip, her given name a source of discomfort. It feels rather childish, unlike the strong and Ferelden Hawke she got from her father. Don't trip now, Hawke. Malcom used to coo at her when she'd stumble out into the garden to chase lizards with her wooden sword, pretending they were mighty dragons.
“What is it, mother?”
Right this moment though, in the confines of these four walls, unarmed and wearing patched linen, she's just Marian.
"I've been thinking..." Leandra pats down her apron, feigning an interest in it.
"This mercenary business of yours. I was hoping it needn't burden your sister for much longer."
This again. A tactical approach, since her little sister is taking a nap in the bedroom and not within earshot.
"Your year of service has long passed yet you keep dragging her along in odd jobs."
"Bethany is eager to help, I don't give her dangerous tasks and we need the money."
The reply comes fast and practiced, "... A good merchant could rescue us from ruin, you know. If she would consider marriage."
"A good merchant... You mean one that wouldn't take advantage of refugees like us? I know only two: my friend Worthy the dwarf and one eyed Jack in the bazaar. Neither are Bethany's type I'm afraid."
Leandra sighs, "please, I'm serious."
"What do you want me to say, mother?" She takes a seat by the fireplace, deciding that letting the dancing flames heat up her eyelids uncomfortably is preferable to facing her mother's disappointment.
"I want you to convince her, please... After Carver...The thought of you two running about in darktown..."
"We need the money." She repeats, a hard statement against the lump in her throat.
"If uncle dearest could find work instead of spending all day with prostitutes... Well, that would surely help."
Her mother balls her hands into fists, knuckles white.
Hawke used to be afraid of that particular gesture, it meant mother was angry. Hawke's bubbling joy would be replaced by guilt and sadness, like the time she had been caught stealing the strawberry jam shelved specially for wintersend. The sight of her mother's white knuckles still leaves her with a feeling of unease to this day.
"I am as disappointed in this situation as you are... But this is my brother's house and because he was kind enough to shelter us I won't stand for disrespect."
Fire crawls at her throat, a sense of outrage. "As long as he respects me."
And you, goes unsaid.
"You can finish arguments but not start them, you and your cursed tongue."
Father said clever things too. She thinks to herself.
"At least try and speak to Bethany, she listens to you, please..."
A long suffering sigh threatens to escape her. "Fine." She relents, for the sake of peace.
"I'll suggest it to her."
Leandra is finally content, or as content as she can be in this pathetic excuse for a hut. Her hands unfurl and she returns to the big chair she claimed for herself with a needle and thread.
"Thank you..." She smiles at her daughter, who is too exhausted to return it. Peace returns to their makeshift home, at least until the resident drunken failure of man arrives to stink up the place with sour ale.
Hawke’s decided to take up Varric's invitation to the hanged man, where the scent of sour ale is at least paired with good company.
--
"Oh not you too, Sister!" Bethany groans.
Hawke tactfully closes the door to their bedroom, leaving them alone in the cramped room.
"Listen, I had to say it, you don't have to do it."
Her sister's nimble fingers tug at the hem of the skirt she had been repairing, her thin lips frowning sadly.
"I don't want to get married just yet... One day, sure, but for love! Not to some rich merchant my mother chose..."
"I don't think mother knows the only rich merchants in Kirkwall are the Orlesians that spit on us."
Bethany looks even more miserable, if possible.
Hawke sighs, unsure of what to say.
"Listen, Varric is very sure about his lead. I promised you I'd get us out of lowtown somehow, didn't I?"
Beth peers up at her, dark eyes questioning, unsure, glistening and meek. In these moments, Hawke remembers why Bethany is the daughter her mother tries to marry off, despite the "sin" of her magic. It went like this:
When Hawke was nineteen Leandra promised her to the idiot boy she kissed twice and messed around with in the barn once. This, of course, to keep her from joining the king’s fight for Ferelden alongside her younger brother.
Hawke then- in a fit of fury- savaged her long hair with many vicious, sloppy chops of her dagger. Her scalp was bleeding when she came home to her mother, nearly bald. Leandra screamed bloody murder but Hawke only grinned madly, all teeth and no dimples when she yelled:
No man will ever want to marry me now!
It wasn't the brightest, as far as ideas go, but during that heated argument she was too furious to regret it. She cried later, alone in the woods and never sought comfort out of pride. She mourned like a lion being stripped of its mane in the name of spite.
Nowadays she cuts her hair short in a sane, pretty way. Nevermind how much her mother begs that she grow it out, she's never tried to marry Marian off again. Bethany is old enough now, and not crazy like her sister.
Hawke is in turns knows she hasn't the will to deny her mother for too long, so it's up to her, solving the issue before that could happen. It's all up to her.
She pats her sister's head, hoping to soothe her unease.
"I'll take care of us, Beth. I promise I won't let a smelly Orlesian take you away."
Beth takes her hand in turn, grabs it and squeezes it with love and gratitude.
"Thank you, dear sister. I’ll do my best to aid your expedition. You have my word."
---
When Hawke meets Fenris, she is self-conscious of her worn leathers and dense freckles.
In old Orlesian fairytales, elves were said to possess a sort of ethereal beauty that lacks in humans. Hawke never understood this and always found it to be a little strange. The elves she knew in Lothering, despite being very few, were just as ordinary-looking as her human neighbors. This warrior that just ripped a man's heart from his chest with odd, glowing powers looks nothing like any human or elf she has ever met. He can't possibly be much older than her and yet his hair is stark white. Markings like the dalish blood tattoos of legend paint his chin and go down to his neck, curling again at his bicep. When he looks up to face her, he reveals sharp green eyes and very handsome features.
Hawke thinks that he suits the description of those elven knights in fairy tales just fine.
He looks exhausted though, walking down the steps of the alienage carefully. His armor weighs heavy on his nimble body, as if fitted to him when he wasn't as thin.
Despite this, the elf is unusually tall and carries himself with pride.
His dark onyx breastplate, Hawke notes, is worth probably half an expedition to the deep roads. His gauntlets are of elegant design and sharpened to draw blood at a mere brush of his fingers, which he used to stab his victims with apparent delight just now. An assassin, Hawke thinks, possibly a mage.
She tenses despite her awe and begins to strategise a path towards slitting his exposed throat.
Shockingly, it turns out that he is not unfriendly.
He even apologizes to them, a little awkwardly, for his lack of manners and apparent strangeness.
As if two Ferelden refugees and a pub dwelling surface dwarf would care about courtesies, handshakes or strange tattoos.
The help he seeks from them is risky and dangerous, killing his old master. Hawke can't really say no to any job right now, though, with Bartrand breathing down their necks.
This elf's request is a particular honorable one to add.
It's rough to kill ruffians at times, young men and women who got lost at some point, especially the new recruits the carta sends into darktown as cannon fodder for the city guard.
This though, is a fight worthy of Hawke's daggers. The romantic in her recalls the tales of Tevinter blood spilled by Andraste alongside Shartan, the leader of the slave rebellion the Chantry likes to pretend didn't exist.
Fenris strikes her as a man of honor and she is right: After that whole ordeal, despite no Magister losing his head, he offers her the promised coin alongside his sword, should she need him.
She only accepts one of those things, says that it's in her Ferelden blood to slay vints and it would be unfair to charge him.
In truth, she doesn't have the heart to take every last copper away from a runaway slave. A creature of pride herself, she voices a mere excuse not to wound his. She expects some manner of awkward expression, instead he dons a pronounced frown and then insists again. She has to refuse twice before he convinces her to part with half, lowering his head.
"We need coin, Hawke, did you forget that?" Varric asks her when they reach lowtown, the elusive Fenris out of earshot.
"Oh come on, didn't you notice how thin he was?"
"Yeah... I bet you did too, among other things." Replies the dwarf, grumpily.
To her left, Bethany shakes her head, a grin pulls at the corner of her lips.
Hawke fails to understand, for once, what is so funny.
"Just because he's ever so dreamy” Varric mockingly bats his eyelashes, when they finally reach the hanged man. “What happened to honor among thieves?"
Hawke splutters, reluctant to place the silver into his waiting palm. "That's not- We just met the man!"
"When he grabbed that guy's insides I almost threw up..." Beth mutters.
"Meanwhile the other Hawke's chin was on the floor for the opposite reason." Quips Varric.
"I wasn't...!" She is outraged.
"Yeah yeah... " The cheeky dwarf is quick to dismiss her once the coin is counted and sitting cozy in his pocket.
"Night Hawke, Sunshine, you two get home safe."
She stands there and stares annoyed at the closed door until Bethany tugs on her arm.
"Come now sister... We'll discuss your terrible taste in men on our way home..."
Something ugly churns in her chest, like foreboding.
There is a viper in your midst. He said.
She would have to settle that, before anything else.
---
Her terrible taste in men comes into question when she finds herself knocking on Fenris's door two days after she first met him.
Wait one week, she told herself, to no avail.
Fenris is a fascinating man:
He reminds her of those books her father kept in the top shelves of his study, beautiful leather painted with gold promising mysteries beyond her imagination. Just out of reach, above what her fingertips could touch no matter how her arm would strain trying.
She knocks on his door but gets no response. The wood is rotten and cracked and there are still wild flowers growing from the hinges.
Right, they had to sneak in through the window before.
It feels terribly invasive but she follows the same steps, wondering if Fenris does the same to come and go or maker forbid, she wonders if he has stayed inside this whole time.
Stepping foot inside the mansion with a soft thud of her boots, Hawke finds that it's just as dusty and seemingly haunted as the day they retook it. Dark as night itself except for slivers of moonlight that spill from the window to bounce against the white granite walls.
A shiver runs down her spine, the place is too empty and too silent for her comfort.
After reaching the foyer and almost tripping on what looks like some poor bastard's ankle, she sees the shadow of flames dancing at the end of the corridor.
It leads to a small room, warmed by a large fireplace carved from stone. It looks significantly cleaner than the rest of the mansion and the whiff of dust is cut by a strong smell of herbs. Mint and ginger, mostly.
Fenris lays in a large red velvet armchair by the fire, one far too large for his frame. He's amusingly bundled up in what looks like two layers of furs.
Hawke can only see the top of his head, pointy ears and a wisp of white hair painted golden by the fire.
"Fenris...?" She mutters, hesitant to perturb his peace.
Immediately his ear twitches and the form tenses. When he lifts his head green eyes find hers, shining as they reflect the dancing flames.
He visibly relaxes upon registering her face. "Hawke." A gruff voice, more so than she remembered. He still looks utterly exhausted. "... You move quietly, I thought at first you were an assassin." He tells her.
A dagger emerges from his bundle of blankets and he casually sets it down on the table nearby, the metal rattles unpleasantly.
It is an art she can appreciate- to appear relaxed while being coiled and ready to pounce. An art she herself learnt by observing her sister's pet cat hunt mice in the backyard.
"I am sometimes... Not now, though." Hawke replies.
He levels her with a deadpan look.
"I knocked." She declares, clasping her hands behind her back with an all too innocent smile. "...And then came through the window, had to make sure you weren't rotting here with the dead merchants, you know."
He sighs. "I appreciate the concern."
Was that sarcasm? Her lip twitches with the threat of a smile.
"Winter here in Kirkwall took you by surprise huh?" She asks.
"This city is cold, terribly dirty and incredibly uncomfortable."
She has to laugh at that. "Oh come on, once you get used to it it's not that bad."
"I would argue it is that bad." He grumbles, then sits up straighter. "Did you come here for something?"
Before she can respond he speaks again- "No, disregard that... I apologize. Would you like to sit?" He adds, head lowered meekly.
She has to bite the inside of her cheek not to grin at his clumsiness.
"No need to fret, I just came by to ask if you wanted to accompany me to Sundermount tomorrow, for a job. Fifty-fifty split."
"Sundermount?" He repeats. "The hill outside of the city just before that valley up north?"
"Yes, Varric said there's a hidden cache there that someone is paying decent money to retrieve, ten sovereigns."
"Ten sovereigns for a pickup is a lot."
"Yes well, it's just past Carta territory, heard they're setting up a red dust operation in an old mine."
"... Ah, there it is."
"We might not run into them at all, just..."
"I understand." He agrees faster than she expected with a curt nod. "I can protect you."
Now that particular sentence strikes her like one of Beth's stray sparks when casting a lightning spell.
Perhaps it's the frankness with which he said it that causes her face to heat up uncomfortably.
"Yes--- yes, thank you. I mean… I'll have your back too, of course... Two is better than one! Haha..."
She sees it then, for the first time, the smile that graces his features.
"...Indeed."
Heart full, Hawke takes a few steps back, caressing the wooden beam by the door to the corridor to fight against the urge to flee- to run away, hide under her covers and kick her feet and blush like a moron.
But there is one thing, one thing that nags at her still.
There is a viper-
Her giddy smile falters, then falls.
"Fenris there... There is something else I need to ask you."
"Your sister."
The surprise eases the tension from her shoulders. "I'm so very predictable, hm?"
"You are protective of her, I understand." He sighs through his nose.
"I'll play the eldest sibling cliché a little while longer... I need your word, if we work together- that you won't sell her to the templars."
He purses his lips. "I will not, I am offering you my sword and with it comes my loyalty, Hawke."
She nods once, he speaks like the knights in her old books too.
"... I don't know your sister, I am not a fool to assume she is like my old master, that would be small minded of me."
"She isn't, she mostly enjoys studying healing magic... Once she accidentally buzzed a caterpillar and cried for three days."
He lets out an amused huff, she finds herself observing the twitch of his lip, hoping to see it curl up again.
"Perhaps you'll see for yourself, after this job is done, I fetch Beth, plus either Varric or my friend Aveline and we go earn some more coin."
If you decide to stay... Hangs in the air.
"... Perhaps so."
A pause, the shadow of flames moves between them.
He shifts his body to turn towards her, an invitation perhaps.
"...Aveline? Your friend has a famous name."
"Oh, you know the tale? I didn't know people cared about Orlesian stories in Tevinter."
"I heard it from a chantry sister, in a chapel during my travels."
Hawke smiles, finding herself finally sitting in front of him.
"Tell me about them, your travels through the free marches."
He lowers his head. "I would bore you."
"I enjoy hearing you speak... You could recite me a lamb stew recipe and it wouldn't bore me."
He clears his throat and offers her a shy smile, two in one day.
He indulges her with conversation, clumsy, his fingers twitch.
She drinks it up, imagines touching his forearm to still his nerves, imagines fitting her hand into his to see if it would engulf hers.
Fingertips brushing against leather, the spine of the book.
She doesn't dare. It's a silly feeling after all, instead she looks into his eyes for a moment, and recalls a memory:
A walk by the ocean she took as a girl, it had been foggy outside and the boats in the horizon looked like they were sailing into the sky.
She stumbled upon a nubby piece of sea glass, round and green like a wine bottle when the sun shined against it. Twenty steps ahead, she found a second piece, two precious things in one day.
Hawke wanders home after that long conversation, the lingering warmth of Fenris's fireplace still burning her cheeks. Her nose is clogged with mint and ginger. Her head is stuffed with a memory: Two green shards of sea glass in her palm, reflecting the evening sun.
---
The first time they went to Sundermount was uneventful, the pickup was easy and they were paid as promised. Five sovereigns for a single job, it was like a dream. Of course, when a second offer was made, another forgotten package of red dust to be retrieved from the same client, Hawke took it with Fenris in tow. They opened a bottle of wine that time, upon their return, hands clean of blood. One of the fancy bottles Fenris drinks in spiteful binges.
Then a third time came and at last- easy money turned difficult- a patrol of bandits took notice of them.
The fight was easy enough, they were prepared and dealt with the poor fools swiftly, the traps the men had set about were more than obvious to Hawke and she could let Fenris know where they were. No one had tripped on any stray wires when the last blood was drawn.
Four men now lay dead at their feet, Hawke stares on, eyes glazed with the coldness of murder.
"... Idiots." She hisses out. Sell-swords slaying each other, bandit guilds, truly the stupidest loss of life and one she pities.
Fenris is silent beside her, more so than usual. She turns to him and she finds him crouched, her concern spikes cold. Upon the touch of her hand on his shoulder, though, he recoils harshly as if scalded.
"Are you hurt?" She asks, lowering her hand awkwardly, she belatedly recalls that he dislikes being touched.
"No... I'm...." He stares at the ground again, brows drawn together. "I'm fine. It isn't anything important."
"...Are your markings bothering you?"
He shakes his head. "I lost something."
"What is it?" Hawke probes, wiping a smudge of blood from her brow with a handkerchief.
"A pendant of mine, a wolf's tooth bound to a strip of leather. It must've snapped during the fight."
"I never noticed you wear it before."
He remains silent, staring down holes into the ground with that intense gaze of his.
"I'll help you find it, shouldn't be that hard.” She declares, her mind already set to crouch in the sand.
"No need, I... I do not remember what it was supposed to mean, anyway."
"Well you might, someday."
He frowns, studying the horizon. "More bandits may come."
"Let's hurry then."
"There is no arguing with you, is there?"
"Many have tried… And failed." She flashes a smile, his frown softens.
The pendant with a wolf's tooth is difficult to find, they turn corpses and check the crevices in the cliffs until the sun brushes gently against the peak of the mountains in the horizon.
"It’s gone." Fenris says, declares, at last defeated. "Thank you for your help Hawke, but-"
"There!!"
Hawke points, and it takes him a minute to see. A white thing shining with the afternoon sun amidst an array of branches, dangling precariously beyond the cliff's edge. They both move but Hawke reaches it first with a jog. She leans over the cliff and against the tree, knee firmly pressed onto a thicker lower branch, her fingers stretch to reach the tooth.
"Be careful." She hears, behind her.
"Don't worry, I know people say elves are the best tree climbers but I'm fairly decent myself."
Her nail scrapes against tooth, another second and it slips safely into her palm. She holds the pendant up with a bright grin and hopes to see him smile.
"I got-"
Pain, world-shattering pain thunders in her leg, her thigh- she gasps- any other sound clogged in her throat. There is a shout, she doesn't know if it came from in or outside her head.
Fenris, the battlefield, the sand, everything blurs when she falls, having lost her balance. Her head buzzes on impact against the ground. It's an arrow, she can feel its tip move when she bends her knee. She cries out then, feels her own voice throb against her throat.
Am I going to die? The next arrow points at her eye.
She wonders if the iron star tip is the last thing she will ever see.
Carver flashes before her, Bethany, Father, Mother-
Then the archer falls, a crumpled form in the sand when a greatsword is sheathed from his corpse.
Fenris.
He looks like a fey, a beast, tendrils of lyrium trail the thrust of his sword like strokes of a paint brush upon a canvas. Fenris strikes the corpse again and again- sword greased with blood and chunks of flesh.
Stop, it's too much. She thinks, not sure if her lips mouth it, willing the words into existence.
Among the fog of pain, somewhere in time, there is a touch, a bare hand that brushes against her temple.
"Hawke."
His touch is warm yet trembling as he lifts her head from the ground, there's a clawed gauntlet disregarded on the sand near him, thumb dripping blood.
Hawke hisses, sick to her stomach, five different ferelden profanities escape her.
"Arrow..." She mumbles, closing her eyes against the harsh blue of his skin, his markings are still lit.
"I know."
His breastplate almost cuts her cheek when he attempts to hold her steady. A curse in Tevene, when he reaches over to bandage her thigh.
Fenris burns hot, she notices. Or perhaps she's too cold, blood oozing from her wound too quickly. When he ties a piece of cloth around it and over the arrow, she bites her knuckles to stifle the scream.
"Easy." He shushes her, in that same quiet voice he uses when he tells her tales by the fireplace, late into the night. His hands aren't soft like Beth's, they're a warrior's hands and his body is tense and rigid; for the man is all muscles and bone and skin. Though he hasn't her sister's plump comfort, his heart is louder than any sound she's ever heard. It beats madly against her ear like a wild animal struggling to break free from his ribcage.
Everything else begins to slowly fog.
.... carry.
I n... eed....
.... lift.....
He is speaking to her, she can feel the rumble of his words and yet-
"Your heart..." She mutters, lightheaded.
"My....?"
"It's okay...." She closes her eyes. "T's okay..." She tells him, unable to convey anything at all in her drowsiness.
"Hawke do not close your eyes...!"
There is urgency in his voice, she wants to soothe it.
"I'm okay, don't... I'm okay..."
Tiredness pulls her, irresistible. Her head falls heavy against the bend of his arm, light as a butterfly, her consciousness flies away.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
She dreams of his eyes, shining against the sun like the seaglass she held close to her heart as a child.
She dreams of his rare smile, his brows relaxed as she tentatively presses a palm against his temple, his skin scalding hot and softer than cotton, untouched and hesitant. She dreams of a subtle press of lips and a startled gasp- lips she hasn't tasted so she imagines ginger and mint and the metallic lingering of lyrium.
He slips away and it is maddening- he becomes a shadow in the fade and she forgets him.
Hawke.
Hawke, are you with me?
Can you open your eyes for me?
“Fenris...?”
“No…”
The voice is familiar yet she cannot place it. It is different and wrong for it doesn't belong to the warrior that lingers in her thoughts. Regaining her senses at last, her nose scrunches up and she smells mould, dust, something sharp- a specific herb- numbing cream.When she opens her eyes, the light hurts them, she groans.
Easy... Take it easy.
This voice is kind and Ferelden and often arrogant- she knows him.
"Anders...?" Croaks Hawke.
"Hawke..." Anders sighs with intense relief. Slowly his face reveals itself from the fog, stubbly chin and tired eyes, hazel and pointedly not green.
"How do you feel?"
"Bad. Ugh." She groans. "It smells funny..."
"This is my operations room. Well, more of an operations hut, really."
When her sight fully returns she recognises this tent, stained with blood, the fabric barely muffling the sounds of his patients’ groans. It's very rare the occasion in which Anders needs to chop off limbs but when it happens, it is in this little tent, away from the other sick. Hawke briefly panics, fearful for her precious leg. Her hands shoot towards her thigh and she sits up, barely managing on the two barrels holding a plank Anders calls an operating table.
The entire room spins but she's relieved to find her leg there, fully bandaged and the arrow gone.
"Oh thank the maker..." She mutters, and sways to one side.
A pair of hands steadies her shoulders. "Damn it, stay still!”
"...Will I have trouble with that leg?"
“It should properly recover, if you don't fall off my table anyway.” He grumbles. “The reason why you were bleeding like a leaky faucet is that the arrow nicked an artery."
"...An arty-what?"
"Artery." He repeats patiently. "A type of vein that pumps blood to your major limbs and organs, it's a lot bigger and thicker."
"Is that why blood squirts everywhere when Aveline chops people's arms off?"
"... Yes... That... Yes. That only had to happen once, though, maker's breath..." He scrunches his nose with distaste.
Hawke smirks and relishes in it. "...That you know of."
The healer groans but Hawke notes a little smile pulling at his lip, perhaps one of relief.
"Glad to see you're lucid enough to crack jokes." He mutters. "You were lucky that your... New acquaintance... Stopped the bleeding in time, otherwise..." He lets the sentence trail ominously.
"Fenris..." She reaches in her pocket in a hurry, relieved to find in her palm a dot of blood and a wolf's tooth.
"How did I get here? Did he carry me all the way?"
Anders's brows pinch as he nods. "Fortunately I was collecting herbs nearby and saw the pair of you going down the mountain."
She blinks. "What luck!"
"Yes...." He grumbles. "He tried to kill me. It was a fun little interaction."
"Aw come on! Stranger danger and all that."
"Hm." Is the only reply she is offered when he turns his back and instead focuses on stirring a mixture.
"Wait..." Hakwe mutters. "Did you tell him you're a mage? You didn't, did you?"
"How do you figure I defended myself ? With my bare hands?"
Hawke groans. "Oh he's going to be mad at me..."
A wooden bowl is pressed into her hands. "That's what you're worried about?"
"Yes, well... He doesn't like mages very much."
..."Figures." Anders says, tone suddenly bitter, just as the foul tasting medicine Hakwe forces down her throat.
"Don't you worry though, he won't rat you out, he's loyal to me." She tells him.
A huff. "So loyal that he's still waiting outside, like a kicked puppy."
Hawke's heart leaps. "He's outside? How long have I been here?"
"Well the sun was behind Sundermount when we arrived and the skies have been dark for a long time now."
She leaps off the barrel contraption and he nearly drops a glass jar in a rush to catch her.
---
Fenris gazes upon his hands which are stained with blood- a familiar sight, greeting him like an old friend.
Usually Fenris doesn't mind the feeling of taking a life, his anger washes away any discomfort, his body too used to the motions to protest. This, however, is different. The blood currently staining his palms is a wound he tried desperately to close, someone that trembled in his arms, arms meant only to kill, clumsy in their attempt to comfort. Hawke is perhaps the only friend he has, if she would even grace him with the title. His chest clenches with something akin to fondness he was not sure he possessed before, a feeling that comes to him only in dreams accompanied by blurry faces from his past. Memories he forgets upon waking up that leave a trail of tears down his cheeks as the only evidence they were real.
This fragile thing between them, the sharing of a wine bottle in front of a fireplace and conversing with no prejudice, only gentle curiosity- Has likely gone.
I can protect you. He'd said, like a fool.
Her smile was bright before she tumbled down the tree, like a bird felled by the arrow of a hunter. His heart lurched then, fear gripped it with a claw of ice and murder was the first thing he did. Something familiar. If she is angry with him, he decides, he will leave Kirkwall and never again return. He stands plunged into the night of darktown; leaning against the wall, still as stone. He observes passively a group of moths twitching against the rusty iron of a dim lantern- the lantern that marks the entrance to the secret clinic.
He spots, suddenly, a traveler’s lamp turning the corner towards him. A heavy shadow crawls by his feet.
A woman, one significantly taller than him, approaches her light to his face and observes him quizzically. She wears heavy armour, fiery red hair is very neatly tucked into a strip of leather. Her face is long and pale, her jaw strong.
"You must be Fenris." She says and his fist clenches around the dagger in his belt.
This woman that somehow knows his name wears the colors of the city guard. His stomach lurches- Hawke is in there and too weak to fight. He must protect this place, he must not fail her twice.
The woman paws at her sword as well, the lantern clattering against her belt. Her left hand, however, is raised in a show of calm.
"Easy, I'm not here on duty."
"Leave, human. I do not know how you came about my name but I’m a stranger to yours."
She levels him with a look, seemingly unfazed. "My name is Aveline, I'm a friend of Hawke's and I was sent word that she was injured."
She steals a glance at the rusty lantern marking the door before staring him down. "If she tells me to leave I shall but that is not up for you to decide."
His fingers slack around his weapon. "...Aveline."
Embarrassment scalds his cheeks as he lowers his head with a scowl."...Hawke mentioned you." He grumbles.
The Ferelden warrior with an Orlesian name, Hawke's friend in the guard. Caged in his own poison, he forgot his rationale. Tension melts away from them, weapons forgotten in favor of a harsh silence, palpable in its awkwardness. The fiery redhead flashes him a small smile. "She mentioned you too. Said you're reliable and fight well."
Reliable- the word pierces his skull. It feels bitter in his tongue.
"I failed her." He admits, unable to meet Aveline's stare head on for she is too intense for his fragile state of mind.
Do all Fereldens possess such a spirit? He wonders, briefly.
"I see." The human says without betraying emotion. She must know just as much as he does, if she isn't pressing for details. "Hawke's rhythm can be difficult to match, her best asset can be her greatest weakness."
He looks up then, frowning with confusion.
Aveline continues, "she reads the battlefield faster than most, knows exactly where to be then flies to her goal. It's a learning curve to know where to position yourself to fight with her. This often leaves her vulnerable if you can't envision her strategy fast enough." Aveline sighs. "She is also as stubborn as a mule on a rainy day."
He recalls the battle with the Carta, how Hawke had sprung to action, how she spotted the traps, gave him quick and precise indications before lunging with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"She told me where to go." He says and it feels as embarrassing as it sounds. "She must have been aware that perhaps I wouldn't catch up in time, for it was the first time we fought alone together."
Aveline smiles, something like pride flickers across her face. "That's a vast improvement, I find myself yanking on her collar and telling her to slow down far too often."
He has a great difficulty picturing anyone doing that to Hawke.
He blinks then nods solemnly. "I will take note of that."
He knows the lyrium has used his body as a bridge with the fade before. When his markings flared particularly brightly, once or twice he was able to move faster than it should be possible- as if he stepped in the fade and came back. It's unpredictable and difficult to manage but he will train it, if he is able. If he can learn how to control it, he could get to Hawke faster than anyone else can.
Aveline gives him another small smile, he cannot imagine he made a very good first impression on the guard, he doesn't know why she keeps smiling.
"She was shot by an arrow after the fight was over.” He tells her. “She... It was my fault. We stuck around for my sake and I failed to see the enemy coming."
"Maybe you're right and it was your fault, I wasn't there."
His heart lurches horribly.
"Let it go and move on, I tell the new recruits that. Guilt is the deadliest disease there can be when you fight in a group, doesn't do anyone any good and just festers and rots your resolve."
He looks down at his hands, stained with blood. Sweet copper clogs his senses, the feeling of her cheek against his chest tingles there like a ghost.
Your heart... She muttered to him before her consciousness left her. He hadn't the faintest idea of what she was trying to tell him.
"That is... A good philosophy, though difficult in practice."
I am not used to accounting for anyone else-- He does not say. All these feelings are new and uncomfortable, blossoming in his chest like unwanted weeds on a sidewalk.
"Grabbing a mug of mead after the battle usually helps." Aveline supplies.
He almost smiles back, then.
The lantern that marks the door flickers- The wooden paneling that gives way to the clinic slides with a horrid rasping noise, splinters of rotten wood catching against the hinges.
Fenris and Aveline both snap their heads towards the emerging figures, their hopes answered when they see Hawke, held upright by a patient Anders that helps her step over the metal rails. She is alive and well, he notices. Still pale but the bloodstains are gone and she's stripped from armor. In the arms of a dangerous mage, Fenris notes with concern.
When she notices him, big blue eyes widen and she shoots him a big smile, as if genuinely happy to see him.
He can only frown, utterly lost at such an expression. Had she forgotten what happened? Could she be proficient in Aveline's philosophy of moving on without a question when one's companion makes a mistake?
"Fenris, It's so sweet that you waited for me!"
He looks on, puzzled. He does not know why his waiting is remotely sweet, what else was he supposed to do?
The mage scoffs and does not hesitate to shoot him a glare. Fenris glares back, confusion giving way into irritation.
"...Aveline, I see you came." Anders's expression softens as he turns to the guardswoman who seems to be diligently scanning Hawke's body, frowning horribly when her gaze falls upon the bandaged leg.
"...Yes, I came to check on this bum."
"It seems I can't sneeze anywhere in the city without you appearing ten seconds later." Mutters Hawke, grumpily.
"You can sneeze." Aveline retorts, unprovoked. "You just can't get shot in the arse."
"I was shot in the lower thigh, thank you very much!" Hawke splutters.
"She'll live, Anders, walk fine?"
"Yes, yes... Nothing too major, don't fret. She'll be back on her feet in a week or two."
Aveline smiles, genuinely now. It's as warm as the flame of her hair. "I'm glad. I would grow bored without her arousing problems every week."
Fenris feels a little relieved himself.
"I assume you can carry her home? I have a boy with croup that needs me." Asks Anders.
"It was difficult enough to squeeze an hour to come here. Fenris, can you take her home?"
His shoulders tense yet his reply is quick- "Yes."
"I just love it when you talk as if I am not here." Hawke grumbles.
"Don't be difficult, Hawke." Aveline scolds.
Fenris approaches her, noting how the mage tenses and stares him down with weariness- he suppresses the urge to call out that he is the one who possesses magic, therefore he poses the danger. When he offers Hawke a stiff yet earnest arm, the sly grin that never quite reaches her eyes falters. "Fenris, you already carried me down that valley-"
"I helped." Anders adds.
"Right... But... Fenris you must be exhausted, especially in that heavy armour of yours." She's sparing his privacy, not revealing to the others the vulnerable truth of his markings he'd spilled that one night. He is thankful for this.
"I’m fine, Hawke. It was nothing." He says, and means it. His exhaustion or discomfort cannot possibly compare to the hurt of the arrow that pierced her leg.
"It's irrelevant if he's tired or not, he’s the only one that can. Unless of course you'd like to limp home then probably get mugged"
"The guard is right, Hawke." Anders tells her.
She takes Fenris's arm after a heavy sigh. He wonders if she is masking her anger with him, feigning concern? No, he dismisses the notion immediately. Though she is often sarcastic and spews nonsense, she is frank in these moments. When anger sparks in her eyes, even if her tongue and clenched teeth attempt to mask it, her furious gaze betrays her. The conversation dulls around him with the press of her hand against his arm. Hawke bickering with the guard, thanking the healer with a kiss on the cheek- he turns away from them.
Aveline watches Fenris even after the mage retreats back into his clinic. She nods at him once before turning into a different corner, like an affirmation, perhaps approval. He is left curious about the redheaded human, appreciative of her advice. Yet he leaves this encounter Incredibly weary of the mage that possesses none of the younger Hawke's diligence and control with magic.
He wonders what that man is to Hawke, what that kiss meant.
The pair of them move at a slow pace, now that the adrenaline of urgency has gone, he is left with the oddity of feeling her touch. He hasn't felt a touch like this since the freedom fighters in Seheron had patched him up- Every nerve in his body had lit itself with tension and panic then. It was a soft spoken brown eyed boy about his age that brushed his knuckle against one of the lines in his arm, it took an exuberant amount of self control not to lunge and shove him away.
His touch had been gentle and careful when he wrapped clean bandages around his cuts- his smile a little shy. His big brown eyes lost their light in an instant when his master came and Fenris drove a metal gauntlet through his chest and crushed his-
"I think she likes you." Hawke tells him.
Her thumb is pressed against a line on his bicep.
No. Not now.
"... I'm sorry?"
"Aveline rarely gets a good first impression, let me tell you. Yours was ten times better than mine."
He exhales through his nose. "What I told her was hardly a selling point for my character."
"She appreciates honesty." Hawke continues. "Which is why she can't stand me, I lie through my teeth."
He tries to focus on her words, he can scarcely think at all with the lyrium buzzing- his panic rising alongside it.
"I think she is very fond of you." He manages, barely.
Hawke laughs at this. "Well, yes. I was just..."
They reach the stairs to lowtown and Hawke's hand tightens on his bicep when she eases onto the first step. The pressure is too much, fear coils in his gut and he clenches his jaw so hard his teeth could crack.
The shudder that escapes him is unavoidable.
"Fenris...? Are you alright?"
He is silent when a very dull blue light flickers across his skin, barely contained through the force of his will.
Hawke is clever in catching up and releases him to lean against a wall. The relief is immediate.
"I will endure it." He grits through his teeth.
The woman shakes her head. "No, I can get there on one foot, come on."
"Hawke." He calls, knowing her and knowing she would be crazy enough to do this. "I said I could endure it."
She shakes her head stubbornly. "You've only known me for what, a few months and yet you put yourself through such pain for my sake?"
His heart catches in his throat, he is not sure what to tell her.
I consider you a friend, is what he wishes he could will himself to say, were he not poisoned.
"... I owe you a favor." He tells her instead.
Hawke presses her lips together, her eyebrows furrow in a way that is difficult to read. "I'm not... You know. It isn't... Favor for a favor, eye for an eye." A pause. "...Or in this case, prolonged torture."
He huffs. "It isn't torture."
"You said those markings caused you pain..." She mutters, in a gentle way he rarely hears, her pallid gaze falling upon his skin like a gentle caress.
"The lyrium is... Unpredictable. Usually the markings are just sensitive. It does not always make sense." He still feels the ghost of her fingers there, careful yet clenched to heed her footing.
He doesn't bring up his constant fear of losing control and plunging a gauntlet into her ribcage; Or his inexplicable urge to flee whenever she will pay too much attention to him.
"You flinched- like I’d stabbed you! I stab people fairly often, Fenris, I know that face."
He sighs, and opts for honesty. “ I cannot in good conscience let you stand on that foot. I will carry you on my back, it bothers me less."
She stays still, eyeing him strangely. The pity in her gaze burns.
"...Aveline told me guilt only bitters one's resolve." He tries.
Hawke's gaze softens then. "...Alright I understand, don't start quoting Aveline, it's bad enough that she lectures me on a weekly basis."
She eases onto his back easily enough, he is strong and she doesn't weigh a lot. Her hands find only fabric and are careful not to brush against his neck or his face. He is grateful for this- for this mindfulness he has never observed in a person before. Even the fog warriors had been free in their affections, patting his back like their fellows and then frowning in confusion when he'd curl up in pain.
His wounds are ghostly. The healer said. They hurt even though they have closed.
It was a fitting excuse and he was thus saved from further embarrassment.
Touching Hawke is less painful than being touched, he observes. Taking the initiative himself is less frightening and puts the lyrium at ease. He walks ahead with small prickles against his palms like the occasional lapping of fire where they rest against her thighs, mindful of her injury.
"Are there markings on your back?" She asks after some silence, the closeness of her voice mildly startling.
"Yes." Answers Fenris.
"Oh." A pause. "So they um... Are they...?"
"They are drawn over my entire body." He tells her honestly.
"Right now, do they hurt?"
"No." He answers half-honestly. "Your worry is touching yet unnecessary."
"I'm glad it's not a constant thing."
"It used to be, not anymore."
"Does it mean it will eventually pass?"
He thinks about this, reaches the unfortunate conclusion that he hadn't expected to live long enough to see recovery, so he hasn't given the notion much thought.
"I can hope it will." He answers simply.
"I hope so too." She tells him, it sounds terribly genuine.
There isn't a crude remark or a joke, it's an odd interaction in its rawness.
"... How is your leg? Does it hurt?" Asks Fenris in return.
He has been hesitant to bring the matter up, cowardly delaying the possibility that she would rightfully blame him.
"It's better now, nevermind it."
"That ally of yours must be a skilled healer, for all his faults and arrogant nature." Says Fenris, chiding his bitterness for taking hold halfway through.
"Anders... Yes... I know how you feel, but he does a lot for humans and elves alike, you know. He faces grave danger for the use of healing magic."
He wants to ask about that kiss, but this budding thing between them forbids him from stepping over bounds.
"Hn." He offers instead, unhappily. "Have you more mage allies hidden up your sleeve?"
"No, just playing cards."
He almost smiles at this, despite himself.
"I was hoping to introduce you to my sister first, properly so. Then after you... If you would accept her, I'd sloooowly work towards the leader of the mage underground."
He can hear the grin that curls cat-like at her lip.
"Baby steps, you know. Like pulling wicker from an explosive." She adds.
"I am loyal to you, Hawke." He tells her, for he feels the anxiety she often hides behind the tumbling words that never cease to fall from her lips.
"Despite my firm opinions, you needn't fear for that man."
"Thank you, Fenris." Her voice has gone still and soft.
The rest of the journey to her home is silent.
When she hops off his back, he is silently relieved, though startled once more when something light and small is pressed against his palm.
a strong weave of leather around a single wolf's tooth.
He examines it, stunned silent.
He doesn't know what this pendant once meant; if someone once dear had given it to him or if it was something he'd purchased himself, which is less likely. He knows only that it has been around his neck for as long as he remembers and for that, he keeps it against his heart, always. It was painful to lose it, yet pragmatic as he is -and used to losing whatever he is granted at a moment's notice- he hadn't wanted Hawke to fret over it. Now with the wolf's tooth safely in his palm, the wild heart in his chest simmers with relief; with an awe and an ache for this woman that he finds beautiful, clever and possessing a kindness he has never seen before.
"Hawke...Thank you." He manages, bowing his head slightly and cursing internally his inability to properly convey the feeling, one that is much greater than those two words. It's as if she understands him nonetheless, those big blue eyes he finds mystifying softening with the dimples in her smile.
"Of course." She tells him, again, with this raw honesty he selfishly, foolishly hopes is a secret thing meant for someone special.
Her lips part to say something else but in that moment, the door to her home bursts open and croaks horribly against its stoney hinges. A man stumbles out, holding a sword. He looks old and thin, his face pale and his eyes rimmed red. Fenris' hand flies towards his own weapon, driven purely by instinct before he remembers that Hawke lives with her family- this is likely her father. He forces himself to still and calm the buzz of fear- and the lyrium.
"You, knife-ear! Get the fuck away from her, now!" The lanky figure shouts, though he makes no move to advance.
The insult dumbfounds him more than it irks him, for once. Hawke and her mild mannered sister were anything but racists, they befriended elves and dwarves alike and he's never been treated as anything less than an equal from the start.
Hawke immediately slides in front of Fenris with a hop of her good foot, he startles at this.
"Uncle, please! This man here could gut you like a fish with his eyes closed, calm yourself and drop my brother's sword- which you are holding wrong."
An uncle and a brother- The Hawke family picture becomes a little clearer. The uncle's eyes skitter between the two of them and pales instantly when he sees the sheer size of Fenris' own Lethendris. He drops his own meagre short sword then, cowering before the elf he had insulted not even five seconds ago.
A woman then emerges from within the house at this very moment, her eyes wide and filled with panic when her gaze falls upon Hawke and Fenris. She looks more put together, her features aged gracefully. Her eyes are blue but not wild nor huge like Hawke's. When she looks at Fenris, it is clear she is terrified in a way only a mother can, he deduces. She is studying him like he is some manner of beast that holds her daughter captive- even though she is the one that shields him.
He is used to this, often takes a cruel and bitter sort of satisfaction in how humans regard him with fear, relishes in their discomfort for they have caused him plenty.
Not now though, not with Hawke's family, whose scorn he was woefully unprepared for.
"Who is this, Marian?" The woman asks Hawke, eyes still fixed on him.
Marian…? It must be her first name, though he’s never heard anyone call her anything but Hawke.
"This is my friend, Fenris." She replies simply.
My friend- His expression thankfully doesn't betray the disarray of emotions that overcome him.
"He carried me down the mountain in his arms when I fell injured and bandaged me. Fenris saved my life, mother."
The uncle now resembles a pathetic heap of bone and skin, staring at his torn sandal with a bitter expression. The woman, though, crosses the distance between them in three strides and gathers her daughter into her arms.
"Injured! Fool girl... I knew it was a matter of time... How bad? Where?"
Hawke's Mother all but forgets him when she fusses over her daughter. Fenris has half a mind to disappear back into the shadows and slink his way home.
It's a harrowing feeling at first, when his hand is suddenly seized without warning. His markings threaten to burst and it takes all his will not to slap the hand away. It's Hawke's mother who clutches his hand in both of hers, smaller and callused yet milky white and cold like a stream of water, like Hawke's.
"Fenris, my daughter's friend. I beg that you forgive my brother's shameful words, I thank you with all my heart for my daughter's life, thank you, again thank you, thank you!"
He flusters and stares at her, struck silent with shock for a moment before he manages a nod.
"She- she has saved me as well."
He dares not glance in Hawke's direction.
"Erm, Mother, Fenris is tired, we should let him return to his home in peace." Stammers Hawke, coming to his rescue.
"Right... Yes." The older woman muses. "It is dark, the path to the Alienage, the lanterns have been out for months."
Hawke shoots him a grin and a wink and he suppresses one of his own. He is not offended by the assumption.
"Actually, Fenris here lives in Hightown." Hawke declares.
It's amusing, the reaction. Hawke's mother sputters and turns red.
He offers the best semblance of a smile he can muster to them both and bids his farewells with a curt, polite nod.
The mother is still in shock as she aids her daughter across the way towards her home. The uncle eyes Fenris with scorn and something deeper and ugliest of all, such is racism. Though he too has blue eyes, Fenris finds no trace of family resemblance in them.
"Fenris- wait!" Yells Hawke after a moment, her hand stubbornly caught on the door hinge even as her mother pushes her inside.
He turns, startled.
"Will you come to the hanged man tomorrow? For cards? I can fashion a cane."
Her eyes so big and transparent with her truth, they ask a different question, will you stay?
He tells her, "I’ll be there."
I will not go away, not yet.
Then she is gone and he is alone, crossing the bazaar into the enormous staircase that leads to Hightown, the radiance of her parting smile lighting his way. He isn't sure of who he was before, now a newly freed man with a broken memory, ironically living in the city of chains. Learning how to live, if he even can, would be a more fitting statement.
What do you do when you stop running? He asked of Hawke once.
He knows one truth now, one that eases some of his fear; and he holds this truth against his heart, keeps it safe there in this wolf's tooth pendant that had no meaning before.
He is Fenris, Hawke's friend.
-