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“Fenris, are you busy tonight?”
The Hanged Man is as busy as it ever is, the din of conversation and flagons slamming against tables almost enough to drown out Merrill’s words entirely. Fenris shakes his head, keeping his eyes on her to watch her brighten and scoot closer, seat scraping unpleasantly against the floorboards. Noticing this, Isabela waggles her eyebrows at Fenris, who ignores her.
“Would you come to the alienage, then? They’re celebrating Enasalas tonight and said I could bring as many friends as I wanted. Well, not shem friends. But other friends.”
Hawke slumps at the last word and goes back to viciously arguing with Varric about nothing in particular, both of their grins belying any real sense of upset. Fenris takes the opportunity to think on it.
He’s never celebrated Enasalas before. At least, not that he recalls. He knows of the holiday, Danarius having always derided it each year as utter nonsense, somehow even worse than the Southern solstice celebrations. At the time, Fenris had not thought to question him, as risking his ire for such a little thing would have been utterly foolish. He’d learned later from the Fog Warriors that it was a holiday of elven victory against human armies (though they didn’t remember when or where or which), so little wonder that Danarius had thought of the whole thing as funny.
Fenris isn’t sure if he wants to be around so many people celebrating a victory they were not part of and aren’t likely to see again in their lifetimes. But Danarius would hate it, and he doesn’t have any other plans. That is enough. He nods, amused by how quickly the delighted grin spreads across Merrill’s face and only half-listening as she babbles about the years she’d spent celebrating Enasalas in years past, towering bonfires and war songs and aravas filled with all sorts of things. It is not the sort of memory he can share in, but it is pleasant to sit and pretend otherwise, if only for now.
The alienage isn’t usually a lively place, so Fenris is a little startled by the bustle of people when he turns into it. Kids sit around and spin tops around a pile of sweetmeats, groaning or cheering as the thing turns in their favor and grabbing some out of the pile, eating it then and there.
“That’s not how we played,” Merrill says. It takes a conscientious effort from Fenris not to lunge away, startled. “Oh, sorry! But that isn’t. We didn’t touch the pot until everyone had at least one. And we used shortbread, not those.”
“What’s the aim of the game?” Fenris asks, watching intently.
“No aim, really,” Merrill says. “Just to celebrate and spend time together.”
A matronly older woman walks up, smiling warmly at the both of them. “Merrill! I see you do have elf friends. Good, good to see it! Especially such a handsome lad.”
“Arialya,” Merrill says, equal parts embarrassed and enthused. “This is Fenris.”
The woman’s eyes narrow a bit at the name. Fenris wonders how soon he can make his leave before her expression softens and she says, “Welcome, Fenris. Eth’Enasalas.”
Fenris nods, unsure how he’s supposed to respond. Merrill whispers, loud enough that Arialya can certainly hear her, “It means safe Enasalas.”
“The same to you,” he says, belatedly.
She waves it off. “Save your blessings for the young, da’len. This night is for us to celebrate our victories long gone.”
There’s a certain exhaustion as she says it, but also a steely determination, standing straighter than he might’ve expected a tired old woman to. “I am unfamiliar with the tale,” Fenris says, because it seems best to admit it up front.
Merrill gasps. “Fenris! Oh, Creators, I didn’t realize, you should have said earlier!”
“Better to ask here where no shemlen can be upset by what they hear,” Arialya says, nodding approvingly at him. “You have a good head on your shoulders, lad. Come, sit by the menorah. Tonight is the last night, so unless you wish to wait a year and hope we’re all still around, it’s your last chance.”
Merrill frowns. “No, it’s not. We could tell him on another day.”
“But there’d be no fun in that,” Arialya says, playfully chiding. “Come, come! Before all the best seats are taken and I have to remind them to respect their elders.”
Merrill follows Arialya, and Fenris follows Merrill, watching the crowd. There’s fried pastries to the side that he grabs a pair of before he can question himself, handing one to Merrill. She beams at him and bites in. “Ooh, different from the aravas at home. Better, though.”
Arialya snorts. “I can’t imagine the Dalish have access to as much oil as we do here.”
“Oh, you fry these in oil? That makes sense. We used animal fat, whatever we had from recent hunts.”
“Appetizing,” Fenris says, sure the sarcasm will be buried behind his usual flat affect as he bites into it. It’s…essentially just a donut, something he’s become more familiar with as a newly-rich Hawke has taken to visiting every sweets shop in Hightown. It’s got a rich-but-not-saccharine filling that he thinks might be plum, and it’s dusted with powdered sugar. A luxury strewn about for anyone to take. He glances back, suddenly worried he has stolen something he will have to defend.
Arialya’s watching him when he turns back, eyes shrewd. “Any other night, it’d be different, but we’re all one People tonight. Anything here is meant to be shared.”
Fenris nods. “It’s quite good.”
Their guide laughs. “Nothing like the ones I grew up with, but I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. You’re so dour for such a young man.”
Merrill elbows him, albeit gently. “You don’t look so scary with a sugar mustache.”
Cheeks burning, Fenris tries to wipe his face clean as discreetly as he can. He tries to hold onto the embarrassment or even the irritation he should feel, but her smile is warm enough and friendly enough that he can’t quite manage it.
“There are a few tales behind Enasalas,” Arialya says once they sit, sighing so heavily he worries about her for a moment. Her tone’s taken on a new layer, though, calm and assured and with just the right touch of drama for a storyteller. “Shartan’s victory over Tevinter’s armies. The Creators’ victory over the Dread Wolf and his pack.” (Merrill’s nose wrinkles. Fenris is proud of her that she doesn’t immediately interject with her version, even if he’s sure she thinks she’s correct.) “An alienage that resisted the Blight and the shemlen come to kill them for their luck.”
“But the core of the tale, regardless of which, is that we fought. We could have died. By all rights, we should have died, but we did not. We spoke in secret, spinning tops and exchanging coins so shemlen would think us the irascible gamblers they believed us to be. We acted in the dead of night to prepare for the battle we knew was coming. And when we fought, knowing it may be for naught, knowing we had to try, we won, our fires devastating our enemies and not ourselves.”
“The Creators’ miracle,” Merrill says, hushed, sounding younger than he’s ever heard her. He has the strangest urge to pull her in for a hug, some urge to comfort that’s somehow familiar but so alien to him that he doesn’t chase it.
“Perhaps,” Arialya says. “The fire burned when it should have died. Most of us think it was the Maker, remembering and honoring the way we fought and died for his bride and the way she honored us as equals in turn. Our people have long memories, whether the Chantry puts it into their Canticles or not.”
Fenris is not a man of faith. He doesn’t know how to be. He might respect Andraste for what she tried to do, even though it failed, but he does not sit and pray to the Maker for mercy. Doing so hadn’t changed things, after all. “What do the rest of you think?”
“There are a few theories,” Arialya says, a twinkle in her eyes like she’s glad he asked. “Like Merrill says, perhaps the fire burning was a gift from Elgar’nan or Mythal instead of the Maker. Some of our more skeptical think it was a mage’s power emerging, or a particularly intrepid young elf who got ahold of Qunari powder.”
Fenris snorts. “I do not believe the latter would have spared any homes.”
Arialya laughs, loud and raspy. “Clever! It’s why we stick with these candles and not with the bonfires Merrill remembers. Only a miracle would keep this alienage unburnt as it is. The buildings are stone, but our vhenadahl stands tall. To see it burnt would be our undoing.”
“The menorah is lovely,” Merrill says. She’s being genuine, even though Fenris can see the faintest disappointment in her expression. Even though he notices it, she buries it better than he might’ve thought her capable of. “We have those too, for nights when firewood is low or when shemlen are passing too close to the camp.”
“Really?” Arialya says, arching a brow. “That tradition goes back farther than I thought, then.”
“Unless they learned it from you,” Fenris points out.
Arialya smiles. “Oh, I doubt that, da’len. The Dalish care little for what we do. But I thank you for saying it.”
“Depends on the clan,” Merrill says. “I mean, I want to know all of it.”
Arialya pinches Merrill’s cheek, a grandmotherly move that Fenris is grateful isn’t directed at him even as something in his chest aches to see it. “Oh, Merrill, you’re one of our people now, on Enasalas or otherwise. This is your home for as long as you want it to be, dear.”
Merrill seems like she’s about to cry, which seems like a good cue for Fenris to leave. But she grabs his wrist before he does, gentle enough he could escape it without so much as thinking about his brands, let alone using them. “Stay. Please. I want to share this with you.”
“I was only going to get another donut,” he says, exasperated, relieved, fond.
“Aravas,” Merrill corrects.
“One for myself and one for Arialya,” he continues.
Merrill’s mouth drops open in what he thinks is faux-outrage, though she no longer looks on the verge of tears. “Fenris! That’s not at all what Enasalas is about!”
Arialya snorts. “I think a little more piety towards our elders is a good start, actually. Go on, Fenris. We’ll be here when you get back.”
He goes, feeling lighter than he has in recent memory. Not at the victories gone past, but at the people welcoming him as one of their own, no matter how poorly they know him or how little they have in common. Like the Fog Warriors so long past, almost, though he is certain this will turn out better. He doesn’t know how to repay their kindness, but for tonight, he can allow himself to simply enjoy it. The rest can come tomorrow.
Eth’Enasalas, he thinks to himself. The words aren’t any less foreign to him than they were before, but it brings him a measure of comfort, anyway. That is enough.