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Description

Author: SurelyForth
Title: Life & How to Live It
Game: Dragon Age 2
Character pairing: F!Hawke/Anders
Disclaimer: Rated M for language, violence and sexual content.
It's past sunset when Wil drags herself into view of her front door. The day had been, like the one before it, overcast, and the low cloud cover has trapped the day's sultry heat close to the ground. Aside from a few stragglers from the market, the way home is clear enough that she doesn't feel too odd dismantling her cuirass as she walks. The sooner she can dump the bloody thing and fall into a cool bath the happier she'll be.
But she tries not to think about it too much. Wanting to be alone and unoccupied is the surest way to invite trouble, or Aveline in need of some assistance, and Wil's had her fill for a while.
Come on, now, a small voice chides her as she's greeted by a pair of patrolmen- polite nods and "Serah Hawke" as she passes. It's not that bad, is it? Better than haunting your own life like a sad, drunken ghost.
"Maybe," she mutters to herself.
"Uh, excuse me?" The voice is childishly high and Wil's not surprised when she turns to confront a young boy, a freckled lad with ruddy cheeks and unruly tufts of tangerine hair. "Are you...Lady Wilhelmina Hawke?"
"I'm Hawke," Wil wrinkles her nose at the Lady. "Let me guess...urgent message?"
The kid shrugs and offers up a scroll bound in orange twine. It's unlike any document she's ever seen and it's only the deepening dusk shadows that keeps her from reading it before heading inside.
"Thanks," her eyes squint and she digs through her pouch, searching for a few coppers to come up with a silver piece and an amulet loose of its wool wrapping. She flips the coin to the boy with a smirk, "You lucked out."
The child snatches at the air, his ambivalence gone as he catches and then strokes the coin with his thumb before fleeing, as if she might snatch it back and replace it with a copper. She hardly notices him leave, however, because her attention is on the amulet. It's interesting, polished dark wood with a jagged sunburst inscribed in gold at its center. The edges are burnished in a strange checkered pattern and although its clearly tied to the Chantry in some way, she's certainly never seen the emblem this stylized. She'll have to ask Fenris about it the next time she sees him.
If she sees him. Her stomach sinks and remains there the last few steps to the estate and if would be a concern for even longer were it not for the three faces waiting to confront her in the foyer.
Uh-oh.
Bodahn leads the attack in his usual ingratiating way. Too much hemming and hawing and little half bows for her liking.
"Uh, mistress Hawke. Delighted to see you this evening," he scratches the back of his neck, glancing towards Leandra who supports him with an indulgent nod. "Well, I just wanted to tell you that there's an...elf here. And not one of your usual elves."
"A girl," Sandal chimes in from where he's lounging against the wall. He, at least, seems excited.
A girl?
"Oh, Maker," Wil smacks her forehead with the scroll as the other major happening of the afternoon comes back in a rush. The skinny girl with big eyes and nowhere else to go. "I completely forgot about her."
Leandra winces and tries to cover it with a tight smile. "So you know her," whiffs out between thin lips. "Why am I not surprised?"
Wil scowls. Surely it's not that bad. Almost every noble in Kirkwall has servants, most of them elven. If anything, the Hawkes are the odd ones out for having only Bodahn and Sandal.
"Where is she?" Wil pulls off her cuirass and ignores how Leandra frowns away from the blood-soaked tunic beneath.
"I lock- left her in the library, mistress," Bodahn mimics her mother's strained expression. "I didn't know what to do with her."
"You locked her in the library?" Wil's voice pitches up in disbelief. And they thought she was uncouth. "You've probably been talking where she can hear you, too. Way to make a person feel welcome, guys."
She slips between the strangely united front of Bodahn and her mother, who is offering up a defense of their good manners.
"Maybe if she hadn't been shouting Wil Amell! all over the markets, waving our family crest around, and looking as if she'd fallen inside a butcher's trough," Leandra hiss-whispers. "I know that's normal to you and your friends, but up here, it raises suspicion."
Wil stops for a moment, readying a more than tart rebuttal to that dig but then decides it's simply not worth the trouble.
"Give me a few minutes to wash up and change," she mutters, running up the steps two at a time before another realization stops her at the top of the staircase. "Has she eaten anything?"
Bodahn and Leandra hedge with a shared glance, but Sandal sells them out with an emphatic shake of his head.
"Really?" Did Mother literally fall for someone, and hit her head on the way down? "Well you might as well offer her dinner. Chances are she's here for good."
Wil retreats to the bedroom before she can be further baffled and annoyed by her housemates' strange reactions, stripping off the rest of her armor and underclothes as quickly as she can. It's far from how she wanted this evening to go and even the reality of a cold bath is less pleasant than she'd been imagining. Goosebumps raise beneath her hand as she smears scented soap along the filthier parts and the chill of the water sets deep into her bones in a way that not even a vigorous toweling and a thick robe can dispel.
Now I'm all chattery, she tugs the garment closer for warmth and descends the stairs. The library has been reopened, although Leandra and Bodahn remain in the parlor, waiting for Wil to deal with the situation that's not a situation at all. When Wil rounds the corner, she finds the elf sitting cross-legged on the hearth, a half-empty plate of cheese and apples in her lap and firelight engulfing her in shades of orange that give life to her sallow cheeks and sunken eyes. Her dress is even more disgusting than it had been in the slavers pens, and much of her hair falls in stiff maroon clumps over her narrow shoulders, but her face and neck have been scrubbed clean of blood.
Licked clean, actually. Bello is curled beside her, almost her equal in height and surely her better in weight. The sight of Wil turns him wriggly happy, his tongue lolling out of his mouth even as he keeps his spot by his new friend.
"Your dog is huge," the girl states as he bumps against her cheek, his large tongue swiping her ear and her eyes remaining huge. "I'm...glad he's friendly."
"Bello, come here," Wil commands, dropping into the nearest chair, legs carefully crossed so nothing gets flashed in the process. The dog shuffles pathetically towards her, his haunches low in feigned embarrassment. "Nobody needs you being an annoyance while they're trying to eat."
"It wasn't like that at all, Lady Amell," the girl is adamant in Bello's defense. "He was very well behaved. I think he only stole one piece of bread and an apple slice!"
"That's one piece of bread and an apple slice too many," Wil nudges his side with her foot. "Next thing you know, you'll be losing entire meals when you pause to take a drink."
The girl nods, her chin dropping so that she can't meet Wil's gaze. "Does that mean...you want me to stay here?"
She holds herself still, stiff, and there's something conflicted in the posture, as if she's both proud of what she has to offer and unworthy of having any pride at all.
"Well...it depends," Wil shifts, hoping that she sounds less formal than she feels. She's never negotiated this sort of arrangement herself, and none of the elves she's spent more than five minutes with have ever been...servile. "I want to help you more than I need help myself..." she catches, suddenly embarrassed. "You know, I don't think I've gotten your name."
"Orana," the girl squeaks it out through what appears to be the beginnings of a smile. "Just...Orana."
Orana is simple enough. "Well, Orana, it depends," Wil tries again. "What do you want to do?"
The question opens her up, and in an unexpected way. She relaxes, slumping forward in relief as she ponders an option that's probably never been hers to consider.
"I can cook a little, and I'm real good at cleaning," she points at the statue that looms over the fireplace, it's face obscured by cobwebs that waft in the lamplight. "I mean no disrespect, but whoever does it now..."
"Is terrible?" Wil finishes with a smirk. "Sandal is...easily distracted."
"Sandal...is he the young one?" Orana ducks her head. "He was nice to me when I showed up. Not that, not that the others weren't!" She amends, panic raising her voice as she realizes what she'd just implied about Wil's mother.
"No worries." With a glance to the figures that remain silhouetted just beyond the library door, Wil raises her voice so they can hear her, "They could have done more to make you feel welcome."
The figures waver, then disappear.
Orana shoves a wedge of cheese into her mouth and chews hard.
"Listen," Wil stretches her legs in front of her, clasping her hands at her knees. "I have plenty of space. Sandal and Bodahn are in the servant's quarters, so why don't you take the guest suite for now. It's small, but it's quiet and has a nice view of the garden."
"A nice view," Orana echoes, her face gone slack in disbelief and Wil's chest tightens as she realizes the day this girl has had. Fenris had been to the Void and back, but Orana is only a child and has lost her father and Maker only knows how many other friends. And in the most horrific way possible. "I don't know what to say, mistress. I'll do whatever you want," she sets the plate aside and gets to her knees to bargain. "I'll learn to cook better, and I'll clean and pull weeds and carry packages from the market and if you have babies, I'll mind them and I can sing pretty, Papa says, and I'll sing them to sleep if you want me to."
Her expression is desperately hopeful. Like the courier with his silver, she's grasping this opportunity with both hands, terrified that it might be yanked away despite Wil making no move to do so.
"Whoa, whoa," Wil's hands go up in mock defeat. "No need for mistress or Lady Amell, and there will be no babies for a good long while, if ever," she gets to her feet and offers a hand up to Orana, who takes it with fingers that are clammy despite the proximity of fire. "And, most importantly, you'll be paid."
"Paid," the elf repeats, the word sounding foreign on her tongue.
"Bodahn can handle your wages, if you'd like. He's got a good head for investments aaaaand that's probably getting ahead of things," Wil frowns, cursing her current inability to not overwhelm the newly freed slave with information when she's still in rags and covered in dried blood. "I'll have Sandal bring in water so you can get cleaned up. Mother should be able to alter at least one of my tunics for you to wear until the markets open tomorrow," her nose wrinkles in thought. "Would you like to go with me to the alienage? It's the best place to purchase elven garments and I need to visit my friend Merrill anyway."
"Merrill?" Orana's barely keeping up with all of this. "That's not...the elf you were with today. You have a...friend? who lives in the alienage?"
"She's Dalish. I know two Dalish elves in the alienage, and another from the city who lives nearby," she peers through the doorway into the dining room, where Sandal has his runes and several large sheets of parchment spread out on the table. "Sandal, I think Orana would like a bath this evening."
"Okay," he shuffles off his chair, palming one of his runes. "For warming," he clarifies in the face of Wil's raised eyebrow. "No boom, just warm."
"Very reassuring."
He smiles, oblivious to her sarcasm.
"Mother!" Wil pushes into the kitchen, where Leandra has shoved up the sleeves of her house dress and is submerged to her elbows in the wash basin. From the amount of furious scrubbing, there's no doubt she's trying to convince herself that Orana's origins are not of an illegal nature. Wil should explain, but sometimes it's fun to toy with her mother's low expectations of her own child. "Do you have any suggestions on what we can do about Orana's...immediate clothing situation?"
Leandra pulls away from the basin, and regards the pair for a long moment. Orana offers a tremulous smile and, just as Wil had been that afternoon, Leandra is helpless in the face of someone who so clearly deserves a break, and a little kindness
"I have an old dress that shouldn't be too long on her. I can take it in so it's not..." Leandra gestures to her chest. "Too much."
Orana chuckles weakly, her cheeks turning pink.
"Or she can just shove a couple of loaves in there," Wil pantomimes. "Not a bad idea, to be honest. Tits and a snack, all in one!"
"Wilhelmina," Leandra moans and in that split second she recognizes their new housemate as a potential comrade in conspiratorial exasperation. "She gets it from her father."
"I got everything from my father," Wil retorts, placing her her hands on her own flat chest for emphasis. "I wouldn't say no to a pair of tit loaves for myself."
Orana's beaming and on the verge of raucous laughter when Leandra sweeps by, her arm going around Orana's thin shoulders to lead her back to the dining room.
"I'll get some measurements before you bathe, then you can get some rest...or at least a reprieve from my daughter's sense of humor!"
Their voices grow faint as the door swings shut between them and Wil wants to grab the ensuing peace and run with it, so it can't be taken before she's ready to settle in for the night.
He has walked down the stairs five times already.
Six.
The guardsman posted at the bottom has taken to open staring. Fenris stares back, eyes narrowed and that is one problem solved.
Too bad it fails to take care of the others.
He goes up again, this time striding almost halfway to Danarius' mansion.
His mansion.
Danarius. His hands curl into fists and he whips around. This had to have been his plan all along. The timing was too perfect, and knowing that the past three years had been a gift from his old master, in a manner of speaking, is sickening.
It hurts.
It makes him angry.
"Dammit," he kicks at the ground and ignores the couple that skirt past him, the woman clinging to her partner as they quicken from a leisurely walk to a near run. He cannot imagine how he must look. Even bathed and without his sword he cuts a dangerous figure in Hightown. He is usually not this obvious, choosing to remain in unless Hawke drew him out for a job.
Hawke.
He glances towards the stairs, remembering all too clearly why they have become an obstacle. This afternoon, after he had killed Hadriana, he had left because he wanted to be angry. He wanted to stoke the fire of hatred that she had ignited. Flames fed on her blood, on her life as it shuddered out of her and at that moment he had the power and it felt good.
It felt so good, but it had not fixed anything. Danarius was still out there, minding traps baited with his intimate knowledge of what his little wolf would find truly irresistible.
Answers. Family.
"Her name is Varania."
He rushes forward again, feet moving swiftly on the stone and this time he doesn't flinch or backtrack. Earlier, he'd left because he wanted to revel in how much he hated Hadriana, and magisters and what they'd done to him and what they would do if they could get him back.
Now he does not want to be alone. He turns the last corner and the Hawke estate comes into view. This stops him, soles scraping a few inches as his momentum carries through and it is a bad idea. Hawke is a bad idea.
But she had reached for him, after Hadriana. He had seen the concern on her face that was not pity or sympathy and he'd thrown it back at her. She had helped him, without hesitation, and he had been an ass then, but now? He wants to be in the presence of someone who will not use him, or capture him, or manipulate him.
Even if it is Hawke. Even if she goes on about how wrong he is about mages. Even if they argue-
We will argue.
-she will not sneer at him and call him slave and perhaps he will say the right thing, ask the right question, and she will respond and some of the knots that have tangled themselves inside his head will loosen. He is not looking for answers-
he beats on the door
he just...
"Serah?" The elder dwarf's face is ruddy in the light that spills from the foyer and over his face.
"Hello," Fenris' tongue sticks to the sides of his mouth and makes speaking difficult. "Is...Hawke. Available?"
Bodahn wobbles away from the door, his posture wilting as he gestures for Fenris to follow him.
"Actually, I will wait here," he takes a seat on one of the benches, readied to run should the urge catch him, and it is a possibility. This house, this home, smells of bread and dog and fresh cut flowers. Through the doorway that leads to the parlor he can hear the soft murmur of voices and it is comfortable, like he imagines family is.
"Her name is Varania."
He does not remember her. There is no face, no voice, no scent that comes with Varania. It is a hole. A void. A darkness that burns because there should be something there.
Hadriana was probably lying. She was a snake. A menace. But if there is no Varania, then why should he feel empty in the absence of memory? It is not like the other life, lost to him now. His life before is behind an impenetrable veil. Frustrating, yes. But not like this.
Before he can start attempting to undo this new knot, he hears footsteps approaching. Bare feet on the plush rug that stretches the length of the foyer and when he glances up at Hawke, he is startled to see that she's wearing only a robe.
A thick, rather frumpy robe, considering the heat, but a robe nonetheless. It hits just below her knees, and he can see the gentle curve of her calf, the flesh bruised at odd intervals, and the tendons in her feet. On her left ankle is a tattoo, one he had not known she had. A fox. His eyes narrow in consideration. It fits.
"Andraste's ass, Fenris," she offers by way of a greeting, slipping past him to check that the door has been securely closed. "I was starting to think I should worry."
He stands, his head tilted so that she will not be able to see that he is...looking. It is futile, he knows. Frustration on top of frustration. The shadow cast by the mage is a long one and he would be a fool not to see it on her now. But there is also her long bared neck and the way her damp hair has been pushed away from her face for once, so that her brilliant eyes have no competition and the lightning quick smirks and grins are laid bare for him to see, her prettiness a not unpleasant surprise.
"Hawke," his weight finally shifts so they are facing each other. Without boots, she is not quite so overwhelmingly tall and when she leans back against the door, even less so. "I've been thinking about what happened with Hadriana," the understatement is bitter. "You and I...don't always see eye-to-eye, but that doesn't mean you deserve my anger." His throat clenches and it's shame at his behavior that catches him. "I owe you an apology."
Her eyebrows raise and her lips crook in a way that tells him she didn't need to hear this.
"You're hardly the first person to take their frustrations out on me, Fenris," she laughs. "Shit. This isn't even the first time you've done it yourself!"
It's the truth. But it's also different this time.
For some reason. That he's certain has nothing to do with I enjoy listening to you talk.
"You are generous. Moreso than most," he murmurs, suddenly struck by the contrast between her and Hadriana. "When I was still a slave, Hadriana was a torment. She would ridicule me, deny my meals and...hound my sleep."
From the way Hawke's eyes widen, he can see there's no need to elaborate.
"Because of her status, because she was a mage, I was powerless to respond or defend myself," embers turn in his stomach, glowing red and waiting to be fed with more memories. "And she knew it."
"Sounds like a real fair fighter," Hawke muses airily, although he can see faint lines of empathy creasing her forehead.
"Yes," his shoulders inch back and he's proud for a moment. "The thought of her slipping out of my grasp now...I couldn't let her go." Then pride turns sour and he recalls a split second of doubt when he'd thought to be merciful. It would be an insult to Hadriana, in a way, that he didn't even find her worth sullying his hands with her blood. She'd been at his mercy, shivering while her existence hinged on his ability to forgive. He darts his eyes away from Hawke's intense gaze. "I wanted to, but I couldn't."
"It's too bad you had to give up such a substantial lead on your family to do it," it's not condemnation, but Fenris detects the slightest undercurrent of judgment. "If she trusted you enough, you may have gotten more out of her."
His face goes hot. "And what would you have me do? Hadriana came after me! She wasn't here to make nice. She was here to kill me or lead me to Danarius. I have never had the option to simply walk away," he leans forward and were Hawke anyone else, she would recoil. "Were I to let her live, I would be the fool. Is that what you think I am? Am I supposed to forgive, no matter how many times they hunt me down? Am I supposed to forget the abuse?"
Her expression grows pained and he knows that he's done something that he'll want to apologize for later. Her expression grows pained, and he remembers why he keeps to himself, why it's so hard to share anything with anyone because all he has to offer is what they made him into, anger spilling like acid and by his own words, she doesn't deserve it.
"Fenris," she blinks rapidly a few times, a subconscious signal that she's struggling against her nature to just say whatever flies into her head. "I know it seems unlikely, but some have said that amnesia is a friend to the tormented."
"A friend!" He scoffs and this time he is angry at her. His head is still all knots, his stomach is burning through and a dull ache has settled at the center of his chest. He's standing toe to toe with her, talking, and nothing has gone right. She's not helped him in the least. It's worse than before, in fact. The fury, the frustration. "I don't have any friends," he spits and he means every word he says and none of them at all. He turns away from eyes that have gone soft with hurt and he sees the strengthening gleam of his tattoos and damn them. Perhaps losing the memory of Hadriana and Danarius would be a good thing, but he'd always be marked by them. "It's a sickness, this hate. It's a fire that will never go completely out. A dark growth I can't ever get rid of, and they put it there! I would kill more to have it removed. I would..."
She's reaching for him, again, and for a moment he yearns for her hand to find him, to feel her fingertips whisper over the lines that define him. Maybe she could interpret them, and discover who he truly is in the process.
But instead, she catches herself. Her fingers curl away and her arm falls to her side and despite the knot of failure between her brows, and that long shadow, he's disappointed.
"This...isn't why I came here," he slumps forward, a dangerous move, and she's so close. "I wanted to say that I was sorry, and instead...we fought."
Hawke waves her hand. "Of course we did. It's what we do," she inclines her head down. It's not an intimate gesture. It's not an invitation, but his heart beats for it nonetheless. "I'd be more worried about you if we'd ended up crying and hugging."
"Well, you play your part well," he bites at the words and fumbles inwardly, his tongue once against sticking in places it shouldn't be. Coal on the fire, Fenris and it dawns on him as he exhales in the minimal space between them that perhaps he didn't come to have his knots loosened by talk. "Hawke."
And perhaps he doesn't say it, because it's as quiet as the breath she draws, startled by what she sees on his face or senses in his unyielding posture or maybe she can feel the heat coming from his skin and is confusing it for her own.
"Fenris," her voice is low, controlled, and of course she would be together now when he's disintegrating inside. "I think you need some more time. To cool down."
He does. Need time. But not at this time.
This time, he wanted something...else. More. A way to fully vent the steam built up over the years.
Hawke is just more fire. Their argument had proven that. And she does not want you.
He forces his eyes to unfocus so that when he steps around her she is nothing more than a blur in the low light beyond himself. It is the only way he can make himself leave, still tied up and agitated and wishing that there was a way to sort things out on his own.
The night beyond the door is more oppressive than it had been not twenty minutes before, the scent of an incoming storm heavy in the air. He is too lost in himself to see the Viscount's messenger approach, but he hears what is relayed to Hawke at the end of her very own long day.
"There's been an incident with the Qunari delegation, Serah. The Seneschal...requests your presence at daybreak to discuss the matter."

Description

Author: SurelyForth
Title: Life & How to Live It
Game: Dragon Age 2
Character pairing: F!Hawke/Anders
Disclaimer: Rated M for language, violence and sexual content.
It's past sunset when Wil drags herself into view of her front door. The day had been, like the one before it, overcast, and the low cloud cover has trapped the day's sultry heat close to the ground. Aside from a few stragglers from the market, the way home is clear enough that she doesn't feel too odd dismantling her cuirass as she walks. The sooner she can dump the bloody thing and fall into a cool bath the happier she'll be.
But she tries not to think about it too much. Wanting to be alone and unoccupied is the surest way to invite trouble, or Aveline in need of some assistance, and Wil's had her fill for a while.
Come on, now, a small voice chides her as she's greeted by a pair of patrolmen- polite nods and "Serah Hawke" as she passes. It's not that bad, is it? Better than haunting your own life like a sad, drunken ghost.
"Maybe," she mutters to herself.
"Uh, excuse me?" The voice is childishly high and Wil's not surprised when she turns to confront a young boy, a freckled lad with ruddy cheeks and unruly tufts of tangerine hair. "Are you...Lady Wilhelmina Hawke?"
"I'm Hawke," Wil wrinkles her nose at the Lady. "Let me guess...urgent message?"
The kid shrugs and offers up a scroll bound in orange twine. It's unlike any document she's ever seen and it's only the deepening dusk shadows that keeps her from reading it before heading inside.
"Thanks," her eyes squint and she digs through her pouch, searching for a few coppers to come up with a silver piece and an amulet loose of its wool wrapping. She flips the coin to the boy with a smirk, "You lucked out."
The child snatches at the air, his ambivalence gone as he catches and then strokes the coin with his thumb before fleeing, as if she might snatch it back and replace it with a copper. She hardly notices him leave, however, because her attention is on the amulet. It's interesting, polished dark wood with a jagged sunburst inscribed in gold at its center. The edges are burnished in a strange checkered pattern and although its clearly tied to the Chantry in some way, she's certainly never seen the emblem this stylized. She'll have to ask Fenris about it the next time she sees him.
If she sees him. Her stomach sinks and remains there the last few steps to the estate and if would be a concern for even longer were it not for the three faces waiting to confront her in the foyer.
Uh-oh.
Bodahn leads the attack in his usual ingratiating way. Too much hemming and hawing and little half bows for her liking.
"Uh, mistress Hawke. Delighted to see you this evening," he scratches the back of his neck, glancing towards Leandra who supports him with an indulgent nod. "Well, I just wanted to tell you that there's an...elf here. And not one of your usual elves."
"A girl," Sandal chimes in from where he's lounging against the wall. He, at least, seems excited.
A girl?
"Oh, Maker," Wil smacks her forehead with the scroll as the other major happening of the afternoon comes back in a rush. The skinny girl with big eyes and nowhere else to go. "I completely forgot about her."
Leandra winces and tries to cover it with a tight smile. "So you know her," whiffs out between thin lips. "Why am I not surprised?"
Wil scowls. Surely it's not that bad. Almost every noble in Kirkwall has servants, most of them elven. If anything, the Hawkes are the odd ones out for having only Bodahn and Sandal.
"Where is she?" Wil pulls off her cuirass and ignores how Leandra frowns away from the blood-soaked tunic beneath.
"I lock- left her in the library, mistress," Bodahn mimics her mother's strained expression. "I didn't know what to do with her."
"You locked her in the library?" Wil's voice pitches up in disbelief. And they thought she was uncouth. "You've probably been talking where she can hear you, too. Way to make a person feel welcome, guys."
She slips between the strangely united front of Bodahn and her mother, who is offering up a defense of their good manners.
"Maybe if she hadn't been shouting Wil Amell! all over the markets, waving our family crest around, and looking as if she'd fallen inside a butcher's trough," Leandra hiss-whispers. "I know that's normal to you and your friends, but up here, it raises suspicion."
Wil stops for a moment, readying a more than tart rebuttal to that dig but then decides it's simply not worth the trouble.
"Give me a few minutes to wash up and change," she mutters, running up the steps two at a time before another realization stops her at the top of the staircase. "Has she eaten anything?"
Bodahn and Leandra hedge with a shared glance, but Sandal sells them out with an emphatic shake of his head.
"Really?" Did Mother literally fall for someone, and hit her head on the way down? "Well you might as well offer her dinner. Chances are she's here for good."
Wil retreats to the bedroom before she can be further baffled and annoyed by her housemates' strange reactions, stripping off the rest of her armor and underclothes as quickly as she can. It's far from how she wanted this evening to go and even the reality of a cold bath is less pleasant than she'd been imagining. Goosebumps raise beneath her hand as she smears scented soap along the filthier parts and the chill of the water sets deep into her bones in a way that not even a vigorous toweling and a thick robe can dispel.
Now I'm all chattery, she tugs the garment closer for warmth and descends the stairs. The library has been reopened, although Leandra and Bodahn remain in the parlor, waiting for Wil to deal with the situation that's not a situation at all. When Wil rounds the corner, she finds the elf sitting cross-legged on the hearth, a half-empty plate of cheese and apples in her lap and firelight engulfing her in shades of orange that give life to her sallow cheeks and sunken eyes. Her dress is even more disgusting than it had been in the slavers pens, and much of her hair falls in stiff maroon clumps over her narrow shoulders, but her face and neck have been scrubbed clean of blood.
Licked clean, actually. Bello is curled beside her, almost her equal in height and surely her better in weight. The sight of Wil turns him wriggly happy, his tongue lolling out of his mouth even as he keeps his spot by his new friend.
"Your dog is huge," the girl states as he bumps against her cheek, his large tongue swiping her ear and her eyes remaining huge. "I'm...glad he's friendly."
"Bello, come here," Wil commands, dropping into the nearest chair, legs carefully crossed so nothing gets flashed in the process. The dog shuffles pathetically towards her, his haunches low in feigned embarrassment. "Nobody needs you being an annoyance while they're trying to eat."
"It wasn't like that at all, Lady Amell," the girl is adamant in Bello's defense. "He was very well behaved. I think he only stole one piece of bread and an apple slice!"
"That's one piece of bread and an apple slice too many," Wil nudges his side with her foot. "Next thing you know, you'll be losing entire meals when you pause to take a drink."
The girl nods, her chin dropping so that she can't meet Wil's gaze. "Does that mean...you want me to stay here?"
She holds herself still, stiff, and there's something conflicted in the posture, as if she's both proud of what she has to offer and unworthy of having any pride at all.
"Well...it depends," Wil shifts, hoping that she sounds less formal than she feels. She's never negotiated this sort of arrangement herself, and none of the elves she's spent more than five minutes with have ever been...servile. "I want to help you more than I need help myself..." she catches, suddenly embarrassed. "You know, I don't think I've gotten your name."
"Orana," the girl squeaks it out through what appears to be the beginnings of a smile. "Just...Orana."
Orana is simple enough. "Well, Orana, it depends," Wil tries again. "What do you want to do?"
The question opens her up, and in an unexpected way. She relaxes, slumping forward in relief as she ponders an option that's probably never been hers to consider.
"I can cook a little, and I'm real good at cleaning," she points at the statue that looms over the fireplace, it's face obscured by cobwebs that waft in the lamplight. "I mean no disrespect, but whoever does it now..."
"Is terrible?" Wil finishes with a smirk. "Sandal is...easily distracted."
"Sandal...is he the young one?" Orana ducks her head. "He was nice to me when I showed up. Not that, not that the others weren't!" She amends, panic raising her voice as she realizes what she'd just implied about Wil's mother.
"No worries." With a glance to the figures that remain silhouetted just beyond the library door, Wil raises her voice so they can hear her, "They could have done more to make you feel welcome."
The figures waver, then disappear.
Orana shoves a wedge of cheese into her mouth and chews hard.
"Listen," Wil stretches her legs in front of her, clasping her hands at her knees. "I have plenty of space. Sandal and Bodahn are in the servant's quarters, so why don't you take the guest suite for now. It's small, but it's quiet and has a nice view of the garden."
"A nice view," Orana echoes, her face gone slack in disbelief and Wil's chest tightens as she realizes the day this girl has had. Fenris had been to the Void and back, but Orana is only a child and has lost her father and Maker only knows how many other friends. And in the most horrific way possible. "I don't know what to say, mistress. I'll do whatever you want," she sets the plate aside and gets to her knees to bargain. "I'll learn to cook better, and I'll clean and pull weeds and carry packages from the market and if you have babies, I'll mind them and I can sing pretty, Papa says, and I'll sing them to sleep if you want me to."
Her expression is desperately hopeful. Like the courier with his silver, she's grasping this opportunity with both hands, terrified that it might be yanked away despite Wil making no move to do so.
"Whoa, whoa," Wil's hands go up in mock defeat. "No need for mistress or Lady Amell, and there will be no babies for a good long while, if ever," she gets to her feet and offers a hand up to Orana, who takes it with fingers that are clammy despite the proximity of fire. "And, most importantly, you'll be paid."
"Paid," the elf repeats, the word sounding foreign on her tongue.
"Bodahn can handle your wages, if you'd like. He's got a good head for investments aaaaand that's probably getting ahead of things," Wil frowns, cursing her current inability to not overwhelm the newly freed slave with information when she's still in rags and covered in dried blood. "I'll have Sandal bring in water so you can get cleaned up. Mother should be able to alter at least one of my tunics for you to wear until the markets open tomorrow," her nose wrinkles in thought. "Would you like to go with me to the alienage? It's the best place to purchase elven garments and I need to visit my friend Merrill anyway."
"Merrill?" Orana's barely keeping up with all of this. "That's not...the elf you were with today. You have a...friend? who lives in the alienage?"
"She's Dalish. I know two Dalish elves in the alienage, and another from the city who lives nearby," she peers through the doorway into the dining room, where Sandal has his runes and several large sheets of parchment spread out on the table. "Sandal, I think Orana would like a bath this evening."
"Okay," he shuffles off his chair, palming one of his runes. "For warming," he clarifies in the face of Wil's raised eyebrow. "No boom, just warm."
"Very reassuring."
He smiles, oblivious to her sarcasm.
"Mother!" Wil pushes into the kitchen, where Leandra has shoved up the sleeves of her house dress and is submerged to her elbows in the wash basin. From the amount of furious scrubbing, there's no doubt she's trying to convince herself that Orana's origins are not of an illegal nature. Wil should explain, but sometimes it's fun to toy with her mother's low expectations of her own child. "Do you have any suggestions on what we can do about Orana's...immediate clothing situation?"
Leandra pulls away from the basin, and regards the pair for a long moment. Orana offers a tremulous smile and, just as Wil had been that afternoon, Leandra is helpless in the face of someone who so clearly deserves a break, and a little kindness
"I have an old dress that shouldn't be too long on her. I can take it in so it's not..." Leandra gestures to her chest. "Too much."
Orana chuckles weakly, her cheeks turning pink.
"Or she can just shove a couple of loaves in there," Wil pantomimes. "Not a bad idea, to be honest. Tits and a snack, all in one!"
"Wilhelmina," Leandra moans and in that split second she recognizes their new housemate as a potential comrade in conspiratorial exasperation. "She gets it from her father."
"I got everything from my father," Wil retorts, placing her her hands on her own flat chest for emphasis. "I wouldn't say no to a pair of tit loaves for myself."
Orana's beaming and on the verge of raucous laughter when Leandra sweeps by, her arm going around Orana's thin shoulders to lead her back to the dining room.
"I'll get some measurements before you bathe, then you can get some rest...or at least a reprieve from my daughter's sense of humor!"
Their voices grow faint as the door swings shut between them and Wil wants to grab the ensuing peace and run with it, so it can't be taken before she's ready to settle in for the night.
He has walked down the stairs five times already.
Six.
The guardsman posted at the bottom has taken to open staring. Fenris stares back, eyes narrowed and that is one problem solved.
Too bad it fails to take care of the others.
He goes up again, this time striding almost halfway to Danarius' mansion.
His mansion.
Danarius. His hands curl into fists and he whips around. This had to have been his plan all along. The timing was too perfect, and knowing that the past three years had been a gift from his old master, in a manner of speaking, is sickening.
It hurts.
It makes him angry.
"Dammit," he kicks at the ground and ignores the couple that skirt past him, the woman clinging to her partner as they quicken from a leisurely walk to a near run. He cannot imagine how he must look. Even bathed and without his sword he cuts a dangerous figure in Hightown. He is usually not this obvious, choosing to remain in unless Hawke drew him out for a job.
Hawke.
He glances towards the stairs, remembering all too clearly why they have become an obstacle. This afternoon, after he had killed Hadriana, he had left because he wanted to be angry. He wanted to stoke the fire of hatred that she had ignited. Flames fed on her blood, on her life as it shuddered out of her and at that moment he had the power and it felt good.
It felt so good, but it had not fixed anything. Danarius was still out there, minding traps baited with his intimate knowledge of what his little wolf would find truly irresistible.
Answers. Family.
"Her name is Varania."
He rushes forward again, feet moving swiftly on the stone and this time he doesn't flinch or backtrack. Earlier, he'd left because he wanted to revel in how much he hated Hadriana, and magisters and what they'd done to him and what they would do if they could get him back.
Now he does not want to be alone. He turns the last corner and the Hawke estate comes into view. This stops him, soles scraping a few inches as his momentum carries through and it is a bad idea. Hawke is a bad idea.
But she had reached for him, after Hadriana. He had seen the concern on her face that was not pity or sympathy and he'd thrown it back at her. She had helped him, without hesitation, and he had been an ass then, but now? He wants to be in the presence of someone who will not use him, or capture him, or manipulate him.
Even if it is Hawke. Even if she goes on about how wrong he is about mages. Even if they argue-
We will argue.
-she will not sneer at him and call him slave and perhaps he will say the right thing, ask the right question, and she will respond and some of the knots that have tangled themselves inside his head will loosen. He is not looking for answers-
he beats on the door
he just...
"Serah?" The elder dwarf's face is ruddy in the light that spills from the foyer and over his face.
"Hello," Fenris' tongue sticks to the sides of his mouth and makes speaking difficult. "Is...Hawke. Available?"
Bodahn wobbles away from the door, his posture wilting as he gestures for Fenris to follow him.
"Actually, I will wait here," he takes a seat on one of the benches, readied to run should the urge catch him, and it is a possibility. This house, this home, smells of bread and dog and fresh cut flowers. Through the doorway that leads to the parlor he can hear the soft murmur of voices and it is comfortable, like he imagines family is.
"Her name is Varania."
He does not remember her. There is no face, no voice, no scent that comes with Varania. It is a hole. A void. A darkness that burns because there should be something there.
Hadriana was probably lying. She was a snake. A menace. But if there is no Varania, then why should he feel empty in the absence of memory? It is not like the other life, lost to him now. His life before is behind an impenetrable veil. Frustrating, yes. But not like this.
Before he can start attempting to undo this new knot, he hears footsteps approaching. Bare feet on the plush rug that stretches the length of the foyer and when he glances up at Hawke, he is startled to see that she's wearing only a robe.
A thick, rather frumpy robe, considering the heat, but a robe nonetheless. It hits just below her knees, and he can see the gentle curve of her calf, the flesh bruised at odd intervals, and the tendons in her feet. On her left ankle is a tattoo, one he had not known she had. A fox. His eyes narrow in consideration. It fits.
"Andraste's ass, Fenris," she offers by way of a greeting, slipping past him to check that the door has been securely closed. "I was starting to think I should worry."
He stands, his head tilted so that she will not be able to see that he is...looking. It is futile, he knows. Frustration on top of frustration. The shadow cast by the mage is a long one and he would be a fool not to see it on her now. But there is also her long bared neck and the way her damp hair has been pushed away from her face for once, so that her brilliant eyes have no competition and the lightning quick smirks and grins are laid bare for him to see, her prettiness a not unpleasant surprise.
"Hawke," his weight finally shifts so they are facing each other. Without boots, she is not quite so overwhelmingly tall and when she leans back against the door, even less so. "I've been thinking about what happened with Hadriana," the understatement is bitter. "You and I...don't always see eye-to-eye, but that doesn't mean you deserve my anger." His throat clenches and it's shame at his behavior that catches him. "I owe you an apology."
Her eyebrows raise and her lips crook in a way that tells him she didn't need to hear this.
"You're hardly the first person to take their frustrations out on me, Fenris," she laughs. "Shit. This isn't even the first time you've done it yourself!"
It's the truth. But it's also different this time.
For some reason. That he's certain has nothing to do with I enjoy listening to you talk.
"You are generous. Moreso than most," he murmurs, suddenly struck by the contrast between her and Hadriana. "When I was still a slave, Hadriana was a torment. She would ridicule me, deny my meals and...hound my sleep."
From the way Hawke's eyes widen, he can see there's no need to elaborate.
"Because of her status, because she was a mage, I was powerless to respond or defend myself," embers turn in his stomach, glowing red and waiting to be fed with more memories. "And she knew it."
"Sounds like a real fair fighter," Hawke muses airily, although he can see faint lines of empathy creasing her forehead.
"Yes," his shoulders inch back and he's proud for a moment. "The thought of her slipping out of my grasp now...I couldn't let her go." Then pride turns sour and he recalls a split second of doubt when he'd thought to be merciful. It would be an insult to Hadriana, in a way, that he didn't even find her worth sullying his hands with her blood. She'd been at his mercy, shivering while her existence hinged on his ability to forgive. He darts his eyes away from Hawke's intense gaze. "I wanted to, but I couldn't."
"It's too bad you had to give up such a substantial lead on your family to do it," it's not condemnation, but Fenris detects the slightest undercurrent of judgment. "If she trusted you enough, you may have gotten more out of her."
His face goes hot. "And what would you have me do? Hadriana came after me! She wasn't here to make nice. She was here to kill me or lead me to Danarius. I have never had the option to simply walk away," he leans forward and were Hawke anyone else, she would recoil. "Were I to let her live, I would be the fool. Is that what you think I am? Am I supposed to forgive, no matter how many times they hunt me down? Am I supposed to forget the abuse?"
Her expression grows pained and he knows that he's done something that he'll want to apologize for later. Her expression grows pained, and he remembers why he keeps to himself, why it's so hard to share anything with anyone because all he has to offer is what they made him into, anger spilling like acid and by his own words, she doesn't deserve it.
"Fenris," she blinks rapidly a few times, a subconscious signal that she's struggling against her nature to just say whatever flies into her head. "I know it seems unlikely, but some have said that amnesia is a friend to the tormented."
"A friend!" He scoffs and this time he is angry at her. His head is still all knots, his stomach is burning through and a dull ache has settled at the center of his chest. He's standing toe to toe with her, talking, and nothing has gone right. She's not helped him in the least. It's worse than before, in fact. The fury, the frustration. "I don't have any friends," he spits and he means every word he says and none of them at all. He turns away from eyes that have gone soft with hurt and he sees the strengthening gleam of his tattoos and damn them. Perhaps losing the memory of Hadriana and Danarius would be a good thing, but he'd always be marked by them. "It's a sickness, this hate. It's a fire that will never go completely out. A dark growth I can't ever get rid of, and they put it there! I would kill more to have it removed. I would..."
She's reaching for him, again, and for a moment he yearns for her hand to find him, to feel her fingertips whisper over the lines that define him. Maybe she could interpret them, and discover who he truly is in the process.
But instead, she catches herself. Her fingers curl away and her arm falls to her side and despite the knot of failure between her brows, and that long shadow, he's disappointed.
"This...isn't why I came here," he slumps forward, a dangerous move, and she's so close. "I wanted to say that I was sorry, and instead...we fought."
Hawke waves her hand. "Of course we did. It's what we do," she inclines her head down. It's not an intimate gesture. It's not an invitation, but his heart beats for it nonetheless. "I'd be more worried about you if we'd ended up crying and hugging."
"Well, you play your part well," he bites at the words and fumbles inwardly, his tongue once against sticking in places it shouldn't be. Coal on the fire, Fenris and it dawns on him as he exhales in the minimal space between them that perhaps he didn't come to have his knots loosened by talk. "Hawke."
And perhaps he doesn't say it, because it's as quiet as the breath she draws, startled by what she sees on his face or senses in his unyielding posture or maybe she can feel the heat coming from his skin and is confusing it for her own.
"Fenris," her voice is low, controlled, and of course she would be together now when he's disintegrating inside. "I think you need some more time. To cool down."
He does. Need time. But not at this time.
This time, he wanted something...else. More. A way to fully vent the steam built up over the years.
Hawke is just more fire. Their argument had proven that. And she does not want you.
He forces his eyes to unfocus so that when he steps around her she is nothing more than a blur in the low light beyond himself. It is the only way he can make himself leave, still tied up and agitated and wishing that there was a way to sort things out on his own.
The night beyond the door is more oppressive than it had been not twenty minutes before, the scent of an incoming storm heavy in the air. He is too lost in himself to see the Viscount's messenger approach, but he hears what is relayed to Hawke at the end of her very own long day.
"There's been an incident with the Qunari delegation, Serah. The Seneschal...requests your presence at daybreak to discuss the matter."