Chapter Text
“Five Serpents! Hah!” Varric tossed his cards on the table with a smirk.
Isabela pouted, learning forward to rest her formidable bosom on the table as she glared at him. “You’re cheating, dwarf, I just know it.”
Varric just shrugged, starting to sweep up the pile of coins. “The day you catch me cheating, Rivaini, I’ll hang Bianca up and join Choir-boy in the Chantry.”
“That’s a bold statement to make, Varric. I didn’t know you had scruples about anything, much less cheating at cards.” Aveline raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve got it all wrong, Captain.” Varric laughed. “Cheating at Wicked Grace is nothing to be ashamed of. Getting caught, on the other hand…”
“You arrogant little… There are witnesses here, Varric,” Isabela bared her teeth in an evil grin. “I can’t wait to see how you look stuffed into a black robe.”
“As long as the Chantry doesn’t mind a few alterations,” Varric waggled his eyebrows and gestured at his chest. “Hiding this Maker-given gift would be a crime.”
“Excuse me, I know I’m probably wrong,” Merrill piped up timidly, eyes glued to her hand, “but don’t Angels beat Serpents?”
Isabela snatched Merrill’s cards up, then started cackling with glee. “So they do, kitten! See that, Varric?” She slammed the cards down, revealing five Angels. “Not so clever after all, are we?”
Varric paused, squinting at the cards, then with a grunt shoved the pile of coins in Merrill’s direction while Isabela crowed. Even Aveline was grinning. “Nice job, Daisy. No more card lessons for you, then.”
“Oh!” The elf turned her big green eyes on Varric, looking wounded. “Did I do something bad?”
“No, kitten, you’re doing just fine,” Isabela purred as Varric hastily reassured Merrill that he was only joking. “I think you owe me a pint, though. You might as well buy the next round, it’s only manners if you’ve won the pot. Don’t you agree, Hawke?” Isabela turned her head. “Hawke?”
Everyone swiveled to focus on the dark-haired woman sitting at the end of the table. Cards forgotten, she had her chin propped up in one hand, staring blankly into the distance, completely oblivious to the fact that she had just lost a handful of coppers to their resident blood mage.
“Hawke!” Aveline barked.
Hawke jumped, knocking her empty mug to the floor where it shattered with a sharp crack. She stared down at the mug, then up at Aveline with a mixture of annoyance and confusion. “Andraste’s ass, Aveline, what was that for?” She reached down reflexively to clean up the shards, then cursed as she sliced open her finger on a sharp edge. Straightening up, she glared at her friend, holding her finger up for inspection. “Now look what you made me do.”
“Do you have a rich aunt we don’t know about that died recently?” asked Varric with a raised eyebrow. “Otherwise I don’t know how you can be so unconcerned about someone else taking your hard-earned cash out from under your nose.”
Hawke blinked, finally noticing the pile of coins in front of Merrill. “What? Maker’s breath, how did that happen?”
“You’re dripping blood on your shirt, Hawke,” Aveline observed.
Hawke looked down. “Maker's breath.” She held her hand out to one side with an exasperated noise. Isabela reached out and grabbed Hawke’s wrist, batting her eyelashes. “Want me to kiss it all better?”
“Shut up, whore, you’ll probably end up giving her a disease,” Aveline snarked.
Isabela dropped Hawke’s wrist to blow Aveline a kiss. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, big girl, it makes your mannish face all splotchy.”
Hawke pushed her chair back and got to her feet, ignoring them both. “I need some air. Just start the next game without me.”
The group fell silent as Hawke stalked outside, pushing random drunk patrons out of her way. “Is she all right?” Merrill ventured.
Aveline shrugged. “I think she might have quarreled with Leandra earlier. I thought I heard them shouting at each other when I stopped by Gamlen’s place before coming here.”
Varric snorted. “Living in that hovel would drive anyone insane. The sooner we start on this expedition the better.”
“Well, there’s no use in all of us moping.” Isabela was already waving Norah over for another round. “I saw we just get her completely sozzled when she comes back. Always works for me.”
***
Hawke walked a little ways from the tavern entrance, grimacing as one of the patrons noisily vomited on the pavement behind her. She turned into the nearest alley where she could enjoy a brief moment of privacy, take a breath away from the sour stench of ale and sweat. Leaning back against the wall, she closed her eyes.
It had all started because Bethany had asked if she could come along tonight. Hawke had said sure, why not. Gamlen’s house was always cramped with four of them there. If she and Bethany were out of the way, their mother could have some time to herself, which Hawke had thought she’d welcome. Gamlen had already gone out for the night – most likely to the Blooming Rose. Where he got the coin to spend there was an eternal mystery.
But when Hawke had told her mother she was taking Bethany with her to The Hanged Man, she was met with an absolute earful about how she was corrupting her younger sister and exposing her to unnecessary dangers. It’s not enough that you take her along on your so-called adventures and encourage her to use her magic! Do you want the Templars to take her away to the Gallows?
The Templars don’t frequent Lowtown, Mother, they’re too afraid of getting their boots dirty. She’ll be safe—
Yes, because getting robbed by a cutthroat is so much better! You’re the oldest, Marian, I expect better from you.
No one in Lowtown would dare hurt her if she’s with me.
Oh, is that supposed to reassure me? The fact that the lowlifes in this Maker-forsaken place fear my daughter?
I am trying to keep us safe, Mother.
The same way you kept Carver safe?
The minute the words left her mouth, Hawke could see her mother’s stricken eyes, horrified at her own words. But it was too late. She had spun on her heel and left, with a muttered aside to Bethany to stay home that night. She could hear Bethany speaking angrily to Leandra as the door closed behind her, but that was cold comfort.
Carver.
Would things have been different if he’d lived? She’d replayed his death over and over in her head, so many times she’d lost count. Was it her hesitation that had cost him his life? Would it have made a different if she’d…? Only the Maker knew, but her mother certainly seemed to think that somehow, Marian had failed her brother. It was a burden she would never be free of.
Lost in her misery, her head swimming with cheap ale, she had only a split second’s warning that something was off before she found herself roughly pinned against the wall. Two men were on either side of her, holding her arms down with brute strength. She tried to wrench herself free and almost tore a muscle in the process. Fuck.
A third man was bearing down on top of her, a grin contorting his ugly face. She braced herself against the wall and swiftly brought her knee up as hard as she could. He grunted in pain, but she hadn’t gotten a clear shot, and rather than debilitating him she’d only managed to anger him. He wrapped his hand around her throat, and suddenly she couldn’t breathe. Well, Mother will be so delighted that she gets to say I told you so, Hawke thought grimly as her vision started to cloud over. She could feel the man yanking at her waistband, and through her fading consciousness she thought she was going to be sick.
Her fingers tingled. She could sense the energy just beyond her grasp… always there, always calling. She knew she could still save herself… But even now, as her life hung in the balance… would it be worth the risk?
Suddenly the pressure on her windpipe disappeared, and the hands holding her arms relaxed for a heartbeat. Hawke sucked in a breath of precious air, twisting herself free and reaching for her daggers all in one motion. The men on either side of her were reeling back in shock at… something, she didn’t have time to wonder what. She slashed one cleanly across the throat before he had time to react, then whirled around to face the other. He was yelling obscenities as he lunged for her, but she neatly side stepped his clumsy attack and gave him a vicious kick squarely in his backside, causing him to fall face first into the pavement with a sickening crack. He clapped his hands to his broken nose, screaming as he tried to scramble to his feet.
“Leaving so soon?” Hawke offered hoarsely, but the man was already stumbling away from her, lurching from side to side as he tried to put as much distance between them as possible. Hawke shrugged and turned away, still coughing, only to come face to face with a tall, slim figure, his hair shockingly white in the shadows.
“Oh, hello, Fenris.” She greeted him, taking a step back and trying to smile as she sheathed her daggers. Giddy relief coursed through her veins. She was alive, and… she hadn’t needed to… well, anyway, she was alive. “You’re a bit late. We’ve already played two rounds of Wicked Grace. Would you believe Merrill has emptied all our pockets tonight? Varric is apparently an excellent teacher, although I’m sure he’s currently regretting having such a star pupil.”
Fenris looked down at her silently. Only then did Hawke notice the body at his feet and the blood dripping from his right gauntlet. “Ah. So that’s why those gentlemen were so startled.” She couldn’t stop a high-pitched giggle from escaping her. “Perfect timing, Fenris.”
“Hawke. Do you have a death wish?” he said tightly. Hawke stared at him, his face all sharp angles in the shadows. The lyrium lines along his body glowed faintly, outlining the tension in his lean, muscled arms. He should be angry more often. The absurd thought almost made her burst out into more giggles. She had to purse her lips to contain herself. He seemed to sense her mood, and the disapproval in his brilliant green eyes visibly deepened. “Mooning around in a backalley in Lowtown is an excellent way to get yourself killed. Or worse.”
Hawke felt herself flush, and she half turned away as she started tucking her shirt back into her waistband. “I’m not a swooning maiden, Fenris. I can take care of myself.” It had definitely been stupid of her to drop her guard while she was alone… at night… in a Lowtown backalley… all right, it had been extremely stupid, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. What business was it of his where she decided to moon around?
He reached out towards her with his clean hand, and she froze as his fingertips just barely grazed her jaw, prompting her to lift her chin. Her skin prickled at his touch, little shivers of electricity shooting down into her belly. His fingertips were rough and calloused, and she suddenly found herself imagining them trailing down her neck, tracing the outlines of her collarbone, moving down to the curves of her breasts…
“You’re going to have a fantastic bruise,” he observed, breaking her train of thought.
Hawke hoped the shadows hid her blushes. Her imaginings had been so vivid she felt like they had to have been written all over her face. Fenris dropped his hand, moved away. “You may be skilled with those daggers, Hawke, but it only takes one mistake to end up dead. Don’t make stupid mistakes.”
“I’ll try to confine my mistakes to the smart kind, then,” she said flippantly, trying not to wince as she rolled her shoulders to assess the damage. She could feel more bruises blooming on her upper arms, but otherwise everything seemed fine.
Fenris looked at her silently for a moment, his disapproval replaced by something she couldn’t quite read. “Is everything…all right? It seems unlike you to let your guard down so foolishly.”
Hawke looked away for a moment. The thought that it could have been Bethany instead of her was chilling. Mother was right, though I’d never admit it to her face. Some wonderful older sister I am. “Yes, well, I’d appreciate it if we could keep this between ourselves. I have a reputation to think of.” She stared at the dead man at Fenris’s feet, resisting the petty urge to kick the corpse viciously in the balls.
Fenris shrugged. A ghost of a smile crossed his face. “Buy me a measure of The Hanged Man’s finest whiskey and I may be persuaded to keep my mouth shut.”
Hawke laughed as they made their way back to the tavern. “Drinking The Hanged Man’s whiskey is probably the best way to make sure you never talk again, but it’s your funeral.”
***
Fenris blinked, disoriented. It took him a moment to get his bearings. He was slumped in a dusty armchair, next to a cold fireplace. Beams of sunlight flickered through cracks in the curtains. He judged that it was just past sunrise.
He shifted, stretched, and winced at a sore muscle in his back. Sleeping in an armchair was not the best way to spend the night, and it probably hadn’t helped that he’d stumbled in close to dawn, moderately inebriated. Hawke had been right about the whiskey. He felt the beginnings of a vague headache.
He recalled playing a couple rounds of Wicked Grace and losing what little money he’d deigned to bet. Varric had been canny enough to win back most of his coin from Merrill. Aveline had left at a prudent hour, saying she had morning duty the next day. Isabela had tried to climb into his lap at one point, but that was nothing new. And Hawke…
He suddenly recalled with crystal clarity what he had stumbled upon last night. On his way to join the others, he’d caught sight of Hawke standing by herself in a dark alley. He’d just been about to call out to her when he’d realized she was…
She’d been crying.
Wetness stained her cheeks as she stared into the night sky. It was as if she were unaware of her own tears. Her warm amber eyes, almost golden when they caught the faint light, were filled with immeasurable pain, her lips pressed together tightly. He’d seen her face down demons, Templars, cutthroats, with nothing more than a dagger in each hand and a grin curling her lips. He’d seen her sass the Knight-Captain of the Templars, shrug nonchalantly in the face of blood magic. Never had he seen her so…unguarded. She’d always struck him as formidable despite her small stature, brimming with confidence, but in that moment she’d looked vulnerable. Lost.
He’d stepped back into the shadows so she couldn’t see him, though at that moment she probably wouldn’t have noticed anything short of the Arishok prancing past in a tutu. He’d felt as if he’d caught her in an intensely private moment, and he instinctively knew she wouldn’t have welcomed being discovered in such a moment of weakness. From the safety of darkness he had boldly stared at her in a way he’d never have dared in broad daylight. Her profile was almost lost in the shadows, but he could see the outline of her body in a way that stirred something in him. It felt as if he were seeing her for the first time. The leather armor she wore fit her snugly, but was hardly what one would call provocative. It was the same armor she wore every day, designed more for utility than aesthetics. Still, somehow in this moment, in the darkness, the way it hugged her curves suggested… he abruptly found himself imagining what she looked like underneath. Hawke’s sunkissed skin would be paler beneath her garments, but still impossibly smooth… taut with muscle but somehow soft and yielding in all the right places…
His fantasy had lasted only a heartbeat, but he’d jerked himself back to reality with a flare of mild embarrassment That brief, illicit moment had been enough for him to miss the three miscreants that had snuck out from the darkness and surrounded Hawke in her moment of weakness. His weakness. He had been standing less than twenty paces away and they’d nearly violated her right in front of him. A flash of rage had roared through him and he’d reacted before he could think, rushing forward to plunge his lyrium-laced hand into the bastard’s ribcage, crushing his heart like rotten fruit. He’d barely pulled his hand out before Hawke had sprung to life, smoothly slashing one man across the throat and then severely wounding the other before he scurried off.
She’d greeted Fenris with a smile and a jest, unfazed by the dead men at their feet and the blood spatter that covered them both. That was the Hawke he knew and admired. But he could still see the traces of tears on her cheeks. And the ugly purple splotches marring her olive skin had made him briefly regret killing the bastard so quickly.
Recalling her face from last night – the dampness on her fine cheekbones, her bright gold-brown eyes, wetness still clinging to her lashes, her lips curved in a smile that belied the pain he’d seen in her face just moments earlier – he shifted uneasily in his chair. She was a beautiful, remarkable woman, and he was just a fugitive in her debt. It was useless to think of her in that way, although he was growing uncomfortably aware that his cock did not quite share his convictions.
“Fenris! Are you awake? Hello?”
He sprang to his feet at Hawke’s voice, caught unawares again. This woman would be the death of him. He closed his eyes, willing his traitorous body to relax as he strode towards the entrance of the mansion.
Hawke was standing at the foot of the stairs, looking far too alert and chipper for someone who had been drinking next to him just a handful of hours ago. Bethany was standing next to her – a softer, sunnier version of her older sister. Fenris’s distrust of mages ran bone deep, but he found it hard to be suspicious of Bethany – “Sunshine,” as Varric aptly called her. Still, it never hurt to be careful. “Hawke. Bethany.”
“Good, you’re up. Isabela and Merrill are in no fit state to be seen, and I can’t find Varric anywhere,” Hawke complained. “Some rich old man in Hightown is offering a reward for his missing wife, and I figured it would be easy coin. Better than chasing after blood mages, anyway. Would you like to join us? We’ll split the reward, of course.”
“Surely you don’t need help chasing down a wayward housewife,” Fenris frowned. “Wouldn’t you rather keep all the coin yourself and pay it towards the expedition?”
Fenris saw Hawke’s eyes flicker ever so slightly in the direction of her sister, but when she spoke her voice was light. “I’m doing you a favor, Fenris. I know you owe Varric a silver after last night’s game. Believe me, you don’t want to be in debt to a dwarf any longer than you need to be.”
Hawke was worried about her sister. Fenris felt instinctively that this had something to do with why she’d been so upset and distracted last night. She was wearing a high-collared shirt today that hid most of her bruises, but he still caught a glimpse of purple under her jawline. He wondered why she hadn’t just left Bethany at home, but he didn’t want to pry into their family affairs. And Hawke was right that it seemed like easy enough coin. If his presence would set her mind at ease, it was no hardship for him to tag along. He tried to ignore the sneaking satisfaction he felt at Hawke asking him a favor. Don’t be a fool.
“I can’t imagine Varric sending the Carta after me for a silver,” he said dryly, pretending to stall.
“That’s not Varric’s style.” Hawke shook her head with mock solemnity. “He’s more likely to describe you with a warty nose in his next serial.”
“A fate worse than death.” Fenris noted as he started descending the staircase.
“I knew you’d see sense.” Hawke grinned, hooking her arm through Bethany’s as they left the mansion together.
***
The man in question was Ghyslain de Carrac, a grumpy Orlesian who, as it turned out, was not a very nice person. He seemed less concerned about his wife’s welfare and more upset over the possibility of his wife’s family ruining his life with rumors about her disappearance.
“If I were married to such a creature I’d run away too!” Bethany snapped as they walked away, barely out of earshot of the man. “Why are we helping him again?”
“It can’t hurt to locate Ninette and make sure she’s all right, at least,” Hawke said easily as they strode through the busy Hightown market. “If she doesn’t want to return to her ogre of a husband, that’s her business. All we need is proof she’s alive. But you don’t need to come with us, Bethy.”
“You’re my sister, not my mother,” Bethany rolled her eyes. “And it’s still the middle of the day. I can’t imagine a lot goes on in a brothel in the middle of the day.”
Hawke shot a look at Fenris, who looked as broody as ever but met her glance with a glint of amusement in his eye. She smothered a grin and offered a silent prayer of thanks to the Maker that Isabela wasn’t here to respond to Bethany’s remark. “I’m sure you’re right. Well, then, let’s get this over with.”
Bethany suddenly gasped and clutched Hawke’s arm. “Oh!”
Hawke stiffened, one hand automatically closing around a dagger, eyes darting around in search of danger. “What?”
“Look at those hairpins!” Bethany exclaimed, pulling her sister over to one of the stalls. “Aren’t they exquisite?”
Hawke let out her breath in a huff, glancing over her shoulder at Fenris, who had frozen in the act of pulling out his sword. He stared after them with such an indescribable look his face that she was hard-pressed not to burst into laughter. Although she could have shaken Bethany til her teeth rattled for startling them over… over a bunch of bloody hairpins. The merchant was prattling on about the latest fashions in Orlais, and Bethany was holding one up to the light, admiring how the milky opals glowed with hidden fire. Hawke had to admit, it did look lovely.
“Would you like one?” she asked her sister.
Bethany shook her head, denying any desire for a trinket, but Hawke knew her sister was lying for her benefit. She haggled with the merchant, browbeating him into a price that was only slightly outrageous rather than completely taking the piss, then gently pinned the cluster of opals and silver into her sister’s black tresses.
“But we’re supposed to be saving for Bertrand’s expedition!” Bethany protested.
“Shut up, Bethy,” Hawke said affectionately. “A few silvers won’t make or break us at this point. I’ll just have to cheat extra hard at cards next week.”
“What about you, Mari?” Bethany picked up a pin of red enamel, delicately shaped into the outline of a bird mid-flight. She held it against her sister’s hair, as dark as her own. “It suits you so well.”
Fenris, still mildly indignant that he had gone for his sword over a screech about a hairpin, found himself studying Hawke as she laughingly made some quip about how the pin would complement the blood splatter that usually adorned her clothes. He’d never seen Hawke with any kind of adornment, which was a sensible choice – any glint of wealth would have attracted unwanted attention in their usual haunts. But seeing her with that glint of color in her hair suddenly reminded him of this morning, when he had imagined how she’d look stripped of her armor. Without warning an image of her naked, with her black hair falling around her face, that scarlet pin her only adornment, flashed across his brain. He gave his head a hard shake, grunting in disgust.
“Sorry about that, Fenris,” Hawke apologized, misinterpreting his actions as disapproval directed towards them. She’d tugged Bethany away from the stall, and her black hair remained unadorned in its usual plain ponytail, held together with a bit of red cloth.
“No need to apologize,” he said gruffly, avoiding her eyes.
Hawke sighed. Yesterday he’d caught her mooning around and needing to be rescued, now today he’d seen her sighing over Orlesian hairpins with her sister. His opinion of her was probably dropping at an alarming rate. She’d need to punch someone violently in front of him before the day was over, lest he refuse to be associated with such a silly bint. Or stab. Stabbing would probably be more persuasive. Stabbing someone full of holes would definitely send the message: I am not a silly bint. Though why did she care so much what Fenris thought of her?
He would think far worse of you, if only he knew the truth.
“The Blooming Rose it is, then,” she said brightly, spinning on her heel and striding off, leaving her sister and Fenris to follow her lead.
***
Hawke had walked past The Blooming Rose numerous times as she ran her various mercenary errands, but she’d never actually walked in. She was familiar with the whores in Lowtown, luring in dark alleys with crooked smiles that never quite reached their eyes. This was different. The air smelled faintly of lavender, and the furnishings were plush and inviting. As Bethany had predicted, things were quiet in the middle of the day. The first floor, designed to be a tavern area, was almost empty, with just a few patrons scattered at various tables. At the door was a burly, bored-looking guard who studied them with poorly-feigned disinterest.
Bethany stared around with wide eyes. “Somehow I thought there would be more… naked people walking around.”
“Displaying all your wares at once is never wise,” Fenris remarked, earning himself a smothered chuckle from Hawke.
A woman with a shock of shoulder-length white hair and a tastefully made-up face sauntered over to them, looking them up and down with pursed lips. “Welcome to The Blooming Rose. I am Madam Lusine. What do you wish?”
“We’re looking for Jethann.”
“All three of you?” She raised an eyebrow. “That’ll be two sovereigns each. It’s more expensive if you want to go all at once. That falls under our premium service.”
Fenris coughed into a gauntleted hand to hide his amusement, while Bethany’s eyes became big and round, mouthing two sovereigns in disbelief. Hawke smiled charmingly at the proprietress, unfazed. “We’re not looking to… be serviced, mistress. We’re looking for a missing person, and Jethann was the last to see her. We just wanted to have a quick chat.”
Madam Lusine’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t look like you’re with the city guard.”
“We’re not,” Hawke reassured her. “Her family hired us. You know how useless the city guard is,” Hawke continued, offering up a silent apology to Aveline. “We don’t want any trouble, we just want some information so we can find the lady in question and collect our fee.”
After a few more moments of scrutiny, the madam gestured behind her. “You can find him upstairs.”
As they made their way further into the brothel, Hawke could hear the faint sounds of patrons being… serviced behind closed doors. At one point she thought she heard someone barking, interspersed with the crack of a whip. A few scantily-clad figures passed them in the hallway. One of them, the tallest woman Hawke had ever seen, wearing lingerie that looked like it was made of chain mail of all things, blew Hawke a kiss. Bethany seemed torn between shock and fascination. Fenris looked as impassive as ever. Hawke heard some of the “ladies” whispering as they passed and she was certain she heard the words “elf” and “amazing ass.” She was surprised at the flare of jealousy that briefly spurted up in her belly. And why would I care who looks at his ass? There’s no denying it’s amazing. She kept her eyes determinedly in front of her, afraid she’d burst into giggles if she met Fenris’s eyes.
Jethann turned out to be an elf, though as different from Fenris as two elves could possibly be. He was petite and slender with chestnut locks framing bright blue eyes and a saucy smile that grew wider as he looked Hawke up and down. “I’m off duty at the moment, but for you I can make an exception,” he purred.
Hawke felt flattered, but could practically feel the disapproval radiating from Fenris behind her. She straightened and tried to look at the elf sternly as she asked him about Ninette. Remember, no silly bints here. Jethann flounced and pouted his way through his answers in a way that reminded Hawke strongly of a certain dusky-skinned, big-bosomed pirate wench.
She had hoped that Jethann could put an end to a search by simply revealing that Ninette had left her husband for a secret lover somewhere, but no such luck. His information simply complicated their search further: apparently a Templar had been asking after the woman. A Templar. Flaming tits of Andraste, that is really all we need. And to make matters more interesting, there was yet another missing woman that the Templar had mentioned. Two missing women. Could be coincidence, or… what was the alternative? Hawke wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Knowing Kirkwall, nothing good.
“Are you sure you don’t want to take advantage of my… many, many services?” the elf said suggestively as they made to leave.
‘Maybe some other time. Thank you for all your help,” Hawke said politely.
“No problem, honey.” Jethann pursed his lips in a kiss by way of a good-bye. “Remember I’m always here and willing.”
Bethany had broken into a fit of giggles and could barely hold it together until they were safely outside, where she leaned against the wall and tried to choke back her merriment. Hawke ignored her sister and turned to confer with Fenris, who still seemed to have disapproval written all over his face. Though with him it was hard to tell. The line between broody and disapproving seemed to be a fine one.
“Do you think she might have been a mage? Why else would a Templar take interest in her?”
Fenris frowned. “It seems the most likely explanation, particularly since the Templar was asking after another woman as well.”
“But wouldn’t Jethann have noticed if Ninette was a mage? They spent a lot of time together.” Hawke gave her sister a sidelong glance. Bethany had finally stopped giggling and was paying attention to their conversation. She met Hawke’s look with a pointed one of her own but mercifully stayed silent.
Fenris snorted. “Do you think that mincing fool would recognize a mage if one walked up to him and set him on fire?”
Hawke had to laugh at the image. “That’s a bit harsh. I know he seemed a bit silly, but he didn’t strike me as stupid.”
Fenris looked unconvinced but changed the subject. “So, then. We must find this Templar.”
“Yes. Jethann mentioned he’s been conducting his investigation in Darktown.” Hawke rolled her eyes. “A Templar in Darktown is going to stick out like … like, well, a Templar in Darktown. It’ll be a miracle if don’t find his body in a ditch somewhere."
“Do you still mean to pursue this, Hawke?” Fenris queried. “Is it really worth the couple of sovereigns?”
Hawke shrugged. “It’s starting to become a bigger pain in the arse than I’d expected, but we’re knee deep in it now. Anyway, aren’t you the least bit curious? Rich housewives having affairs are common enough, but it seems strange for a noblewoman to disappear so completely. At the very least you’d think she’d have sent a letter to her family.”
“So, Darktown it is then.” Bethany said cheerfully. “The only place that makes one appreciate the charms of Lowtown.”
Hawke turned to regard her sister, looking uncharacteristically stern. “If you think I’m taking you along to meet a Templar, darling sister of mine, you are quite mistaken.”
Fenris silently watched as Hawke took her sister by the arm and led her away as they started arguing. He leaned against the nearest wall and mulled over the situation. At this point, the chase after the missing housewife was quickly starting to become more trouble than it was worth, especially if the woman turned out to be a mage on the run. But Hawke, despite her flippant exterior, had an inconvenient soft spot for anyone she felt had been unfairly mistreated. The idea that a young woman might have met with misfortune attempting to escape a loveless marriage was not something she’d be able to ignore. If the woman was an apostate that made it even more unfortunate… and even less likely that Hawke would walk away from this. Someone needed to tell Hawke that not every wayward apostate was the equivalent of Bethany.
Bethany had her arms crossed across her chest, and her normally cheerful face was dark with resentment as she turned and started walking away. Hawke turned to Fenris with a sigh. “I need to go talk some sense into my sister. Do you mind meeting me at The Hanged Man later? Then we can track down this fool of a Templar and ask him about Ninette. With any luck it’ll be the end of this goose chase.”
Fenris nodded. Hawke flashed him a grateful grin before striding off to catch up with Bethany. A quick look back over her shoulder revealed that he was still watching her with those inscrutable green eyes. With his silver-white hair and exotic lyrium tattoos, he should have looked ridiculous amidst the mundane bustle of the Hightown market. But ridiculous was the last adjective that came to mind. He looked… dangerous. But in a sexy way. A dangerous man with an amazing ass.
“What in Andraste’s name are you grinning about?” Bethany demanded as Hawke caught up with her.
Hawke tried to pull her face into more serious lines. “Nothing.” She linked arms with her sister, and while Bethany didn’t pull away, she seemed to just barely tolerate it. “Bethy, please be reasonable.”
“You are such a hypocrite, Marian.” Bethany snapped. “Any reason you give for wanting me to avoid the Templars applies to you too, and you damn well know it.”
They walked in silence for a little while as the scenery around them went from clean pavement and imposing mansions to dingy, well-worn shopfronts and dusty streets. “The smell of piss in the alleyways is when you know you’re almost home,” Hawke remarked as if she was continuing a conversation they’d been having.
“Marian.” Bethany stopped and turned to face her sister squarely.
“Bethany.” Hawke sighed. “You know we’re not the same.” She lowered her voice. “You use your magic like… like you use your hands. Without thought. Which means you are far better at it than me, of course, but it also means it is far more likely that you’ll slip up in front of others. A Templar in Darktown will be followed by trouble, and I don’t want to be caught in a situation where you have to choose between defending yourself from a thug’s shiv or ending up being dragged by your hair to the Gallows.”
Bethany chewed her lip. “I’m not a child, Mari.”
“Then stop acting like one!” Hawke snapped, then took a breath. “You know I’m right, Bethy. Worst case scenario, you set someone on fire in front of a Templar, then I have to set the Templar on fire to keep his mouth shut, and then the whole world knows that the Hawke family is hiding two maleficarum.”
Bethany’s mouth twitched. “You’d probably just end up setting your own hair on fire. Your spellcasting is terrible.”
“No doubt,” Hawke gave a wry smile, relieved that Bethany finally seemed to be seeing sense.
“Fine.” Bethany let out a breath. “I’ll stay away from the Templar. But the next job you have that takes you out of the city, you have to promise to take me. I think I’d rather join the Circle than be cooped up with Mother and Gamlen bickering for any longer than I have to be.”
“I promise,” Hawke agreed, linking arms with her sister again as they continued on their way. “Shall we get some lunch at The Hanged Man?”
“As long as we don’t order the stew,” Bethany made a gagging noise.
***
Fenris found the Hawke sisters finishing up lunch with Isabela and Varric. “Hello, Broody,” Varric greeted him. “Want some stew?”
Fenris wrinkled his nose. “No.”
“You sure? Corff swears that it’s pigeon today.”
“I’ll pass.”
Hawke stood up, wiping her mouth on a napkin. “A wise decision.” She dropped a kiss on Bethany’s head. “Isabela, if you could refrain from corrupting my sister any further while I’m away, that would be appreciated.”
“We’re just going to do some reading,” Isabela said innocently, batting her eyelashes and smiling sweetly at Bethany.
“I’m coming with you and Broody, Hawke,” Varric announced, getting up from the table. “You could use more back-up if you’re going to Darktown, and Bianca is itching for some action.”
Fenris felt a brief urge to object, which was not only ridiculous but stupid. Varric was right – Darktown could be treacherous, even during the day, and Varric was a good shot. Also he was less annoying than Isabela. and far less dangerous than that Dalish witch Hawke insisted on keeping around. So what was there to object to?
“The way you fondle that crossbow is disturbing,” he said instead as Varric took Bianca down from her place on the wall.
“Hey, I’m a perfect gentleman,” Varric seemed offended as he carefully slung the crossbow on his back.
Isabela waggled her eyebrows. “You know what they say about gentlemen.”
“Hold that thought,” Hawke was already walking towards the door. “My rule is, no smut before six o’clock.”
“Prude!” Isabela yelled after them as they left.
“Isabela’s worst insult,” Varric remarked.
“Somehow I’ll survive the heartbreak,” Hawke rolled her eyes as they started to make their way towards Darktown.
***
When they found the Templar he was, unsurprisingly, surrounded by Darktown’s finest: a group of thugs that had decided there was safety to be had in numbers. Judging by the way one of them was already spattered in blood and clutching his arm, the Templar had demonstrated he wasn’t exactly easy prey. But there were nine of them and one of him, and Darktown inhabitants were always hungry and desperate. The shining metal of the Templar’s armor seemed only to enrage them even further.
“We’re goin’ to strip yous clean and hang yer head on a pike!” one of them taunted. "Won’t look so fancy then.”
“It’s STICK a head on a pike, ye daft cunt,” his friend corrected him.
The first man glowered. “Ye can take a pike and shove it up yer--”
“Gentlemen!” Hawke interrupted hastily. She immediately found herself holding the attention of Darktown’s finest, and she grinned. “Is that any way to greet a guest? No wonder Auntie Elthina never stops by for tea.”
“We found ‘im first!” one growled. “Ye can ‘ave wot’s left.”
Varric rubbed his chin, pretending to think. “What do you think, Hawke? Surely you’re not going to pass on a tempting offer like that.”
Hawke sighed theatrically. “Unfortunately, I doubt that a head on a pike would be of much use to us.”
Meanwhile, the grammatically-inclined thug was staring at them, his thick brow furrowed. “I know that name. Hawke. Used to run errands for Athenril.”
“That must be another Hawke,” Hawke pretended to look confused. “There are so many of us about.”
“Hawke is a mean one, they says.” The thug looked slightly nervous.
“Don’t be daft!” another one snapped. “This skinny bitch. We’ll slit her throat and get on with it.”
“She’ll be more fun than ol’ shiny knickers,” another agreed, licking his lips.
“You have no idea.” Hawke locked eyes with Varric, who gave a quick nod before hurling a flask to the ground. It shattered, spilling out thick black smoke. The men shouted and cursed, some of them hitting each other with their weapons as they flailed about wildly. Fenris waited for the worst of the smoke to clear before rushing into the fray.
They had only been fighting together for a little over a month, but they’d developed a rhythm that they fell into easily. Fenris wielded his greatsword with an almost careless grace that belied the force behind each powerful swing. In battle, he radiated a kind of tightly-controlled rage that taunted his enemies. Try my blade, I dare you. As he deliberately drew the focus of battle to himself, Hawke slipped between their adversaries, economizing her movements so she was as quick and quiet as possible. Her presence often went unnoticed until she’d already been and gone, leaving a trail of death in her wake. Around them, Bianca’s bolts sang with deadly accuracy as she found her mark with almost every shot.
The battle was over almost as soon as it had begun. Idiots though they were, the men quickly realized they were outclassed despite their superior numbers. Those that hadn’t fallen scrambled and fled best they could, with various groans and muttered curses.
“I… thank you, serah,” the Templar sheathed the sword he had barely used and wiped his brow. “I am Emric, a Templar of the Kirkwall Circle.” He took in the carnage and shook his grey head. “Maker, I’m getting too old for this.”
Hawke had been hoping for an end to this flighty-rich-woman scavenger hunt, but she was to be disappointed. Emric confirmed that Ninette had not been a mage, but just one disappearance out of a few he had happened to be investigating. He was working on a theory that there was a killer in Kirkwall, deliberately targeting women. Although why anyone would do such a thing, the Templar admitted he had no clue.
“A killer only focusing on older women?” Fenris said skeptically after the Templar had left, announcing he was going back to the safety of the Gallows. “That sounds like a plotline from one of your less credible stories, dwarf.”
“You wound me, Broody. All my stories are credible with the right amount of alcohol.” Varric stroked his beardless chin. “Although… this plotline would be pretty messed up even by my standards. I mean, assume it is one person. That means this nug-licker would have to be crazy enough to kill random women for no good reason, but smart enough to cover his tracks so no one suspects anything.” He shook his head. “It seems more likely that a Templar got bored with his daily bullying mages routine and started making up stories to entertain himself.”
Hawke was flipping through the notes Emric had left with them. It was mostly illegible scrawlings, half-finished thoughts on shadowy conspiracies. She frowned at the last page. “It looks like he was heading to the old foundry buildings next. Not sure why, but that’s all I can make out of his notes.”
“Are you still determined to pursue this, Hawke?” Fenris queried. He didn’t know why he was asking; her normally mischievous face was set in stubborn lines he had become all too familiar with in the brief time they had known each other.
“We’ve come this far, we might as well see it through,” she shrugged. “Are you two still with me?”
“Well, I’ll have to cancel that tea party with the Viscount, but anything for you, Hawke.” Varric grinned. Fenris merely nodded and started walking in the direct of the Docks.
“Thanks.” Hawke nodded. “I owe both of you a round tonight.”
***
“So, how did it go?”
Several hours later, they were sitting in The Hanged Man with Bethany and Isabela, their usual pints of mediocre ale sitting in front of them. Hawke grimaced, picked up her mug and knocked it back in one go.
“Well.” Varric said, uncharacteristically hesitant with his words for once. “We… did find Ninette. Kind of.”
“She was dead,” Fenris said briefly. “We identified her by her wedding ring. The Orlesian paid us for our time.”
Varric shot the elf a wry look at his redacted version of the horror show they had discovered. Hawke was still silent, staring into her mug in a way that suggested she was hoping it would magically refill itself.
Bethany gasped. “But… that’s awful! What happened to her?”
“Probably some bad luck with some lowlifes. It’s a sad story but an all too common one, Sunshine.” Varric tried to brush it off.
Isabela narrowed her eyes. “If they were thugs, why didn’t they take her wedding ring?”
“Maybe they thought it wasn’t worth the effort.” Varric shot Isabela a look before changing the subject. “So, what did you two get up to?”
Isabela seemed oblivious. “The last unlucky toff to get murdered in Lowtown had two gold teeth yanked right out of his head. You’re telling me these bastards were stumped by a sticky finger?”
Hawke slammed her fist on the table, making everyone jump with the sole exception of Fenris. She peered at Isabela with golden eyes that glinted dangerously, but her voice was deceptively mild. “If I buy you a drink, will you please shut up?”
Isabela glared right back at Hawke, refusing to be intimidated. “There’s no need to be rude, Hawke. It was a reasonable question.”
“Since when have you cared about anyone that you weren’t trying to either seduce or rob blind?” Hawke snapped.
A flush of red stained Isabela’s dusky cheeks as if she’d been slapped. “What in the name of the Maker’s hairy nutsack has gotten into you, Hawke?”
Hawke seemed to be mulling over a dozen answers at once, but instead she let out a long breath and looked away. “Sorry,” she said shortly. “It’s been a long day. I’ll get the next round.”
“Maker’s breath, Rivaini,” Varric muttered as Hawke stalked off to the bar. “Does the word ‘subtle’ mean anything to you? Next time I want you to change the subject, I’ll have to take off my shirt and set my chest hair on fire.”
“If you’re trying to discourage me, you’re failing miserably,” Isabela snorted, though she couldn’t quite hide the dismay in her blue eyes at the gradual realization of her stupidity.
Bethany leaned over towards Fenris as Varric continued to berate Isabela. “Go talk to her.”
Fenris stared at Bethany as if she had suggested he also take off his shirt and set his non-existent chest hair on fire. “What?”
Bethany nodded towards the bar, where Hawke has ostensibly gone to order more drinks. Instead she was leaning against it with her head resting against a clenched fist. He couldn't see her expression. Fenris looked at Bethany. “I would think she’d prefer speaking to her sister if she’s… upset.”
“She never wants to tell me anything upsetting.” Bethany smiled sadly. “If I went up to her now, she’d just smile at me and change the subject with a stupid joke. She can be honest with you.”
Fenris couldn’t argue with that, after witnessing how Hawke had uncharacteristically almost bitten Isabela’s head off in an attempt to keep her sister from hearing the gory details of what they’d found. He slowly got up from his seat and made his way towards Hawke, feeling oddly awkward and unsure of himself.
She looked up as he approached, pulling her face into a tired smile. “Sorry about that display back there. I know Isabela didn’t mean anything.”
The place was crowded and chaotic, as it always was at this hour, and Fenris found himself pushed up against Hawke by a particularly rowdy patron. He tried to back up a bit, but there wasn’t much room. She looked up him, and he noticed the purple smudges under her eyes, the paleness under her tanned skin. She was chewing her bottom lip absentmindedly, and Fenris had the absurd urge to run his thumb across her chin to stop her from doing that.
“You’re upset by what we discovered at the Foundry,” was all he could think to say at that moment. The inanity of his observation made him inwardly cringe, but Hawke seemed almost relieved at his words, taking them as permission to spill her pent-up emotions.
“Maker’s breath, Fenris, you were there.” She looked away, staring blankly at the bar. “You’d think… after all this time, after so much death, I think, nothing can surprise me ever again. Apparently the Maker takes it as some kind of personal challenge.” She laughed a little. “What was Ninette guilty of? Trying to escape her oaf of a husband. Wanting to start a new life somewhere else. And she ends up chopped into little bits like a carcass at the butcher’s. We wouldn’t even have known who she was if she hadn’t been wearing her wedding ring.” Hawke clenched her fists in impotent anger. “And not a fucking clue as to the sick bastard that did that to her. Sometimes I wonder, what is the point of even caring?”
He met her eyes, full of frustration and despair, and Fenris had to marvel that someone like Hawke, who dealt with the dregs of humanity on an almost daily basis, still willingly took the pain of others and made it her own. He absently rubbed the back of his neck where he felt a whisper of a tingle, almost as if Hawke’s sadness was something tangible in the air.
“I haven’t forgotten that I am in your debt,” he said in a low voice, leaning forwards even closer to make sure she could hear him over the general din. “Were it not for you caring, I would most likely be dead, or… back in Tevinter.” He repressed a shudder at the thought. Wisps of black hair ticked his cheek, and he could smell her - sweat and blood from the day’s escapades, but also something else, something that was pure Hawke. Warm and familiar and comforting, but at the same time… enticing. He caught a glimpse of the bruises on her neck and found himself tentatively tracing her jawline with the tips of his fingers. “You would probably do better to save some care for yourself, Hawke.”
Hawke had gone absolutely still, to the point where he wasn’t even sure if she was still breathing. She was looking up at him, her amber eyes wide and staring. Fool. Quickly he pulled his hand back. She blinked and let out a slow breath. He wasn’t completely sure she wasn’t going to stab him in the kidney for being so presumptuous, but she just smiled at him, and her face seemed brighter than before. “Thank you, Fenris.”
Fenris cleared his throat. “For what?”
“For reminding me why it’s worth caring.” Her eyes twinkled with her usual humor, and unexpectedly she leaned over and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. It took all his self-control not to jump out of his skin. “I couldn’t let such a handsome elf escape my clutches, now could I?”
He grunted, relieved that she seemed back to her old mischievous self, thought the spot her lips had touched burned like a brand. “Isabela will probably throw a dagger at your back if you keep her waiting any longer for her drink.”
Hawke twitched and craned her neck to look behind her. “Her aim somehow manages to improve the more she drinks. Black magic, I tell you.”
As Hawke shouted at the barkeeper for another round of drinks, Fenris surreptitiously touched his cheek. If a hurloc had dropped on him from the rafters of The Hanged Man he couldn’t have been more surprised. Though probably far less aroused.
***
“So Fenris managed to cheer you up?” Bethany teased as they were walking back to Gamlen’s house.
It was still a reasonable hour, and Hawke had restricted herself to just two pints of ale. She walked with one arm linked in Bethany’s and the other hand tense, ready to go for her daggers at the slightest sign of danger.
“Hm? Oh, right. Yes, he gave me such a rousing, sincere speech, it was just amazing.”
“No need to be snarky.” Bethany giggled and tugged on Hawke’s arm. “This is me you’re talking to. You were practically glowing when you got back to the table.”
Hawke shot her sister her best withering look. “All that ale. It brings out such a lovely color in my cheeks.”
“He’s definitely not my type, but you can’t ignore his muscled, virile body, his strong hands, his aching, throbbing…”
“Bethany Hawke!” Hawke stopped in her tracks and stared at her sister, who was giggling madly.
“I’m just quoting some literature Isabela shared with me this afternoon.”
Hawke rolled her eyes as they resumed walking. “No more pirate smut for you, little sister.”
“Don’t change the subject.” Bethany insisted.
Hawke was silent, savoring those brief moments she’d shared with Fenris at the bar. It was only the second time his fingers had touched her skin, but she’d been terrified she was going to accidentally fry him on the spot with an errant lightning bolt. The sparks in her belly had felt that much real. She had held herself absolutely still, fearful that any movement would have scared him off like the skittish wolf that he was, resisting the ridiculous impulse to nuzzle her cheek against his hardened palm. There had barely been a breath of space between their bodies, and the tension was so thick that she wasn’t sure if the electricity in the air was real or just in her head. For a heartbeat she had fantasized about leaning into his strong chest and pulling his head down for a kiss, running her fingers through his snow-white locks…
“By the look on your face, you’re writing something worse than pirate smut in your head right this minute.”
Hawke shook her head hard and hoped she wasn’t blushing. “Trying to seduce Fenris would be like trying to flirt with a stone. Only the stone would be easier to read.”
“He does show emotion sometimes. Well, one emotion anyway.”
“A very broody stone, then.” Hawke amended her statement. “And…” she swallowed. “Maker’s breath, Bethy, if he ever found out about… I’d be lucky if he didn’t lop my head off on the spot.”
“Your self-loathing when it comes to your…” Bethany lowered her voice. “…your abilities is baffling, it really is. You should just be honest with him. He knows what I am, and he hasn’t tried to cut my head off yet. Or Merrill’s for that matter.”
“It’s not the same.” Hawke shrugged, then in a shameless attempt to change the subject, added, “I did give him a kiss on the cheek. He only looked mildly alarmed.”
“You didn’t!” Bethany gasped, then giggled. “His armor is so pointy, I’m surprised you didn’t accidentally stab yourself.”
“I have a talent for avoiding pointy things, it’s what keeps me alive,” Hawke joked as they climbed the stairs to Gamlen’s hovel. Home sweet home.