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rose_in_winterCharacters: Fenris, Mage Female Hawke, Sebastian Vael (Fenris/f!Hawke/Sebastian)
Rating: NC-17
Contains: Canon-typical violence, explicit sex
Wordcount: 3600 this chapter
Notes: Canon-divergent, ignoring most of Act 3. A thousand thanks tosenmut's Discord server for cheering and brainstorming and reactions and encouragement.
Beta: breadedsinner and MikWrites_InSpace
Summary: After the duel with the Arishok, Ariane Hawke looks around at the wreckage of her life in Kirkwall and asks herself: what is left for me here? As tensions increase between the Circle and the Templars, she turns to helping Sebastian retake Starkhaven. Meanwhile, she is trying to figure out how to love Fenris when he hates mages, and also definitely not looking at Sebastian's gorgeous eyes. Definitely not. Neither is Fenris. Sebastian is not looking back.
Definitely.
Canon divergence in which almost all of act 3 goes in the bin, and three damaged people try to find a way to live with each other and themselves, and maybe heal a bit.
Updates Monday and Thursday (ideally.)
When the Arishok fell to the floor, Hawke thought it was a feint at first. She watched warily as he promised, "We shall return," and threw one last burst of ice at him. He shuddered and went limp. She turned, fire already gathering around her hand, to help her friends with the remaining Qunari, but found none alive. It was only when Fenris slowly lowered his sword and Aveline rose from her defensive stance that she thought maybe it could finally be over.
The nobility of Kirkwall were comprehensively silent--a first, she thought.
She drew the fire back in and lowered her staff slowly until the tip dug into the blood-drenched carpet beneath her. She held onto it, forcing herself to remain upright, and pulled the last few threads of magic left in her together. It was enough to keep her on her feet for another few minutes. Long enough to leave.
The gathered nobles began to cheer. The door burst open to admit Meredith and Orsino, too little too late as ever. She could barely hear Meredith over the ringing in her ears, but she heard the word "Champion," and saw the Knight-Commander's grim smile. Meredith had warned her not an hour past that she knew what Hawke was; it was hard not to know, even as she did her best to keep a low profile. Now that she had slain the Arishok with magic in full view of everyone who mattered, she would be watched even more closely--if Meredith didn't just have her executed or made Tranquil outright.
She looked around her. Varric was at her side, Bianca already slung on his back, and he was just the correct height for Hawke to rest her elbow on his shoulder without it being obvious.
She could not show any weakness now.
She turned to Meredith. "I trust," she said with great care, forming the words slowly lest she stutter or slur, "that your templars can handle cleanup."
"It will be done, Champion." The voice was familiar; the grim and shadowed expression more so. Flora Harimann. Hawke nodded to her. She trusted Flora as far as she could throw the woman, but if Flora wanted to use this opportunity to seize a softer throne than Starkhaven's, she could have it with Hawke's blessing. And if Flora was exactly as she presented herself, it was work Hawke didn't have to do.
People began to crowd around her, shouting and talking all at once. She saw Fenris's lips peel back in a snarl. Aveline settled the matter by moving briskly to the front of their little group and commanding the members of the guard who had followed Meredith into the Keep. Hawke concentrated on keeping her feet under her. Varric kept pace.
"Hawke," Fenris began.
"Later," Varric said, in a tone that brooked no dissent. She could see that Fenris didn't like it.
"At home," she murmured, trying not to move her lips too much. She was being observed.
The creak of plate mail heralded Aveline catching up with them. "Donnic will handle it," she said, and glared two functionaries and a laggard templar out of their path before preceding Hawke down the stairs so Hawke had someone else to brace her. "Do you need me to send for Anders?"
Hawke concentrated on getting the rest of the way down the stairs without falling before she answered. "I can handle it," she said. "That's what I do. Handle things. I ought to carry a sign. Professional problem handler."
"I think that's what the Knight-Commander meant when she called you Champion," Varric said, deadpan.
"Only a bit farther," Aveline said, so neutral Hawke wanted to flinch. She wanted to shout that if anyone else had had a better idea, they certainly hadn't volunteered that information, but she kept silent and kept moving. She was in enough trouble after showing her magic to all of Kirkwall. She couldn't alienate her friends. She didn't want to; other than Carver, they were all she had.
She couldn't think about that, or she wouldn't stay on her feet, and that would never do. She was Hawke. She was funny and sarcastic and absolutely reliable and she helped everybody else out, no matter how strange or dangerous the request. Public weakness was not part of the package.
The group made their slow way to the front gate of the Keep. They were still in the shadow of the massive stone walls, and mercifully, the streets were clear of random people. A few knots of templars and guards fought with a handful of Qunari, but this was safer than the Keep. There was too much irony in that thought for Hawke to handle right now.
Varric handed her a metal flask that she knew without asking contained lyrium potion. She poured it down her throat and clenched her teeth to keep from whimpering in relief, and then drew on the magic it brought her. It wasn't enough to fix everything, but enough to heal the worst of it, and she stopped leaning against him. "Thank you," she said. She was going to sleep like the dead tonight, assuming she could live long enough to make it to her bed.
Varric grinned at her. "Can't have the Champion face-planting in the streets of Hightown," he said, and oh, he was going to call her that every time now, wasn't he? Maker, save her from dwarves with a sense of narrative.
"I'd certainly come out of it with my purse the lighter," she said, and then looked at Fenris. He had been....easier with her, after a fashion, since the unfortunate adventure in the Gallows, but there was still a distinct spiked wall of discomfort around him when they spoke. She'd told the truth when Varric had asked and she had told him she was fine with crazy, but that didn't mean the crazy was always easy. "But as I'm rather drained just now," she continued, "I'd appreciate an escort home, if you don't mind?"
Aveline and Varric murmured assent, but they both knew she wasn't really asking them. Fenris gave her a flat look. "Of course," he said, and she could see that there was rather more he'd like to say, but he was going to wait for it.
She really didn't want to have whatever fight that was in the middle of the street, so she took the luck where she found it and set off toward home.
Bodahn greeted her with a flurry of questions. Hawke tried to answer them in between thanking Aveline and Varric--who declined her offer of guest rooms and took themselves back to their own homes--and asking Orana to have a meal prepared and send hot water to her room and one of the guest rooms. She turned at last to Fenris, who had waited not quite patiently, but at least quietly.
"I'd invite you to join me for a bath," she said, "but that would probably be too awkward for words or actions." She paused. "But would you consider staying tonight?" There. She'd managed the note of insouciance she'd wanted.
He gave her a strange look, as though surprised she had asked. She wasn't sure why that surprised him. Had he expected a command? Or not to be asked at all? She was too tired for those questions. "I will stay," he said, carefully.
"Good." Hawke gave him a bright smile undoubtedly marred by the Qunari blood smeared across her face, and turned to the stairs. "I'll see you at dinner." Her left hip complained aggressively as she ascended, but it wasn't the kind of pain that meant she had to stop to mend the damage, so she ignored it. She could do more healing after food--and cleanliness--had restored some of her energy.
In her room, she stripped off her bloodied boots and clothes, dumping both into the basket she kept for the purpose. Only after she was naked did she realize she'd have to wait for the bath.
She'd forgotten how long it took to heat water the old fashioned way. Most days, she had enough strength left to apply some fire magic to a tub of cold water, saving Orana the trouble of having to heat the water downstairs and haul it up. The pump upstairs only disgorged cold water, but that worked well for Hawke, and she'd always heated water for her mother, too, before.....well. Before.
She poured a bit of cold water in the basin and dunked a cloth in it to get the worst of the gore off her face and hands, then bound her hair up in an old towel before shrugging on a robe. She'd be warm enough until she could bathe.
Now she had too much time to think and nothing to do with it. She paced her room, sticking to the carpet beside the bed because stone floors were damned cold for bare feet, and fretted over the day's events. She still didn't know where Isabela had gone, or if the pirate had made it out of Kirkwall safe. She had the haunting feeling that she could have fixed all this if she'd just done something different--would the right words in a conversation have made Isabela trust her more? She'd have to ask Varric if he could keep an eye out for news. She supposed she didn't owe Isabela anything--or if she had, the debt had been cleared when she killed the Arishok for her--but Hawke didn't like loose ends.
And there was the problem of the Viscount's seat. Hawke tried to think of a single person she'd met at her mother's parties who would have any prayer of balancing the fractious populace of Kirkwall, the templars, the mages, the Qunari, and whatever other hells Kirkwall could vomit up, and she came up empty. She didn't want the job, and no one would let a mage hold it anyway, but she had a vested interest in who did.
Orana and Bodahn arrived with two buckets of steaming water each, and made the Viscount's seat a problem for another day. Hawke went to fetch her own cold water from the upstairs pump--she should have done that already--while they poured the hot water into the tub. She thanked them and added cold water until the tub's contents were hot but not like to scald her. They left the room, closing the door behind them, and Hawke threw her robe in the general direction of the bed. She barely remembered to stack clean towels in front of the fireplace before she stepped into the tub.
She sank into the water all the way up to her neck and sighed deeply. Now that she wasn't in the midst of battle, she could feel the myriad aches and pains that told her she'd overdone it today. She was honest enough to admit that she usually overdid it, but today had been too much even by her standards. Then again, she supposed surviving a personal duel with a skilled Qunari warrior was as good an outcome as she could ask for.
She allowed herself a few breaths to wallow in the hot water, and then reluctantly began scrubbing the itchy, drying gore out of her hair. She was too tired to reheat the water, so she was going to have to pay more attention to the passage of time.
She discovered a distressing number of bruises--some from Qunari fists and some from being flung into columns and walls like a rag doll when she tried to get out of the Arishok's way--and counted seven of the angry red lines across her skin that meant she'd used magic to piece torn flesh back together and it was still figuring out how to be really healed. She didn't remember taking that many hits. It made her unsure about how much of the fight she truly remembered at all; her mind supplied a haze of magic and blood (but not blood magic, never blood magic, she would never), screams and the clash of steel, but no details.
Hawke pulled herself out of the now bloody water and picked up the last bucket of clean water, hot and cold mixed. She poured it over her head and let it run down into the tub, then stepped out and hastily wrapped herself in several towels before plopping down in front of the fire to comb her hair and let the fire dry it a bit. She could have fallen asleep there, cozy in front of the fire, but she needed food, so she reluctantly shed the towels and found clean leggings and a tunic. Boots were far too much trouble, but she had soft wool-lined slippers Carver had given her for Satinalia, and they were cozy against her toes.
She remembered to throw the towels over the rack and set it near the fire to dry them, and then went downstairs--slowly, the balustrade gripped tightly in her hand, as her legs wobbled in protest--to find Fenris.
He was standing by the fire in the dining room, staring into it, and looked up at her approach. She was pleased to see that the clothes she'd had Orana buy for him fit well, though he'd folded up the cuffs of the trousers. His eyes were the dark green of a sunset forest in the flickering shadows cast by the fire. He looked her over, his eyes lingering at her left leg--how did he know that three of the healed cuts were there?--and tilted his head slightly. "Hawke."
She smiled, tense. "There's healing potions in my desk," she said, "or I can do more, after dinner."
The pause drew out for so long she thought that even the offer offended him, but at last he nodded and looked away. "I would appreciate it," he said.
Had he just accepted magic over not-magic? Hawke blinked, stunned like she'd just taken Aveline's shield to the face, then made herself shake it off as Bodahn came to the doorway to tell them dinner was ready.
Orana had quickly figured out that Hawke ate a lot more when she'd been out fighting, and the table was generously laid with sliced cold meats, bread, cheese, wine, and ripe summer fruits. Hawke plopped into her chair and reached for the nearest food. They ate in silence, but it was a friendly silence.
When they had wreaked havoc on the food and Bodahn had cleared the dishes, Hawke motioned him to follow her, and led the way to the library. She had a workshop, but she knew he wouldn't prefer being in it, and her bedroom--or the guest room--felt too intimate. Not that she objected to intimate--although if she was honest she'd quite like a nap first because she was tired enough to fall asleep right on the floor, especially with a full stomach--but not without asking him first.
She tugged him with her to the couch near the fire. "All right then," she said cheerfully, "what did I miss before?"
He caught her hand when she reached out to check for his injuries. "Yours first," he said, soft but inflexible, like his fingers around her wrist.
Hawke looked at him. He looked back at her. "You're still injured," he pointed out.
"I'm good enough for now."
"Hawke."
She found it very inconvenient that the timbre of his voice rolled through her like that even when he was annoyed with her. "Fine," she said with a little huff. "I'll heal us both by turns."
He gave her a wary look. She didn't pull her hand away from his, instead using the connection of skin to skin to seek out all the places where flesh and bone had knit imperfectly. It was strange, doing this kind of healing for him, because the lyrium teased at her magic, trying to pull it away from her. She ignored it and kept searching. There was a break in his upper arm that had been healed partway in the heat of battle, but it wasn't complete. She could feel bruises and cracked bones in his ribs and wanted to shout at him for not letting her do this sooner, or even taking the potion she'd offered him. He had a few healed scars like her own, not quite finished. She focused on the ribs first since those had to hurt the worst. Her free hand rested gently against his side. Magic glowed around her as she eased it through his skin, around the lyrium, and into the injury until it was as good as new. The change in his breathing when she was done was subtle, but there.
"You--" she began.
"Your turn," he said.
She calculated the odds of being able to argue him out of it and decided they were nonexistent. She did an inventory of her own injuries and chose the scar on her hip, since it still ached even after the bath and food. She didn't need the physical contact to heal herself. Her own body was known to her magic in a way she could not describe to anyone else. She wasn't as careful with herself as she'd been with him, and her breath hissed slightly as she pulled muscle and tendon back into their accustomed places, but the surge of pain was temporary, and the relief in its place made her realize how much she'd been pushing it away.
His fingers tightened around her wrist, warm skin and icy prickling lyrium. He said nothing, but his face was shadowed by more than the edge of the bookshelf. She rested her hand on his shoulder, then slid it down to the break in his arm, coaxing the tensed muscles to relax and patiently mending the break. The speed of her healing didn't affect the quality, but injuries healed too fast left phantom aches in their wake. She could walk away from a battle without a scratch on her, but she'd feel the cuts and bruises for days afterward, though no marks showed on her skin. If she took her time, she could spare him that.
When she drew her hand away, she did it with a light brush of her fingertips down his arm, a caress that she meant as comfort, not demand. She did not bother trying to argue with him this time, but found the two throbbing half-healed scars on her thigh and shoved magic into them. They itched fiercely, and she scratched at them, her nails following the lines where the scars had been.
"Hawke," Fenris said, "why are you--" He paused, clearly searching for the right words. "Are you that badly injured?"
"No," she replied, and hoped he would drop it. Of course, he did not.
"Then why the difference?"
She considered playing dumb, but he would not believe her. "I'm just getting it over with," she said. "I'm used to it."
His eyes narrowed. "And you think I am not?"
She read the question as a trap, and tried to skirt it. "No. But I'm probably going to sleep for the next three days, so it doesn't matter to me."
The silence fell heavy and thick between them. He considered her carefully. "I accepted your offer," he said at last, "because it was important to you to make it. I do not accept you punishing yourself."
She flinched. His hand tightened on her wrist, not enough to hurt, but enough for her to feel the pressure of his fingers.
She set her hand on his thigh to heal the scars there. His other hand covered it, lifting her hand slightly. "No," he said.
Hawke wondered, tiredly, if there was anything else she could fuck up beyond redemption today.
"Only," he continued, "if you are going to heal yourself the same way."
Maybe she'd rather have a potion after all, she thought. But instead she nodded. "All right," she said. "Your way." She didn't know why he'd picked today to be difficult, but she was far too tired to untangle it. Okay, fine, it wasn't just today that he was difficult, but she didn't know why it had to be aimed at her.
She wasn't quite as slow with herself as she was with him after that--she could stand the occasional itch or muscle ache--but she would grudgingly admit it was nice to feel things healing rather than ghostly impressions of injury left behind, even if it was much more tiring to control her magic so carefully. She considered trying to explain that the effort involved was part of why she didn't bother to coddle herself, but she had the suspicion he'd insist that they both get fast healing then, and she didn't want that argument.
So she healed them both slowly, and when she smoothed her fingertips over his arm where she'd mended the last bruise, she could feel the exhaustion all the way down to her bones.
Too tired even to yawn, she dragged herself to her feet. "I'll see you in the morning," she said, and hoped she wasn't making a liar of herself.
He rose, moving with his usual ease, and at least she'd done that much right. He touched her shoulder lightly. "Rest well," he said.
She was sure she was asleep before she even pulled up the blankets.
Chapter Two
Rating: NC-17
Contains: Canon-typical violence, explicit sex
Wordcount: 3600 this chapter
Notes: Canon-divergent, ignoring most of Act 3. A thousand thanks to
senmut's Discord server for cheering and brainstorming and reactions and encouragement.Beta: breadedsinner and MikWrites_InSpace
Summary: After the duel with the Arishok, Ariane Hawke looks around at the wreckage of her life in Kirkwall and asks herself: what is left for me here? As tensions increase between the Circle and the Templars, she turns to helping Sebastian retake Starkhaven. Meanwhile, she is trying to figure out how to love Fenris when he hates mages, and also definitely not looking at Sebastian's gorgeous eyes. Definitely not. Neither is Fenris. Sebastian is not looking back.
Definitely.
Canon divergence in which almost all of act 3 goes in the bin, and three damaged people try to find a way to live with each other and themselves, and maybe heal a bit.
Updates Monday and Thursday (ideally.)
When the Arishok fell to the floor, Hawke thought it was a feint at first. She watched warily as he promised, "We shall return," and threw one last burst of ice at him. He shuddered and went limp. She turned, fire already gathering around her hand, to help her friends with the remaining Qunari, but found none alive. It was only when Fenris slowly lowered his sword and Aveline rose from her defensive stance that she thought maybe it could finally be over.
The nobility of Kirkwall were comprehensively silent--a first, she thought.
She drew the fire back in and lowered her staff slowly until the tip dug into the blood-drenched carpet beneath her. She held onto it, forcing herself to remain upright, and pulled the last few threads of magic left in her together. It was enough to keep her on her feet for another few minutes. Long enough to leave.
The gathered nobles began to cheer. The door burst open to admit Meredith and Orsino, too little too late as ever. She could barely hear Meredith over the ringing in her ears, but she heard the word "Champion," and saw the Knight-Commander's grim smile. Meredith had warned her not an hour past that she knew what Hawke was; it was hard not to know, even as she did her best to keep a low profile. Now that she had slain the Arishok with magic in full view of everyone who mattered, she would be watched even more closely--if Meredith didn't just have her executed or made Tranquil outright.
She looked around her. Varric was at her side, Bianca already slung on his back, and he was just the correct height for Hawke to rest her elbow on his shoulder without it being obvious.
She could not show any weakness now.
She turned to Meredith. "I trust," she said with great care, forming the words slowly lest she stutter or slur, "that your templars can handle cleanup."
"It will be done, Champion." The voice was familiar; the grim and shadowed expression more so. Flora Harimann. Hawke nodded to her. She trusted Flora as far as she could throw the woman, but if Flora wanted to use this opportunity to seize a softer throne than Starkhaven's, she could have it with Hawke's blessing. And if Flora was exactly as she presented herself, it was work Hawke didn't have to do.
People began to crowd around her, shouting and talking all at once. She saw Fenris's lips peel back in a snarl. Aveline settled the matter by moving briskly to the front of their little group and commanding the members of the guard who had followed Meredith into the Keep. Hawke concentrated on keeping her feet under her. Varric kept pace.
"Hawke," Fenris began.
"Later," Varric said, in a tone that brooked no dissent. She could see that Fenris didn't like it.
"At home," she murmured, trying not to move her lips too much. She was being observed.
The creak of plate mail heralded Aveline catching up with them. "Donnic will handle it," she said, and glared two functionaries and a laggard templar out of their path before preceding Hawke down the stairs so Hawke had someone else to brace her. "Do you need me to send for Anders?"
Hawke concentrated on getting the rest of the way down the stairs without falling before she answered. "I can handle it," she said. "That's what I do. Handle things. I ought to carry a sign. Professional problem handler."
"I think that's what the Knight-Commander meant when she called you Champion," Varric said, deadpan.
"Only a bit farther," Aveline said, so neutral Hawke wanted to flinch. She wanted to shout that if anyone else had had a better idea, they certainly hadn't volunteered that information, but she kept silent and kept moving. She was in enough trouble after showing her magic to all of Kirkwall. She couldn't alienate her friends. She didn't want to; other than Carver, they were all she had.
She couldn't think about that, or she wouldn't stay on her feet, and that would never do. She was Hawke. She was funny and sarcastic and absolutely reliable and she helped everybody else out, no matter how strange or dangerous the request. Public weakness was not part of the package.
The group made their slow way to the front gate of the Keep. They were still in the shadow of the massive stone walls, and mercifully, the streets were clear of random people. A few knots of templars and guards fought with a handful of Qunari, but this was safer than the Keep. There was too much irony in that thought for Hawke to handle right now.
Varric handed her a metal flask that she knew without asking contained lyrium potion. She poured it down her throat and clenched her teeth to keep from whimpering in relief, and then drew on the magic it brought her. It wasn't enough to fix everything, but enough to heal the worst of it, and she stopped leaning against him. "Thank you," she said. She was going to sleep like the dead tonight, assuming she could live long enough to make it to her bed.
Varric grinned at her. "Can't have the Champion face-planting in the streets of Hightown," he said, and oh, he was going to call her that every time now, wasn't he? Maker, save her from dwarves with a sense of narrative.
"I'd certainly come out of it with my purse the lighter," she said, and then looked at Fenris. He had been....easier with her, after a fashion, since the unfortunate adventure in the Gallows, but there was still a distinct spiked wall of discomfort around him when they spoke. She'd told the truth when Varric had asked and she had told him she was fine with crazy, but that didn't mean the crazy was always easy. "But as I'm rather drained just now," she continued, "I'd appreciate an escort home, if you don't mind?"
Aveline and Varric murmured assent, but they both knew she wasn't really asking them. Fenris gave her a flat look. "Of course," he said, and she could see that there was rather more he'd like to say, but he was going to wait for it.
She really didn't want to have whatever fight that was in the middle of the street, so she took the luck where she found it and set off toward home.
Bodahn greeted her with a flurry of questions. Hawke tried to answer them in between thanking Aveline and Varric--who declined her offer of guest rooms and took themselves back to their own homes--and asking Orana to have a meal prepared and send hot water to her room and one of the guest rooms. She turned at last to Fenris, who had waited not quite patiently, but at least quietly.
"I'd invite you to join me for a bath," she said, "but that would probably be too awkward for words or actions." She paused. "But would you consider staying tonight?" There. She'd managed the note of insouciance she'd wanted.
He gave her a strange look, as though surprised she had asked. She wasn't sure why that surprised him. Had he expected a command? Or not to be asked at all? She was too tired for those questions. "I will stay," he said, carefully.
"Good." Hawke gave him a bright smile undoubtedly marred by the Qunari blood smeared across her face, and turned to the stairs. "I'll see you at dinner." Her left hip complained aggressively as she ascended, but it wasn't the kind of pain that meant she had to stop to mend the damage, so she ignored it. She could do more healing after food--and cleanliness--had restored some of her energy.
In her room, she stripped off her bloodied boots and clothes, dumping both into the basket she kept for the purpose. Only after she was naked did she realize she'd have to wait for the bath.
She'd forgotten how long it took to heat water the old fashioned way. Most days, she had enough strength left to apply some fire magic to a tub of cold water, saving Orana the trouble of having to heat the water downstairs and haul it up. The pump upstairs only disgorged cold water, but that worked well for Hawke, and she'd always heated water for her mother, too, before.....well. Before.
She poured a bit of cold water in the basin and dunked a cloth in it to get the worst of the gore off her face and hands, then bound her hair up in an old towel before shrugging on a robe. She'd be warm enough until she could bathe.
Now she had too much time to think and nothing to do with it. She paced her room, sticking to the carpet beside the bed because stone floors were damned cold for bare feet, and fretted over the day's events. She still didn't know where Isabela had gone, or if the pirate had made it out of Kirkwall safe. She had the haunting feeling that she could have fixed all this if she'd just done something different--would the right words in a conversation have made Isabela trust her more? She'd have to ask Varric if he could keep an eye out for news. She supposed she didn't owe Isabela anything--or if she had, the debt had been cleared when she killed the Arishok for her--but Hawke didn't like loose ends.
And there was the problem of the Viscount's seat. Hawke tried to think of a single person she'd met at her mother's parties who would have any prayer of balancing the fractious populace of Kirkwall, the templars, the mages, the Qunari, and whatever other hells Kirkwall could vomit up, and she came up empty. She didn't want the job, and no one would let a mage hold it anyway, but she had a vested interest in who did.
Orana and Bodahn arrived with two buckets of steaming water each, and made the Viscount's seat a problem for another day. Hawke went to fetch her own cold water from the upstairs pump--she should have done that already--while they poured the hot water into the tub. She thanked them and added cold water until the tub's contents were hot but not like to scald her. They left the room, closing the door behind them, and Hawke threw her robe in the general direction of the bed. She barely remembered to stack clean towels in front of the fireplace before she stepped into the tub.
She sank into the water all the way up to her neck and sighed deeply. Now that she wasn't in the midst of battle, she could feel the myriad aches and pains that told her she'd overdone it today. She was honest enough to admit that she usually overdid it, but today had been too much even by her standards. Then again, she supposed surviving a personal duel with a skilled Qunari warrior was as good an outcome as she could ask for.
She allowed herself a few breaths to wallow in the hot water, and then reluctantly began scrubbing the itchy, drying gore out of her hair. She was too tired to reheat the water, so she was going to have to pay more attention to the passage of time.
She discovered a distressing number of bruises--some from Qunari fists and some from being flung into columns and walls like a rag doll when she tried to get out of the Arishok's way--and counted seven of the angry red lines across her skin that meant she'd used magic to piece torn flesh back together and it was still figuring out how to be really healed. She didn't remember taking that many hits. It made her unsure about how much of the fight she truly remembered at all; her mind supplied a haze of magic and blood (but not blood magic, never blood magic, she would never), screams and the clash of steel, but no details.
Hawke pulled herself out of the now bloody water and picked up the last bucket of clean water, hot and cold mixed. She poured it over her head and let it run down into the tub, then stepped out and hastily wrapped herself in several towels before plopping down in front of the fire to comb her hair and let the fire dry it a bit. She could have fallen asleep there, cozy in front of the fire, but she needed food, so she reluctantly shed the towels and found clean leggings and a tunic. Boots were far too much trouble, but she had soft wool-lined slippers Carver had given her for Satinalia, and they were cozy against her toes.
She remembered to throw the towels over the rack and set it near the fire to dry them, and then went downstairs--slowly, the balustrade gripped tightly in her hand, as her legs wobbled in protest--to find Fenris.
He was standing by the fire in the dining room, staring into it, and looked up at her approach. She was pleased to see that the clothes she'd had Orana buy for him fit well, though he'd folded up the cuffs of the trousers. His eyes were the dark green of a sunset forest in the flickering shadows cast by the fire. He looked her over, his eyes lingering at her left leg--how did he know that three of the healed cuts were there?--and tilted his head slightly. "Hawke."
She smiled, tense. "There's healing potions in my desk," she said, "or I can do more, after dinner."
The pause drew out for so long she thought that even the offer offended him, but at last he nodded and looked away. "I would appreciate it," he said.
Had he just accepted magic over not-magic? Hawke blinked, stunned like she'd just taken Aveline's shield to the face, then made herself shake it off as Bodahn came to the doorway to tell them dinner was ready.
Orana had quickly figured out that Hawke ate a lot more when she'd been out fighting, and the table was generously laid with sliced cold meats, bread, cheese, wine, and ripe summer fruits. Hawke plopped into her chair and reached for the nearest food. They ate in silence, but it was a friendly silence.
When they had wreaked havoc on the food and Bodahn had cleared the dishes, Hawke motioned him to follow her, and led the way to the library. She had a workshop, but she knew he wouldn't prefer being in it, and her bedroom--or the guest room--felt too intimate. Not that she objected to intimate--although if she was honest she'd quite like a nap first because she was tired enough to fall asleep right on the floor, especially with a full stomach--but not without asking him first.
She tugged him with her to the couch near the fire. "All right then," she said cheerfully, "what did I miss before?"
He caught her hand when she reached out to check for his injuries. "Yours first," he said, soft but inflexible, like his fingers around her wrist.
Hawke looked at him. He looked back at her. "You're still injured," he pointed out.
"I'm good enough for now."
"Hawke."
She found it very inconvenient that the timbre of his voice rolled through her like that even when he was annoyed with her. "Fine," she said with a little huff. "I'll heal us both by turns."
He gave her a wary look. She didn't pull her hand away from his, instead using the connection of skin to skin to seek out all the places where flesh and bone had knit imperfectly. It was strange, doing this kind of healing for him, because the lyrium teased at her magic, trying to pull it away from her. She ignored it and kept searching. There was a break in his upper arm that had been healed partway in the heat of battle, but it wasn't complete. She could feel bruises and cracked bones in his ribs and wanted to shout at him for not letting her do this sooner, or even taking the potion she'd offered him. He had a few healed scars like her own, not quite finished. She focused on the ribs first since those had to hurt the worst. Her free hand rested gently against his side. Magic glowed around her as she eased it through his skin, around the lyrium, and into the injury until it was as good as new. The change in his breathing when she was done was subtle, but there.
"You--" she began.
"Your turn," he said.
She calculated the odds of being able to argue him out of it and decided they were nonexistent. She did an inventory of her own injuries and chose the scar on her hip, since it still ached even after the bath and food. She didn't need the physical contact to heal herself. Her own body was known to her magic in a way she could not describe to anyone else. She wasn't as careful with herself as she'd been with him, and her breath hissed slightly as she pulled muscle and tendon back into their accustomed places, but the surge of pain was temporary, and the relief in its place made her realize how much she'd been pushing it away.
His fingers tightened around her wrist, warm skin and icy prickling lyrium. He said nothing, but his face was shadowed by more than the edge of the bookshelf. She rested her hand on his shoulder, then slid it down to the break in his arm, coaxing the tensed muscles to relax and patiently mending the break. The speed of her healing didn't affect the quality, but injuries healed too fast left phantom aches in their wake. She could walk away from a battle without a scratch on her, but she'd feel the cuts and bruises for days afterward, though no marks showed on her skin. If she took her time, she could spare him that.
When she drew her hand away, she did it with a light brush of her fingertips down his arm, a caress that she meant as comfort, not demand. She did not bother trying to argue with him this time, but found the two throbbing half-healed scars on her thigh and shoved magic into them. They itched fiercely, and she scratched at them, her nails following the lines where the scars had been.
"Hawke," Fenris said, "why are you--" He paused, clearly searching for the right words. "Are you that badly injured?"
"No," she replied, and hoped he would drop it. Of course, he did not.
"Then why the difference?"
She considered playing dumb, but he would not believe her. "I'm just getting it over with," she said. "I'm used to it."
His eyes narrowed. "And you think I am not?"
She read the question as a trap, and tried to skirt it. "No. But I'm probably going to sleep for the next three days, so it doesn't matter to me."
The silence fell heavy and thick between them. He considered her carefully. "I accepted your offer," he said at last, "because it was important to you to make it. I do not accept you punishing yourself."
She flinched. His hand tightened on her wrist, not enough to hurt, but enough for her to feel the pressure of his fingers.
She set her hand on his thigh to heal the scars there. His other hand covered it, lifting her hand slightly. "No," he said.
Hawke wondered, tiredly, if there was anything else she could fuck up beyond redemption today.
"Only," he continued, "if you are going to heal yourself the same way."
Maybe she'd rather have a potion after all, she thought. But instead she nodded. "All right," she said. "Your way." She didn't know why he'd picked today to be difficult, but she was far too tired to untangle it. Okay, fine, it wasn't just today that he was difficult, but she didn't know why it had to be aimed at her.
She wasn't quite as slow with herself as she was with him after that--she could stand the occasional itch or muscle ache--but she would grudgingly admit it was nice to feel things healing rather than ghostly impressions of injury left behind, even if it was much more tiring to control her magic so carefully. She considered trying to explain that the effort involved was part of why she didn't bother to coddle herself, but she had the suspicion he'd insist that they both get fast healing then, and she didn't want that argument.
So she healed them both slowly, and when she smoothed her fingertips over his arm where she'd mended the last bruise, she could feel the exhaustion all the way down to her bones.
Too tired even to yawn, she dragged herself to her feet. "I'll see you in the morning," she said, and hoped she wasn't making a liar of herself.
He rose, moving with his usual ease, and at least she'd done that much right. He touched her shoulder lightly. "Rest well," he said.
She was sure she was asleep before she even pulled up the blankets.
Chapter Two