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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
Fic Wordcount: 117,000
Chapter Wordcount:
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.
Chapter index here.
Lady Merinfort's library was a cozy room with thick carpets over the stone floor, a small fire crackling in the hearth, and bookshelves stretching fully to the ceiling and filled with leather-bound volumes. Hawke knew it would be rude to stare at the books, but she did give them a longing look.
Her hostess noticed. "Are you an avid reader, Lady Amell?" she asked as she poured them two glasses of some liquor. Hawke noticed that in here, the service was of glass, not the metal at the party outside.
Hawke accepted hers with a self-deprecating smile. "Yes. I've been collecting books since I came to Kirkwall, both to replace those we left in Lothering and because I wanted to learn more, but your collection dwarfs mine."
"My father was a scholar," Lady Merinfort said. "I do not have as much time as I would like to follow in his footsteps."
Hawke sipped from her glass after Lady Merinfort did so. It turned out to be port. "I am not sure there is ever enough time for books," she said, and Lady Merinfort laughed.
"From what I know of you, Champion, you favor a direct approach, and we have a business matter we must settle," Lady Merinfort said. "Therefore, I will be blunt. Your great-grandfather and my father wished to ally our families through marriage. I have three unmarried granddaughters, and no unmarried grandsons."
Hawke nodded. "Unfortunately, I have no good options to offer them," she said. "My brother has chosen the path of the templar, and I would rather not saddle one of your undoubtedly lovely granddaughters with my uncle--unless that is your desire."
Lady Merinfort raised an eyebrow. "When you hold your head like that," she said thoughtfully, "you look exactly like your grandfather. Not your face--that is Leandra's--but the angle of your head."
Hawke took a slow, deep breath to cushion the blow of that observation. "I never knew my grandfather."
"He was a stubborn old bastard," Lady Merinfort replied calmly. "I suspect you take after him in that, else you'd have fled Kirkwall the minute you heard how things are here." She leaned slightly forward in her chair, blue-veined hands clasped in her lap, and met Hawke's eyes directly. "Let us be frank, Lady Amell: at this point in time, your family has naught to offer mine. I do not know whether you intend to wed or bear children and I don't care. It occurs to me that you, yourself, might make a better alliance than any marriage between our descendants."
Hawke raised an eyebrow. "I understood you were still wed, Lady Merinfort," she said, hoping she'd read the woman's sense of humor right.
Lady Merinfort blinked, then cackled. "You're too young for me, Lady Amell," she said when she calmed. "No, that is not what I mean. Whether you intend to try for the throne or not, you're a force to be reckoned with in Kirkwall, now and for the foreseeable future. I propose this. I have a task that wants doing. Should you do it for me, we will consider the marital contract null, and may proceed as any other pair of women with intelligence and some degree of power might."
Everyone wanted her services. Hawke carefully did not sigh. "I'd like to know what task you want, before I agree," she said. "There are some things in Thedas where not having to do them might be worth scrounging the sovereigns for the breach of contract."
Lady Merinfort smirked. "Wise," was her only comment as she refilled their glasses. Hawke could feel the port warming her, and she carefully set the glass aside when it was refilled, on a fine table with a mosaic of glass tiles on the top.
"There is an Orlesian nobleman in attendance tonight," Lady Merinfort said after she reclaimed her own chair. "His name is Edouard de Telvignon. Some mercenaries stole what he claims is a priceless work of art from his manor in rural Orlais and he has tracked them to the Free Marches. He came originally to petition the Viscount for assistance, but as we are without one, he settled for an influential noblewoman." Her lips twisted slightly. "I would enjoy having him in my debt, and you are a woman who is, as I hear it, skilled at the quiet retrieval of important things or people, and unlikely to get yourself killed in the process."
"If I wasn't, I'd have a terrible time getting paid," Hawke said. It didn't sound too bad. She considered. "And the catch?"
The older woman shrugged. "He is not being entirely truthful with me about the nature of the theft. You are welcome to question him about the details, though I would not advise an assault upon his person in pursuit of answers; he's rumored to be a favorite of the Empress."
"I see." Hawke gave in and picked up her glass for a sip. "Any other requirements? Must I do it by myself, or in an Antivan gown with bells on?"
Lady Merinfort chuckled. "For my purposes, whatever gets the job done and the man grateful is sufficient, though you should expect to be reliant on your own resources."
Hawke might not have experience in the rarefied circles of Kirkwall noble society, but she knew a warning when she heard it. "I understand." She considered the amount her solicitors had named as the penalty for breaching the contract. She'd be working for Athenril for a decade if she tried to do it that way. "I'll speak to him, and I'll be sure he knows who to thank."
"Do let me know what you decide," Lady Merinfort said, and rose. "And feel free to browse the library before you return to the party." She left, glass in hand, and Hawke stared at the bookshelves without seeing them for several long moments.
When she had settled on her plan of attack, she left her glass of port sitting on the table where she'd been sitting and left the library. The party was in full swing; between the musicians and the chatter, the noise washed over her like a tidal wave. She paused and braced herself against a nearby column, scanning the crowd. Not for the first time, her meager height caused her some difficulty.
"There you are." Varric materialized behind her. "I was beginning to think I'd have to mount a rescue."
"Which of these people is Lord de Telvignon?" Hawke asked him quietly.
"Straight to work?" Varric considered the question and adjusted the chain on his chest. Hawke wondered, not for the first time, how he avoided pulling out his chest hair with it. "Blond man in the blue and silver velvet, over there with the Seneschal."
"Next round at the Hanged Man on me," Hawke told him.
"What do you want him for?" Varric looked intrigued.
"We'll talk about it later." Hawke ignored Varric's muttered threats and threaded her way through the crowd to the nobleman in question.
"Ah, Lady Amell," Bran said, with just enough of a hesitation before the title to show the deliberate substitution, and to remind her on whose sufferance she now held it.
Hawke shaped her mouth into something that could be considered a smile. "Seneschal, how lovely to see you," she said. "I do not believe I've had the pleasure," she added, turning to the man next to him. "I am Ariane Hawke, Lady Amell."
"The Champion herself?" His Orlesian accent was nearly impenetrable.
"So they tell me."
He laughed. "I am Edouard de Telvignon," he said, and offered her a bow. "I am visiting Kirkwall for a time."
The seneschal took advantage of his distraction to notice an acquaintance and leave, presumably before being further importuned for the use of Kirkwall's formal resources in pursuit of whatever it was that de Telvignon wanted.
"I heard your name from our gracious hostess," Hawke said, and stepped closer so she could lower her voice. "I understand you may be seeking some assistance with a delicate matter."
His entire demeanor changed from that peculiarly effusive Orlesian friendliness to a focused tension that reminded her of dealings with Hubert over matters pertaining to the Bone Pit. "The Champion of Kirkwall takes an interest in my little problems?" he asked.
Hawke shrugged. "I take an interest in all sorts of problems," she said. "I'm quite good at solving them."
He made a thoughtful noise and sipped his wine. "I have heard tales of your problem solving, Champion," he said. "Perhaps another time we will speak, and we will see if you can solve this one."
Hawke rummaged through her mental file of polite replies drilled into her by her mother. "Please do send a note if you would like to meet," she said. "Lady Merinfort has my direction if you require it."
"Yes, yes." He looked her over in a different way now. "Do you dance, Champion?"
"I've been known to enjoy a turn around the floor," Hawke said, carefully keeping her voice from its default flirtatious tone. She didn't want to encourage that sort of attention.
"Enjoy one with me," he said, taking her arm, and that was exactly why she was not going to encourage pursuit: he told her, rather than asking.
Still, she kept a smile on her face--if rather less sincere than the one she had been wearing--and allowed him to escort her to the dance floor. It was an Orlesian court dance, which she did not know well, but she was used to watching the people around her in battle, and he made a tolerable lead. Halfway down the dance floor, Sebastian was dancing with a Kirkwall noblewoman. Hawke wondered if he was on the dance floor by the same kind of "choice" she was. She wondered if they could swap partners. She would much rather his hands on her--a thought she quickly shoved away.
When the dance was over, she gave a polite half-curtsey to de Telvignon and turned to withdraw from the dance floor, only to find Sebastian right behind her. "May I have this dance?" he asked her, offering his hand.
Hawke took it, and the musician struck up a Starkhaven reel, which she did know. The dance was fast enough to discourage conversation, but Sebastian was a comforting presence as they wove in and out of the lines of dancers, his hand warm and dry against hers. When the music ended, he offered her his arm, and together they withdrew from the crowded dance floor and into a less crowded corner of the ballroom. His presence was a shield and a comfort.
Sebastian maneuvered them to a spot where there was a cool draft, which Hawke appreciated after her exertions. There were too many people in the room and it was overheated, so the narrow windows high in the stone walls had been opened to let in some of the winter chill. She tucked escaped strands of her hair back up where they belonged.
"Was that business?" Sebastian asked, low, under pretense of straightening his collar.
Hawke squashed the brief and inappropriate image of her hand mussing it up again and turned as if to study a painting that hung on the wall behind them. "Yes. Apparently he has lost something and wants it retrieved. I invited him to send me a note."
"He has a poor reputation," Sebastian warned her.
"Cheating people out of their pay, cruelty, or murder?" Hawke asked her sleeve as she adjusted her own collar. It didn't appear anyone was listening closely to them, and it was unlikely that the Orlesian would have set his hounds to track her already, but no sense taking chances.
"Greed, and other sins that flow from it."
She turned back to the dance floor. "I'll be careful," she assured him, "but if you'd like to be sure of it, you're welcome to come along."
He huffed out a chuckle.
"I've had enough of this," Hawke decided. "I'll see you at the Hanged Man."
"Let me walk you home," Sebastian offered.
She accepted because it gave him an excuse to leave, which he obviously was seeking from how quickly he'd proposed it, and they went to retrieve their cloaks from the footman.
Outside, the wind was a frigid knife slashing between the buildings, unseasonably cold for Kirkwall. Hawke had merely tossed her cloak around her shoulders, too hot to do otherwise, but within two breaths she was pulling it closed around her, starting to be chilled. Sebastian helped her settle the heavy woolen folds and kept a wary eye on their surroundings, though in Lady Merinfort's own courtyard the risks seemed low.
He didn't say anything during the short walk to her house, but bowed when they reached the door. "Good night, Hawke," he said.
"Good night," she said, and then turned and gave a startled cry that was certainly not a scream when an angular shape unfolded from the shadows around the door. The lantern that burned above the door gleamed off white hair, and Hawke held herself stock still while she breathed deep and slowly, patiently reclaimed the mana she'd shaped into a spear of ice in her shock. Her hand shook with cold when she was done.
"Fenris," she said, aware of Sebastian's alert presence behind her, "what are you doing out here?"
"Waiting for you." He said it as though he was surprised she'd asked.
She pressed a hand to her eyes and hissed at the chill. "It didn't occur to you to wait inside?"
He said nothing. She sighed. "Sebastian, do you--"
"I'll return to the Chantry," he said. "Rest well, Hawke, Fenris." That undercurrent was back in his voice. Hawke added "confront Sebastian about whatever he's hiding" to the very, very long list of things she needed to do.
"Stop by in the morning day after tomorrow," Hawke called after him, "and we'll talk about what de Telvignon wants."
Hawke turned back to the front door and opened it, Fenris close behind her like a lyrium-lit shadow. The foyer was chilly, but still quite a bit warmer than outside. She glanced down and cursed. "Maker's breath, Fenris, barefoot even now? How long have you been out there?"
"I don't know," he said, but she saw how he clamped his mouth shut after those few words, and guessed the terseness was at least half because he didn't want his teeth to chatter. The other half, of course, was him being himself.
"Bodahn," she called softly, in case the steward had gone to bed. The dwarf appeared in the doorway immediately. "Can you have Orana make up some tea and bring it to the library, please?"
"Of course, Lady," he replied, and she missed being called "messere." She'd have to ask him to use the less proper title. She wasn't sure she'd succeed.
Not bothering to remove her cloak, she grabbed Fenris's arm and dragged him through the great hall and into the library, where a fire was ready-laid in the grate. She paused and concentrated to be sure that her spell was no stronger than it needed to be, and flames bloomed amid the dry wood. She nudged Fenris toward the couch that sat nearby, and tossed her cloak over his legs and feet. He at least had had the sense to wear his own cloak, but she was going to find some kind of shoes for him--and Merrill--to wear, because otherwise she was going to lose her mind fretting about them getting frostbite. Kirkwall might be milder by far than Ferelden, but that didn't make it warm enough to go barefoot in the dead of winter, especially not on a night like this that felt more like Lothering than Kirkwall.
Fenris pulled the cloaks closer, and she noticed that only now was he starting to shiver, which pushed her temper to the forefront. She stared at the bookshelf and counted backwards through the title of the first book she saw until her voice was even. "I'm going to get out of this party dress," she said carefully. "Do you mind waiting?"
He shook his head, jaw muscles tight in what she guessed was an effort not to let his teeth chatter. She left it at that and hurried upstairs.
Chapter Sixteen
Rating: NC-17
Contains: Canon-typical violence, explicit sex
Fic Wordcount: 117,000
Chapter Wordcount:
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.
Chapter index here.
Lady Merinfort's library was a cozy room with thick carpets over the stone floor, a small fire crackling in the hearth, and bookshelves stretching fully to the ceiling and filled with leather-bound volumes. Hawke knew it would be rude to stare at the books, but she did give them a longing look.
Her hostess noticed. "Are you an avid reader, Lady Amell?" she asked as she poured them two glasses of some liquor. Hawke noticed that in here, the service was of glass, not the metal at the party outside.
Hawke accepted hers with a self-deprecating smile. "Yes. I've been collecting books since I came to Kirkwall, both to replace those we left in Lothering and because I wanted to learn more, but your collection dwarfs mine."
"My father was a scholar," Lady Merinfort said. "I do not have as much time as I would like to follow in his footsteps."
Hawke sipped from her glass after Lady Merinfort did so. It turned out to be port. "I am not sure there is ever enough time for books," she said, and Lady Merinfort laughed.
"From what I know of you, Champion, you favor a direct approach, and we have a business matter we must settle," Lady Merinfort said. "Therefore, I will be blunt. Your great-grandfather and my father wished to ally our families through marriage. I have three unmarried granddaughters, and no unmarried grandsons."
Hawke nodded. "Unfortunately, I have no good options to offer them," she said. "My brother has chosen the path of the templar, and I would rather not saddle one of your undoubtedly lovely granddaughters with my uncle--unless that is your desire."
Lady Merinfort raised an eyebrow. "When you hold your head like that," she said thoughtfully, "you look exactly like your grandfather. Not your face--that is Leandra's--but the angle of your head."
Hawke took a slow, deep breath to cushion the blow of that observation. "I never knew my grandfather."
"He was a stubborn old bastard," Lady Merinfort replied calmly. "I suspect you take after him in that, else you'd have fled Kirkwall the minute you heard how things are here." She leaned slightly forward in her chair, blue-veined hands clasped in her lap, and met Hawke's eyes directly. "Let us be frank, Lady Amell: at this point in time, your family has naught to offer mine. I do not know whether you intend to wed or bear children and I don't care. It occurs to me that you, yourself, might make a better alliance than any marriage between our descendants."
Hawke raised an eyebrow. "I understood you were still wed, Lady Merinfort," she said, hoping she'd read the woman's sense of humor right.
Lady Merinfort blinked, then cackled. "You're too young for me, Lady Amell," she said when she calmed. "No, that is not what I mean. Whether you intend to try for the throne or not, you're a force to be reckoned with in Kirkwall, now and for the foreseeable future. I propose this. I have a task that wants doing. Should you do it for me, we will consider the marital contract null, and may proceed as any other pair of women with intelligence and some degree of power might."
Everyone wanted her services. Hawke carefully did not sigh. "I'd like to know what task you want, before I agree," she said. "There are some things in Thedas where not having to do them might be worth scrounging the sovereigns for the breach of contract."
Lady Merinfort smirked. "Wise," was her only comment as she refilled their glasses. Hawke could feel the port warming her, and she carefully set the glass aside when it was refilled, on a fine table with a mosaic of glass tiles on the top.
"There is an Orlesian nobleman in attendance tonight," Lady Merinfort said after she reclaimed her own chair. "His name is Edouard de Telvignon. Some mercenaries stole what he claims is a priceless work of art from his manor in rural Orlais and he has tracked them to the Free Marches. He came originally to petition the Viscount for assistance, but as we are without one, he settled for an influential noblewoman." Her lips twisted slightly. "I would enjoy having him in my debt, and you are a woman who is, as I hear it, skilled at the quiet retrieval of important things or people, and unlikely to get yourself killed in the process."
"If I wasn't, I'd have a terrible time getting paid," Hawke said. It didn't sound too bad. She considered. "And the catch?"
The older woman shrugged. "He is not being entirely truthful with me about the nature of the theft. You are welcome to question him about the details, though I would not advise an assault upon his person in pursuit of answers; he's rumored to be a favorite of the Empress."
"I see." Hawke gave in and picked up her glass for a sip. "Any other requirements? Must I do it by myself, or in an Antivan gown with bells on?"
Lady Merinfort chuckled. "For my purposes, whatever gets the job done and the man grateful is sufficient, though you should expect to be reliant on your own resources."
Hawke might not have experience in the rarefied circles of Kirkwall noble society, but she knew a warning when she heard it. "I understand." She considered the amount her solicitors had named as the penalty for breaching the contract. She'd be working for Athenril for a decade if she tried to do it that way. "I'll speak to him, and I'll be sure he knows who to thank."
"Do let me know what you decide," Lady Merinfort said, and rose. "And feel free to browse the library before you return to the party." She left, glass in hand, and Hawke stared at the bookshelves without seeing them for several long moments.
When she had settled on her plan of attack, she left her glass of port sitting on the table where she'd been sitting and left the library. The party was in full swing; between the musicians and the chatter, the noise washed over her like a tidal wave. She paused and braced herself against a nearby column, scanning the crowd. Not for the first time, her meager height caused her some difficulty.
"There you are." Varric materialized behind her. "I was beginning to think I'd have to mount a rescue."
"Which of these people is Lord de Telvignon?" Hawke asked him quietly.
"Straight to work?" Varric considered the question and adjusted the chain on his chest. Hawke wondered, not for the first time, how he avoided pulling out his chest hair with it. "Blond man in the blue and silver velvet, over there with the Seneschal."
"Next round at the Hanged Man on me," Hawke told him.
"What do you want him for?" Varric looked intrigued.
"We'll talk about it later." Hawke ignored Varric's muttered threats and threaded her way through the crowd to the nobleman in question.
"Ah, Lady Amell," Bran said, with just enough of a hesitation before the title to show the deliberate substitution, and to remind her on whose sufferance she now held it.
Hawke shaped her mouth into something that could be considered a smile. "Seneschal, how lovely to see you," she said. "I do not believe I've had the pleasure," she added, turning to the man next to him. "I am Ariane Hawke, Lady Amell."
"The Champion herself?" His Orlesian accent was nearly impenetrable.
"So they tell me."
He laughed. "I am Edouard de Telvignon," he said, and offered her a bow. "I am visiting Kirkwall for a time."
The seneschal took advantage of his distraction to notice an acquaintance and leave, presumably before being further importuned for the use of Kirkwall's formal resources in pursuit of whatever it was that de Telvignon wanted.
"I heard your name from our gracious hostess," Hawke said, and stepped closer so she could lower her voice. "I understand you may be seeking some assistance with a delicate matter."
His entire demeanor changed from that peculiarly effusive Orlesian friendliness to a focused tension that reminded her of dealings with Hubert over matters pertaining to the Bone Pit. "The Champion of Kirkwall takes an interest in my little problems?" he asked.
Hawke shrugged. "I take an interest in all sorts of problems," she said. "I'm quite good at solving them."
He made a thoughtful noise and sipped his wine. "I have heard tales of your problem solving, Champion," he said. "Perhaps another time we will speak, and we will see if you can solve this one."
Hawke rummaged through her mental file of polite replies drilled into her by her mother. "Please do send a note if you would like to meet," she said. "Lady Merinfort has my direction if you require it."
"Yes, yes." He looked her over in a different way now. "Do you dance, Champion?"
"I've been known to enjoy a turn around the floor," Hawke said, carefully keeping her voice from its default flirtatious tone. She didn't want to encourage that sort of attention.
"Enjoy one with me," he said, taking her arm, and that was exactly why she was not going to encourage pursuit: he told her, rather than asking.
Still, she kept a smile on her face--if rather less sincere than the one she had been wearing--and allowed him to escort her to the dance floor. It was an Orlesian court dance, which she did not know well, but she was used to watching the people around her in battle, and he made a tolerable lead. Halfway down the dance floor, Sebastian was dancing with a Kirkwall noblewoman. Hawke wondered if he was on the dance floor by the same kind of "choice" she was. She wondered if they could swap partners. She would much rather his hands on her--a thought she quickly shoved away.
When the dance was over, she gave a polite half-curtsey to de Telvignon and turned to withdraw from the dance floor, only to find Sebastian right behind her. "May I have this dance?" he asked her, offering his hand.
Hawke took it, and the musician struck up a Starkhaven reel, which she did know. The dance was fast enough to discourage conversation, but Sebastian was a comforting presence as they wove in and out of the lines of dancers, his hand warm and dry against hers. When the music ended, he offered her his arm, and together they withdrew from the crowded dance floor and into a less crowded corner of the ballroom. His presence was a shield and a comfort.
Sebastian maneuvered them to a spot where there was a cool draft, which Hawke appreciated after her exertions. There were too many people in the room and it was overheated, so the narrow windows high in the stone walls had been opened to let in some of the winter chill. She tucked escaped strands of her hair back up where they belonged.
"Was that business?" Sebastian asked, low, under pretense of straightening his collar.
Hawke squashed the brief and inappropriate image of her hand mussing it up again and turned as if to study a painting that hung on the wall behind them. "Yes. Apparently he has lost something and wants it retrieved. I invited him to send me a note."
"He has a poor reputation," Sebastian warned her.
"Cheating people out of their pay, cruelty, or murder?" Hawke asked her sleeve as she adjusted her own collar. It didn't appear anyone was listening closely to them, and it was unlikely that the Orlesian would have set his hounds to track her already, but no sense taking chances.
"Greed, and other sins that flow from it."
She turned back to the dance floor. "I'll be careful," she assured him, "but if you'd like to be sure of it, you're welcome to come along."
He huffed out a chuckle.
"I've had enough of this," Hawke decided. "I'll see you at the Hanged Man."
"Let me walk you home," Sebastian offered.
She accepted because it gave him an excuse to leave, which he obviously was seeking from how quickly he'd proposed it, and they went to retrieve their cloaks from the footman.
Outside, the wind was a frigid knife slashing between the buildings, unseasonably cold for Kirkwall. Hawke had merely tossed her cloak around her shoulders, too hot to do otherwise, but within two breaths she was pulling it closed around her, starting to be chilled. Sebastian helped her settle the heavy woolen folds and kept a wary eye on their surroundings, though in Lady Merinfort's own courtyard the risks seemed low.
He didn't say anything during the short walk to her house, but bowed when they reached the door. "Good night, Hawke," he said.
"Good night," she said, and then turned and gave a startled cry that was certainly not a scream when an angular shape unfolded from the shadows around the door. The lantern that burned above the door gleamed off white hair, and Hawke held herself stock still while she breathed deep and slowly, patiently reclaimed the mana she'd shaped into a spear of ice in her shock. Her hand shook with cold when she was done.
"Fenris," she said, aware of Sebastian's alert presence behind her, "what are you doing out here?"
"Waiting for you." He said it as though he was surprised she'd asked.
She pressed a hand to her eyes and hissed at the chill. "It didn't occur to you to wait inside?"
He said nothing. She sighed. "Sebastian, do you--"
"I'll return to the Chantry," he said. "Rest well, Hawke, Fenris." That undercurrent was back in his voice. Hawke added "confront Sebastian about whatever he's hiding" to the very, very long list of things she needed to do.
"Stop by in the morning day after tomorrow," Hawke called after him, "and we'll talk about what de Telvignon wants."
Hawke turned back to the front door and opened it, Fenris close behind her like a lyrium-lit shadow. The foyer was chilly, but still quite a bit warmer than outside. She glanced down and cursed. "Maker's breath, Fenris, barefoot even now? How long have you been out there?"
"I don't know," he said, but she saw how he clamped his mouth shut after those few words, and guessed the terseness was at least half because he didn't want his teeth to chatter. The other half, of course, was him being himself.
"Bodahn," she called softly, in case the steward had gone to bed. The dwarf appeared in the doorway immediately. "Can you have Orana make up some tea and bring it to the library, please?"
"Of course, Lady," he replied, and she missed being called "messere." She'd have to ask him to use the less proper title. She wasn't sure she'd succeed.
Not bothering to remove her cloak, she grabbed Fenris's arm and dragged him through the great hall and into the library, where a fire was ready-laid in the grate. She paused and concentrated to be sure that her spell was no stronger than it needed to be, and flames bloomed amid the dry wood. She nudged Fenris toward the couch that sat nearby, and tossed her cloak over his legs and feet. He at least had had the sense to wear his own cloak, but she was going to find some kind of shoes for him--and Merrill--to wear, because otherwise she was going to lose her mind fretting about them getting frostbite. Kirkwall might be milder by far than Ferelden, but that didn't make it warm enough to go barefoot in the dead of winter, especially not on a night like this that felt more like Lothering than Kirkwall.
Fenris pulled the cloaks closer, and she noticed that only now was he starting to shiver, which pushed her temper to the forefront. She stared at the bookshelf and counted backwards through the title of the first book she saw until her voice was even. "I'm going to get out of this party dress," she said carefully. "Do you mind waiting?"
He shook his head, jaw muscles tight in what she guessed was an effort not to let his teeth chatter. She left it at that and hurried upstairs.
Chapter Sixteen