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gremlinquisitor · 5 years

Note

Varric & Hawke (or Varric/Hawke, if you like): 31. “How do we keep getting into these situations?” “Eleven years of friendship and I still don’t know.”

for @dadrunkwriting and @diemarysues. I had to fudge the number of years for the timeline, but I think we’re okay. c:

~950 words, Varric & Hawke, no ships, good for most ages, one dead dragon

Read it here on AO3

ko-fi

There’s no stopping him, because at this point he thinks he can’t be stopped. Varric’s heard the story of how they met Flemeth at least five times by now, which is the only logical explanation for why Hawke strolls forward, staff in hand, and tries to talk to the dragon.

“I delivered your necklace!” He waves his staff over his head, and Varric can hear the grin in his voice.

“Oh, Hawke, no. That’s not the same dragon!” Daisy calls out to him as if that will make any difference at all. That she can tell the difference between two dragons is a discussion for another time, preferably one with no dragons present for comparison.

Predictably, the dragon does not thank him for running someone else’s errand, and instead chooses to scream so loudly that all of them - Varric, Hawke, Daisy, Choir Boy and Broody - are knocked back on the ground.

And then comes the fire.

The fight is long and messy, and when it’s over the ground that’s not covered with dead dragons glitters with crushed glass from potions, crunching under their feet when they approach the body of the great beast. Everything smells like wet or blood or burning, with bushes still crackling along the path they took to get here. Varric can already feel where his shoulder is going to stiff in the morning.

Choir Boy - pristine armor splattered with red and one end of his heirloom bow blackened - sets a foot on one of the legs, bracing himself to start pulling out arrows. He doesn’t stop muttering the whole time he works his way back towards the tail, and Varric can’t tell if he’s praying for the dragon, or about the dragon. Not that it matters either way; it’s definitely dead. But if anyone could pray hard enough to get a high dragon sent to the Maker’s side, it would be him.

Broody is sitting off to one side, already wiping down his sword and glaring at the body like he expects it to come back to life, and Varric can’t blame him. A fight that long, it almost seems strange that it’s over, and there were a couple times when he thought that this would be what he spent the rest of his life doing.

“Hand me a flask, will you, Merrill?”

Varric steps carefully over the bulky tail, setting Bianca on his back only after he’s sure the damn thing won’t twitch. Hawke and Merrill are by the head, and even if he’s positive the dragon’s dead, he isn’t about to walk past its face if he doesn’t have to.

“How do we keep getting into these situations, anyway?” He calls out as he strolls along beside the beast’s spine, picking up coins that could have come from their pockets, or from some other unfortunate soul that visited the Bone Pit earlier.

“Eight-- years of friendship, and I still don’t know,” Hawke replies, not without a considerable amount of effort for a man with nothing left to kill for the moment.

Varric rounds the curve of the dragon’s shoulders and comes to a stop at the sight before him. “Maker’s breath, Hawke, what are you doing?”

Hawke is standing a still-steaming pool of blood, elbow-deep in the side of the dragon’s neck. Daisy is next to him, pushing corks into flasks of what can only be even more blood, then setting them gently in her pack.

“We can make runes with the blood--” Hawke grunts, and there’s a wet snap from inside the dragon. Its jaw twitches and all three of them hop like spooked cats, Choir Boy yelling something from the other side.

Hawke pulls his hands out, some fleshy bit caught between them, and if the blood was steaming, this is billowing, almost invisible through all the white that rises from it into the cool evening air.

“And this is the fire gland. That merchant at the Gallows will give me a pretty penny for it, I bet.”

Varric opens his mouth to ask how Hawke even knew that that would be there, but thinks better of it. The man loves dragons. Some things don’t need to be more complicated than that.

Hawke casts about for some way to preserve the thing until they get back to the city, smiling gratefully at Daisy when she holds up an oilcloth. After a moment’s consideration, he strips off his bloodsoaked gloves and sets them in the cloth as well, rolling the whole package up into a ball and stuffing it into his own pack.

“Anything else you got on your shopping list? Scales, horns, teeth?” Varric sighs. He regrets the question immediately as Hawke’s eyes light up and hustles over to the dragon’s head. A puff of smoke comes out when he tries to peel back the upper lip, and he pulls his hand away, shaking his bloody fingers before sticking them in his mouth. Choir Boy makes a face, and Varric hates to admit that he’s pretty sure he’s making the same one.

“Maybe we can come back tomorrow when it’s cooled?” It’s one of those Daisy suggestions that is somehow brilliant and a little mad at the same time. With people sure that they’ll die out here, it’s unlikely anyone will loot the body overnight, but Varric doesn’t relish the idea of day-old dead dragon, either.

Hawke is pouting, but he hums and nods, gesturing with his head towards the path back to the city. Broody is already there waiting for them, shuffling and impatient, though he looks at Hawke’s hand with concern when they approach.

The walk back to Kirkwall is an enthusiastic replay of the battle courtesy of Hawke, complete with arm-waving and roaring, under a starlit sky.

#dadrunkwriting #my fic #my writing #varric tethras #garrett hawke #i just started a playthough with a default m!hawke who is 100% purple #so of course he's going to sass the dragon #i just wanted to make sure i got at least one out today #diemarysues

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blondepomeranian · 6 years

Note

For the writing prompts: #3 and/or #53 for FenHawke please!

Ask and you shall receive! One at a time, however. :)

#53 first. It’s… different from short works I normally post on here, however maybe not so different from Dinner at Hawke’s in terms of style. A while back I made a joke that I have two different styles with zero in between. They go by AngstyFeelings McPurpleProse and Punningby TheSeat O’YerPants.

Prepare to meet the latter.

Prompt #53: “I’m flirting with you.”

There are a set of rules writtenin the backroom of the Hanged Man. At one point they had hung in the main areaof the bar, but the years of getting literally and figuratively spit, stomped,and vomited upon forced it into hiding. This helped to an extent—a spine worksbest when not exposed to repeated damage, after all.

Somewhere on that list is a linescrawled with a few rips on the downstrokes. Although originally an act of a be-swindledvandal, once the tavern owners read the ad-hoc addition, they found themselvesunable to object. They figured it an appropriate amendment… and fair warning.

And if you look closely at thewooden pillar where the list once hung, you can see the same angry lines etchedin the wood itself. In the right light, it reads:

DO NOT BET AGAINST THE RIVAINI BITCH.

No one in Hawke’s motley circlehad ever been in the back room of the Hanged Man, nor had they seen the warningcarved in the pillar.

All the better, so when Isabelajabbed a finger at Varric over a game of Wicked Grace, he was none the wiser.

“I bet,” Isabela started with herharbinger, a wink in her eye they thought to be related to her hand. “That Ican end Hawke’s dry spell.”

Varric snorted, drawing a card.“You already barked up that—well, climbedthat tree once, Rivaini. Plus, I don’t think she’d—”

Isabela rolled her eyes with ahuff. “Not personally. What I mean isthat I bet I can get her and Fenris back together—physically, to start,anyway.”

“Andraste’s ass dimples…” Varricgrumbled at his new card, quickly addressing Isabela to hide that fact. “You really think that’s a good idea?”

“No,” she answered with a toss ofher hair. “But it’d be fun.”

And in this, she wasn’t wrong.Word of her bet spread like fleas across their group, everyone but Andersitching to try their own plan or to watch the plans of others flourish orflounder.

Although initially objecting tothis ‘invasive tomfoolery’, Aveline shortly thereafter concocted her own plotto reunite the two.

She was voted ineligible within aminute.

“Nice night for an evening,”Donnic reminded her.

Merrill and Sebastian voiced their own ploys thatwere laid to rest after some deliberation. Too chaste, or too obvious, or toocomplicated to come to fruition.

With a resigned sigh and openpalms, Varric admitted that he had no plan of his own to counter Isabela’s bet.“Fenris—well, they separated for reasons I was told in confidence. While Ithink the little dance they’re doing is stupid at best and toxic at worst…Hawke’s a big girl. She can handle herself.”

Then, he added to his owndamnation: “That said, I still don’t think it’ll work, but I can’t wait to seeyou try.”

So, sink or swim, they all agreed—naively,foolishly, and in some cases, begrudgingly—be onboard with Isabela’s scheme.

The rule etched in the woodenpillar was covered by a flyer for the new entertainment at the Blooming Rosewhen they met the next week for cards.

Everyone but the two in questionreceived very specific instructions prior to the meeting—where to sit, what todrink, what to wear… Isabela was worrisomely thorough.

“I know, I know,” Isabela bemoaned theatrically. “But our usual card table gota bit smashed by this unruly fellow who could handle losing a bit of coin butnot a single drop of pride without a raising a storm. Just be thankful theydidn’t give us the glass one, trustme.”

Once everyone had taken theirassigned seats—leaving Fenris and Hawke strategically adjoined at acorner—Isabela began shuffling the cards.

“Now, seeing as it’s my birthday, I say we do things a little differently this week.”

Seated on opposite end from Hawke,Merrill whispered to Aveline next to her, “Do people in Rivain celebrate theirbirthdays twice a year? That seems a bit unfair to the rest of us.”

Aveline replied, “Don’t worry. Itcan be your birthday again next week.”

Dealing the cards in singles insteadof pairs, Isabela continued, “I got special permission from the owners to playthis game, so none of you are allowed to leave until you play at least a fewrounds. Captain’s orders.”

Hawke, already a few sips in,raised her glass. “Aye aye, Captain!”

The torchlight of the tavern made Isabela’seyes glint like rubies, her grin swelling like a storm on the horizon. “Youlose, you drink. You curse, you drink,” she ordered, “You blush, you drink.Catch someone staring at you, they drink. But! If you wink at them, whoeverlooks away first has to drink.”

The remaining cards in her handthundered down on the table, her hair rolling like storm clouds over hershoulders. She flashed them a wicked look.

“Alright swabs and strumpets. Thename of the game tonight? Naked Grace.”

The first couple rounds came andfell like torrents. Between Hawke, who couldn’t bluff with the heart she woreon her sleeve and lover’s wrist, and Fenris, the perpetually card-cursed, itdidn’t take long before the drinks seemed to go down just the same.

“Now, isn’t this just delightful!”Isabela crooned from under Varric’s overcoat, Fenris’ tunic, Merrill’s scarf,Aveline’s headband, and a crude imitation of Hawke’s bloodswipe she’d drawn onwith lip-paint. She kicked up her heels onto the table, Donnic’s shoes flimsilyslipped over her own boots like a child wearing who’d dressed themselves fromtheir parent’s closet.

As the next wave of stolenclothing and begrudging swallows made its way around, Fenris voice caughtHawke’s attention.

“Hawke.”

…Eventually.

“Hawke.”

Her blue eyes snapped into focus,swerving until they crashed into his. “Caught you staring,” he said with aneffortless wink. “Drink.”

Oh, Maker have mercy. She could feel the blood risingto her face. Clutching the edge of the table, she steeled herself and held hisgaze. “No, no, I’m not looking away, see?”

But he wouldn’t back down thateasily. “Nor am I, but I wasn’t the one caught staring in the first place.”

And neither would she. She leanedcloser with a sultry grin to try to catch him offguard. “And if I was?”

Fenris held her gaze evenly withthe ghost of a smile that she wanted to punch as she felt her cheeks burn.“Then, drink… twice.”

Reaching blindly for her drink,she sputtered, “Damn you and your, your stupid—”

“Thrice, now.”

Hawke looked away and swiped ather glass. Taking a swig from her mug, she held up four fingers, swig, then three, swig, then two, until her middle finger was the only one leftstanding.

Another hour passed. Or maybe two.Hawke was so busy keeping track of the drinks she had to take and the clothesshe had to take off that she had completely lost track of time.

Though she’d been stripped of hershirt, she’d briefly earned one back in the form of Varric’s overcoat forfeitby Isabela to Merrill who then lost it in a gamble. Briefly, as not long after she’d gotten it, she lost it again byway of shedding it due to the alcohol’s warmth.

Everyone else was in a similarstate of disarray—save for Isabela, of course, and Sebastian, having heeded hersecret instructions to him to wear as much rings and baubles as he could manage.Oh, and how everyone devoured the juicy idea that Sebastian had outwitted her!—thathe could strip himself of those in lieu of making himself indecent.

To match the heart of gold, Isabelatwirled Sebastian’s ring of silver around her finger. “Give it another hour more,at most. Get enough alcohol into anyone and shove ‘em up next to their crush,they’ll all revert to horny teenagers within the hour.”

Sebastian just snorted inresponse. “Precisely why I abstain.”

Fenris remained clothed in hisleggings but for the saving grace of the occasional barmaid swinging by tocheck on them. Hawke—both thankful and not that the corner of the wooden tableobstructed some of her view—used this to her advantage. She could now spot ablush more easily, watching creep up his chest, shoulders, and neck before itwould reach his face, she found out. Not that she’d been looking.

Despite that his lousy luck onlygot worse the more drinks he had under the belt he no longer had, Fenris hadnot completely surrendered to Hawke’s onslaught of “Drink!” accusations, no matter how well deserved each one was. Hestill could parry her on technicalities—in particular, her sloppy winkingtechnique.

“That is a blink. You blunk botheyes.”

“I blinked both eyes.”

“So you admit it. Drink.”

Hawke slammed a fist onto thetable. “Bloody hell, you can’t play that card like that!”

Despite it all, Fenris laughedout, “But it is the only good card I have!”

From the other side of Hawke, cladin only his necklace and his stolen overcoat slung over his lap, Varric raisedhis glass. “Hear, hear! To Hawke, getting played like a fiddle there, and tothe truest statement I’ve heard all night.”

A few drunken cheers and a fewspills later, Hawke grumbled just loud enough for Fenris to hear. “I’d like toplay you like a fiddle.”

He leaned closer, the abundance ofale raising his eyebrow. “Oh? Are you threatening me?”

“No,” Hawke said with a grin assloppy as the bloodswipe she’d tried to wipe from her face. “I’m flirting withyou.“

Unable to react any other way buttruthfully, he smirked with a low hum. “Good.”

Hawke blinked—on purpose thistime. “Good?”

He nodded, rubbing his fingersover the red cloth on his wrist he’d sacrificed his undershirt for. “It is goodto know that—I was… afraid that you would not…”

“I have to pee,” Hawke said,grabbing his wrist under the table. “Don’t you?”

When he did not follow her as shegot up, she let his wrist pass through her fingers, looking over her shoulderwith a wink—that, again, was more of a clumsy blink.

Fenris watched as the Champion ofKirkwall sashayed over to the lowtown tavern washroom in nothing but her smallclothes and Varric’s boots.

Then, there was a nudge at hisshoulder. Donnic handed him his mug with a sly grin. “Drink. At least twice forthat.”

It was only then that Isabelareturned her gaze to the cards in her hand. “Well, shit,” she said, putting hercards facedown on the table. She took a shot, and then another, then slid theglasses at Fenris. “Since you couldn’t take off your pants the last round, youhave to go get us more drinks. Captain’s orders.”

“Fine, fine…” Fenris said,gathering as many of the shot glasses as he could carry, and then the mugs.

Varric laughed. “Damn, broody,they oughtta hire you for barmaid.”

“Wine glasses provide much more ofa challenge,” Fenris replied in an even tone, placing a remaining drink infront of Varric before heading towards the bar.

With a triumphant smile thatswelled like a wave, Isabela addressed the table. “Now just you wait. He couldn’ttake his pants off for the last round, but thisround…”

Though not without a few stumbles,he managed to make it to the bar and return all the glassware completelyintact.

“Another round for the table?”Corff asked, eying him. “Doesn’t look like youneed any more.”

Fenris nodded and felt the worldbob under him like a dinghy on open sea. “I… do not.” In his periphery, he sawHawke peek out of the door to the washroom, then slip back inside. “I really donot. In fact, I think I am going to be sick. Excuse me.”

No sooner had he entered thewashroom than he found himself pinned between Hawke and the wall—a veryfamiliar position. She had one hand on the wall, the other poised andhesitating, held at her chest.

“Tell me now,” she breathed, sobrietywashing over her face for the moment. “What can I… what are we doing, Fenris?”

The sound of the tavern had dimmedbehind the washroom door, nothing but a murmur under the pounding of theirhearts and the uneven pulse of their ragged breathing. In the stillness of themoment, he realized—

—wait, where was his shirt? Or hershirt? Or her pants, for that matter?

If he could not even remember theimportant, material things like where his shirt had gone, or why they were botheffectively naked in a filthy public washroom, then what did he need to worryabout remembering things fleeting and coy?

He put a hand on the small of herback and pulled her into him—chest to chest, skin on skin, his thigh cleaving inthe space between hers. “I’m flirting with you.”

And in the moment before her lipscrashed like a tidal wave against his, she said, “Good.”

“Well,” Isabela wiped her hands onher sash. “It’s been ten minutes. I think it’s safe to claim a victory. Unless,Varric, you’d like to check on them to be sure?”

He heaved a sigh. “No… no, thatwon’t be necessary. I’ll know based on what kind of shitstorm this bringstomorrow morning.”

She shrugged. “Suit yourself. Inthe meantime…” She picked up her mug, the lukewarm ale swirling halfway up theglass. “I’d love a new drink. Barely had to drink this one, you all were hoggingall the fun. You’ll pick up the tab, won’t you?”

“I always do, don’t I?”

“There’s a good man.”

There are a set of rules writtenin the backroom of the Hanged Man. They now include two new rules written in atired, exasperated hand. The one details the expectations of paying and maintainingopen bar tabs, and the other…

The other can be found on a rough,metal sign hanging on the wall of the washroom. It is lined with conspicuouslysharp screwheads, and its hammered-out letters state:

FACILITIES ARE FOR PAYING CUSTOMERS ONLY, AND ONLY ONE AT A TIME.

#fenhawke #fhawris #dragon age ii #fanfiction #BlondePom writes #writing prompts #aban-asaara #long post is long #I AM SO SORRY I CANNOT FIND THE READ MORE BUTTON IN THE EDITTOR #hope this does the job!#thanks for the prompt <3 #3 will be a few more days as it's more of my normal style #y'know #AngstyFeelings McPurpleProse #also I know jack-all about Sebastian besides he's a religious Shrek #soooo... *shrug emoji*#also this only got a very brief editting pass intended entirely for learning purposes #so it's hella rough but so it should be with prompts

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loquaciousquark · 6 years

Text

8th August. Genuinely cool today, glorious! Won’t last

I keep having to go to the keep for sundry Champion paperwork ephemera, and I noticed last week there’s a stain right at the bottom of the steps. It looks brown and stubborn despite the scrub-marks on the stone around it—in fact, it’s where Dumar’s head landed, and now that I’ve seen it I can’t stop seeing it. I asked Aveline, and she said she’s noticed it too. She tried to get at it herself with lye while I was out, but she said it wouldn’t budge. I didn’t even know stone could take up blood like that... although I suppose Kirkwall would be the place prone to that kind of thing.

There’s still no news of a new Viscount. Bran’s running the place as best he can (which, as it happens, would be a good deal better if he’d stop wasting so much time rolling his eyes at me every time he sees me), but Lady Ashbridge said on Pelarie’s visit last week that there’s rumors Meredith’s just going to run the city instead. Surely they won’t let that happen, though--how much power does one person need?

Then again...it’s Kirkwall.

I should talk to Varric.

In other news, took Sebastian to dinner the other day as thanks for accompanying me to the ball. Went to the Lime Pavilion, which has a twenty-sov minimum plate, but with Varric at the helm all my money does these days is make lots of tinier little baby monies, so I might as well get some use out of it. He had beef that came in a glass bowl with gold around the edges, and I had fish that was cut in the shape of a fish. Made it even worse that it was the most delicious thing I’ve had in months.

Spent the whole meal quietly panicking about which of my three forks to use. Serves me right for trying to cater to royalty’s nobler instincts. Sebastian covered for me well, but I’d just as soon sit with Isabela off the docks, swigging green liquor from a cracked bottle.

Haven’t heard from her even once since Cloudreach. I hope she’s alive.

16th August. Light showers all day, just enough to curl my hair into a right rat’s nest

I think I’m going to set Pelarie up with my next-door neighbor. Jule’s clever and kind and not quite as flat beneath her mother’s foot, and she’s got a great deal more in common with Pelarie than I do. Forgot to get a bit of drake ichor out from behind my ears the other day and Pelarie turned so green she might have grown gills. Her mother didn’t care for it either. Need to stop being jealous over people with mothers Besides, even if Jule’s not as flashy a catch she’s likely got a much better life expectancy.

Meant that to be funny, not bitter. Ah, well.

23rd August. Cooler again, a bit salty with some northerly winds off the Coast

Had a nice moment today I didn’t expect. I was sitting out back under the yew tree, trying to see if I felt any different with only one kidney, when I heard the back door open and out came Sandal with a bit of wood and a carving knife. He didn’t say anything, just sat next to me on the stone bench, and quietly began shaping it into something small, something with wings. It was...

It was rather lovely, actually.

Made up for this miserable All Soul’s Day at the beginning of August. Everyone dancing on their toes around Mother, as if I might turn to glass at the slightest memory of her. Can’t help but feel Isabela would have

Sandal hummed something I almost recognized while he was sitting with me. Then Bodahn came out and that moment was gone, but in favor of one just as pleasant, because he sat with us on the bench too (the benefit of a wide bench and two dwarvish sets of hips, I suppose), and with only the teensiest bit of coaxing he began telling us (me?) about some of his travels with the Hero of Ferelden.

Some days I wish I were her. Or--at least I wish I had her enemies. It must have been so nice knowing what you fought was evil through and through.

24th August. Still cool

Dreamed last night that I was trying to save Mother from the foundry, but she kept turning into darkspawn. Might know they’re evil, but that doesn’t help the horror at the twisted, slavering teeth. At least Meredith is people-shaped.

Ugh. Can’t get rid of these chills. I wonder if Varric has anything that needs doing.

2nd Kingsway. Saw the first orange leaf today and nearly cried from joy

Went to the Gallows this morning to talk to Solivitus. Had some harlot’s blush I thought he might like, which he did, but for the first time I found myself not entirely at ease with the way the templars’ eyes followed me the whole trip. I hadn’t been there since the Arishok, and Maker but was I glad Fenris and Aveline came with me. I don’t think they’d try anything without Meredith’s say-so, but this was the first time I felt that little tingling what-if in the back of my skull telling me I’d better watch my hide.

We’d be packing up tonight, if this were Lothering.

Anyway, while I was there I saw a girl that looked terribly familiar darting about between some of those market stands. Turns out she’s Pelarie’s little sister--not sixteen yet--who got caught making inkwells tip over from the back of the room while she was away at school. The Ashbridges called some favors and had her placed here, where they could visit.

More than I thought of Lady Ashbridge, even if I wouldn’t send my most hated feather boa into their care. (Meant the Gallows templars, but to be quite honest the Ashbridges too)

Pelarie says she’s been trying to send their grandmother’s necklace to her, but she’s afraid they’ll take it away. Jule (very kind about me crashing their tea) said she’d heard Gallows apprentices are allowed very few personal possessions, but she knew a family who used to send their son fritters and preserves and things all the time, so there might be some strings to pull if I can find them.

Well. What’s this damned title for, if not string-pulling?

8th Kingsway. Brisk and with the faintest smell of those crisp autumn apples from the cart down the street

Went to the Gallows again today. Saw Cullen, who sighs when I come into his office but at least doesn’t reach for a guardswhistle, and told him I wanted Pelarie’s sister to be given her family necklace. He argued with me for a good bit about keeping apprentices’ focus sharp on their studies and the risk of reminders of family ties compromising their emotional blah blah blah blah.

I said I’d work on that rumor about the blood mage cult springing up in Darktown if he’d let her keep it, and he said yes.

My skin has been crawling since I left that place, and that was almost three hours ago.

What if that were me? What if that were Bethany?

Later

For the first time in my life, I thought to myself “thank goodness she died first” after I wrote that line above and it’s rattled me so badly that I can’t

I hate

how could

Maker, I hate

15th Kingsway. One last damned heat wave. The Maker is mocking me. Or Andraste is instead, and I’ve just been rejected by every higher power who ever thought twice about sending this city even the faintest zephyr of relief

Asked Toby today if he wanted another dog in the house. He gave me the archest look I’ve ever seen on a mabari’s face and stalked in high dudgeon to the back garden, where he very deliberately pissed on the stone bench. Haven’t offended him that badly since I tied him all over in yellow ribbon and asked him to dance the Remigold with me.

I’d forgotten how drunk I was at that party

Anders and Merrill and I are going out to the southern side of Sundermount tomorrow. Anders needs elfroot and more spindleweed, and Merrill thinks there might be a supply of ironbark somewhere there she can use to create or work on or something for her arulin...oh, hells. How the Void do you spell that word?

I was considering asking Varric for a fourth just in case, as Aveline has another (and another and another and another) evening with Donnic planned. For as much as she went through getting to this city in the first place, I hate to take her away from the one shining light she’s found in it so far.

On the other hand, she does have our own glorious friendship as a second equally bright shining light. Maybe I can call that in as the cheap bargaining tactician I am.

Later.

Aveline said no.

Varric said no.

Sebastian said no.

Merrill said “arulin’holm.”

Fenris said yes, then no when he heard who was going, and then yes again when I said Anders they would probably be so interested in their own collecting that Anders they would hardly have time to needle.

Also, I begged.

16th Kingsway. I am cursed beyond the ken of mortal memory

We’re stranded on the damned mountain.

It was cloudy when we left and it only got darker, but everyone said to keep going, we could beat the rain before it got bad. Ha! Had to take a narrow path to get to this ironbark of Merrill’s, and while we were up the cliffs a freak storm came from nowhere and washed the whole path to a great lot of boulders and rotten logs. Stopped raining not twenty minutes later, but the damage was already done. Merrill’s been looking for another way down but it’s almost dusk and I think we’ll have to camp.

I keep expecting Fenris and Anders to be either furious or intolerably snippy, but every time I accidentally make eye contact (despite the enormous effort I’m exerting to avoid exactly that), they both seem perfectly cheerful. Well, as cheerful as they get. Anders even smiled at some comment Fenris made about how once when he slept outside, a handful of territorial crows chased him right out of a tree.

Almost said it could be worse. At least Merrill’s managed to get a fire going—everything’s soaked to the bone.

24th Kingsway. Still cold, damp, foggy, grey

Made it home from Sundermount, obviously, and all four of us have the most glorious head colds to show for it. Merrill and I ended up having to carve through a good deal of the detritus from the landslide with magic, which even Fenris didn’t blink at given the alternative was another night in open air. Cold, frosty open air, with occasional winds sharp enough to split a nosehair.

I was strongly inclined to see what Anders’s healing could do for this, but he says a head cold won’t kill any of us and it’s good to let the body fight on its own occasionally, which sounded so much like my father I left his clinic in perfect childlike resentment.

That was yesterday. Surely if I tell him I’m dying today he won’t mind if I touch myself up, just a little. My nose is both so stuffy I can’t breathe and running so badly I’ve taken to shoving napkins up it all morning.

How blightedly unfair. All this nonsense and I can’t even breathe to complain about it properly.

25th Kingsway. See previous, bloody unchanged, and no I’m not upset about it, why do you ask

Maker and all his holy works, but Fenris is pitiful. Never have I ever seen an elf laid so low by a little fever and a stopped nose. I went over this morning with some of Orana’s father’s soup just in case, but he was cocooned so deep in his blankets all I could see was the very tip of one dark, pointed ear. Then he told me to go away with the saddest little sneeze right in the middle of a word.

Made him finish the soup and drink an entire glass of water. He called me a Tevinter word that he claims means “sadist,” but he did at least un-cocoon long enough to say goodbye.

I keep wondering if he’s ever had anyone bother to care he was sick before—at least, that he remembers. Somehow I doubt it.

26th Kingsway, somewhere around midnight, I don’t know

Fenris’s fever worsened all day today, until by late afternoon I couldn’t rouse him properly. Anders came by around dinner and must have seen the panic in my face, because the first thing he told me after examining him was that he’d be fine. He left a vial of something thick—I recognized the elfroot and I think embrium, but to be honest I was watching Fenris struggle to turn over—and said he should have a teaspoon every hour until breakfast tomorrow. He said he’d be fine. We just have to wait for the fever to take its course.

Flames, he looks awful, even asleep. Grey in the face and he’s got a chesty cough that sounds wet. The first time it happened I had a violent flash to Carver in the Deep Roads and nearly upset the lunch tray. Anders and I both worked what healing we could, but there’s only so much to be done for something like this. Maker, my father’s death taught me that, and that was almost ten years ago.

Anders said he’d be fine. He didn’t even stay, which of itself is enough to tell me there’s nothing to worry about.

If Fenris feels half as bad as he looks, he must feel like death.

Later. Early?

Failed to occur to me that in the absence of pinned candles, the only way to make sure Fenris gets one of these doses every hour is to stay up myself.

Not much gets by my eagle’s eyes these days, but I suppose even the most avid hunter misses one once in a while.

3rd bell

Hawk’s eyes. Damn!

4th bell and a bit

Fenris woke up this time, just for a few minutes. He’s not really been present since afternoon, so it was...it was a relief to see lucidity. Tired, too, but one must make allowances here and there.

He was enough himself to complain about the sourness of the potion. I told him if he felt able to be picky about the taste he ought to be able to take another cup of soup and some water, and he called me the Tevinter sadist again.

He just went back to sleep, but he still looks terrible. His breathing is better, though.

Almost 5th bell, still dark as pitch

First time I’ve ever been truly glad I live so close to this blasted elf. Was able to run home and dig out some spare linens from one of Orana’s closets before I had to wake him again. He’s sweated his pillow through and his sheets are soaked. If he’s still improving on this next dose I’ll roll him off long enough to get the fresh sheets down.

Half past, still darker than light outside, though the horizon’s fading a bit grey

He just went back to sleep. Got the new sheets on—he didn’t understand why at first, which...I didn’t know what to say to that except that I knew he’d feel acres better on clean, dry bedclothes, and I intended to change them whether he was willing or not.

He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but it was plain he was relieved to be out of that damp mess.

I was too, if I’m being honest.

Anyway, he wasn’t eager to go back to sleep after, despite the potion putting him just a touch loopy. We chatted about...oh, nothing of consequence, only Toby and apples and Varric’s latest pamphlet about the Championship ceremony and how the weight of that iron circlet has bent better heads than mine, and only time will tell how I carry its burden, etc, etc. Sometimes I wish Varric lent a little less effort to dramatic irony and a little more to my public credentiality. Credentials?

Talked a bit about Stinton and Pelarie and the rest, too. I told him I was doing well enough with their mothers, but that Lady Ashbridge might resent me pushing Pelarie into the arms of another woman right under her nose. Ah, but such is the uneven course of love.

He asked me about his sister twice near the end, which was how I knew the potion was kicking in at last. I had nothing I could tell him either way, and the second time I’m not even certain he was talking to me.

He asked if she was real. Maker, I wish I knew.

It’s not right that no one but me cares if Fenris is uncomfortable in illness-damp sheets.

Almost seventh bell, flames

Dozed off in the chair with the broken foot just before sixth bell. Didn’t come close to waking until a marvelously inconsiderate sunbeam punched me right in the eyes over Fenris’s windowsill, at which point I dropped my elbow off the armrest and gave myself whiplash trying not to tumble from the chair altogether.

Other arm stayed put, though, and Fenris didn’t even stir, which is the only reason I know he took hold of my hand while I was asleep—and possibly while he was asleep, which is the only reason I refuse to read more into it. His fingers were laced through mine, and the lyrium was humming ever so faintly, just enough that I could feel the—the shiver as I let him go.

I could have stayed there for hours, I think, if I hadn’t pulled the Void out of my neck sleeping sideways in that chair.

His color’s almost normal again, though he’s still a trifle wan. Thank you, Andraste. Not that I was worried.

I wasn’t worried. Anders said he’d be fine. I just wanted--someone this sick ought to have a friend take care of them until they’re well. Everyone deserves at least that much.

Ah, I think he’s beginning to wake up.

#fenris #hawke #fenris/hawke #dragon age #quark writes #hawke's journal tag #one thing long flights offer is uninterrupted writing time #on the other hand #suuuper tired on this #still! hope you like it!#i also got half the next one started so don't faint from shock if there's another one of these in a few days #otherwise this one would have been 4500 words long #which as much as i like long chapters is probs still a little much

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