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Chapter Text

In the Hanged Man pub, there was a click of the latch and soft footfalls that came to a halt. Merrill stood at the very edge of the pool of orange light cast by the lit hearth. Anders was too busy rearranging the cards in his hand to notice.

“I guess they’ll let anyone in this place, huh?” Varric asked. He shuffled the cards as he chuckled. “Only kidding, Daisy. There’s still time to be dealt in, if you’re interested.”

Merrill said nothing for a long moment, lips parted. She shuffled the rose stems in her hands, their ruby-red petals rustling softly.

“What’s wrong, Merrill?” Hawke asked, lowering her cards. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Fenris had glanced up when the other elf entered, but now he was obstinately ignoring her.

Isabella eyed the flowers in her hands. “Did you buy that bouquet, Kitten? Is it for someone special?”

“I didn’t buy it,” Merrill said, hoarsely. “I found it. On my kitchen table. But… the doors were still locked.”

Immediately, the atmosphere changed.

Hawke dropped the cards and stood in one fluid movement. She swung over the back of the coach and took Merrill by the shoulders. The Champion’s face was suddenly serious. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Merrill insisted. “Just a little shaken up.”

“Hold on. What’s going on?” Fenris asked, ears flicking up.

“Did you see anyone, Merrill?” Hawke asked. “Has anyone been following you? Threatened you?”

“No, no,” Merrill said. “I would have said something. I’m fine, really.”

“But how could it be a copycat?” Aveline asked. “Most of the details of the White Lily Murders weren’t released to the public. Even within the guards, those files are restricted.”

“That just means there are fewer suspects,” Isabella cut through. “Someone wants to threaten Hawke’s companions by mimicking her mother’s killer. I almost can’t believe someone has the balls to do that, but it isn’t like you don’t have enemies, Hawke.”

“Wait,” Fenris interjected. “Aren’t we jumping to conclusions here?”

“I’m not waiting around for Merrill to get hurt!” Hawke snapped. “I’m not taking any more chances. Merrill, you aren’t going home tonight — you’re staying at my estate, you won’t be left alone for a moment. Anders, you’re going to accompany her everywhere until this matter is sorted.”

“You can count on me,” Anders said, puffing out his chest.

“Hawke, I can look after myself…” Merrill objected. She shuffled her roses in her hands. “If I have to have a bodyguard, can’t it be Fenris?”

Fenris pulled a complicated expression—pleased and upset all at once. “It’s not that I don’t want to, Hawke, but are we sure this is all necessary? It might not be a killer. Roses are not white lilies, after all.”

“Give me a break!” Hawke crossed her arms. “Why else would someone break into Merrill’s home and leave a bunch of flowers on her kitchen table?”

“Well…” Fenris took a thin breath. He had his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. “Maybe because… if I left them on the doorstep, the flowers would have gotten dirty. Or stolen. And maybe, admittedly, I didn’t think it all the way through.”

A hush fell across the group.

Anders stared at Fenris in total shock, as if he’d grown a second head. Varric cleared his throat and Aveline’s eyebrows shot up. Isabella smiled, but covered her smile discretely with her hand, turning away.

“Oh,” Hawke said. “Right. Sorry, Fenris.”

Fenris accepted the belated apology with a shake of his head. “It’s fine. I understand where you were coming from.”

Merrill looked between Fenris and Hawke, and then looked around the rest of the group. A rose petal dislodged from her bouquet and drifted to the floor. It was so red it seemed to glow on the floorboards. Fenris’ eyes followed it and watched it settle.

“But I still don’t understand,” Merrill spoke up. “Why would Fenris put a bunch of flowers in my house while I was out? Oh dear… Did it seem really dull and lifeless last time you visited? Is that why?”

Fenris grimaced.

The former slave crept forward, head still bowed, and reached out. With uncharacteristic meekness, Fenris gathered up the rose stems and gently took them from Merrill’s hands. He held them close to his chest as he retreated.

“Fenris?” Merrill called after him. She turned to watch him leave. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong? They were very pretty, Fenris!”

Fenris left the pub, closing the door neatly behind him. A quiet lingered amongst the gathered allies.

Anders cursed, breaking the silence. “By the Maker, he is such a prick! Can you believe him?”

“Not now, Anders,” Hawke chastised.

“He’s unbelievable!” Anders said. “All these years, he’s been up on his high horse about Mages, but now he wants to shag Merrill just because she’s a pretty girl! After all his grand arguments, he doesn’t actually believe a thing!”

“I said not now, Anders,” Hawke snapped, a flinty edge entering her voice. “Not every situation is an opportunity to score points off Fenris.”

Anders’ shoulder rose like hackles. “But—”

One glare from Hawke stopped him in his tracks. Anders finally relented, tossing his head like a bridled horse.

“Fenris was…?” Merrill looked down at the singular rose petal that had fallen on the floorboards. It was as soft and delicate as a drop of liquid silk. “Now I remember. Roses. Humans use those in courting don’t they? Oh, my… you don’t think he was very serious about it, do you?”

Isabella let out a bewildered laugh. “Of course he was serious, Kitten. You’re a catch.”

“Fenris is serious about everything,” Aveline admitted. “I don’t think it was a joke. Let’s just hope the dent to his ego wasn’t fatal. He might be the type to take it quite hard…”

“Not that that’s your fault,” Varric assured Merrill.

“We’re going to be very gentle about this,” Hawke said, loudly and authoritatively (although it was only Anders and Isabella she was glaring at). “Fenris has made a big step towards independence and openness. This stuff is very hard for him. We are NOT going to tease him about any of this… or you’ll have ME to answer to.”

“But I have so much good material…” Isabella looked gutted. “But alright, if it pleases my darling Champion, then I’ll do my best.”

Anders looked sullen. Finally, he muttered under his breath: “I won’t coddle him. But I won’t bring it up —unless he does first.”

Hawke sighed. "Good enough, I suppose." 

Meanwhile, Merrill had crouched on the floor and peeled the rose petal off the wood. It rested on her palm like a drop of bright red blood. She considered it carefully. "Hmm."

Chapter Text

Late that night, Orana entered Hawke’s living room and bowed, announcing that the Champion had a visitor: Fenris.

“Let him in,” Hawke said.

Anders rose a little in his chair, but halted from rising by Hawke’s imperial glare. She held her eyes on him like an owner who knows a dog is rearing to bite, holding the glare while Fenris’ nearly-silent footfalls approached and he stopped in the doorway.

“Fenris,” Hawke said, her eyes finally flicking away from Anders. “You’re here late. Another ten minutes, and I would have retired to my chambers.”

“Hawke,” Fenris said, flatly. He glanced at her company. “Mage.”

Anders, who clearly didn’t trust himself to say a single word, just nodded at the elf with a bitter look in his blue eyes.

Fenris either didn’t notice or didn’t care about the spike in hostility from the mage. He turned his eyes placidly back to Hawke. “Can we talk? Privately.”

“Of course,” Hawke said. “My home is your home. I’m sorry, I might have to usher you out, Anders.”

“Don’t mention it,” Anders said, slipping to his feet and padding out. “I’ll leave you and loverboy here to your gossip.”

Fenris flinched.

Hawke sighed as the door shut behind the retreating mage. “He can be an ass. Ignore him.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Fenris said, sitting down in the chair Anders had just vacated. “You don’t have to act like I’m a thirteen year old girl who just got her heart broken for the first time. I’ve been through much, much worse than an awkward rejection.”

“Matters of the heart are always trickier,” Hawke said. “I’ve been shot, stabbed, burned by ice and fire, electrocuted, you name it — I’d take all of that over heartache.”

“Spare me the clichés,” Fenris said, leaning over the table by the fire to snag a bottle of red wine. “Can I open this?”

“Be my guest,” Hawke said, sitting down on the couch next to him. She sat with her feet tucked under her, like a resting bird on a cold day. Her blue eyes were bright and alert.

With more force than was necessary, Fenris stabbed he cork with the screw and pulled it out. He tipped the bottle back, taking a hearty swig.

“I know it sucks,” Hawke said. “You don’t have to pretend it was nothing. But you’re willing to put yourself out there for the chance at a good thing — I’m proud of you for taking that risk. It isn’t easy.”

Fenris tried to ignore her, but some of the tension melted from his shoulders. He looked tired.

“Have you been thinking about it for a long time?” Hawke asked.

“Years,” Fenris said, sullenly.

“Yowch!”

“Thanks, Hawke.”

Hawke beckoned, and Fenris reluctantly passed the wine to her. She took a swig and passed it back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Merrill’s cute and she’s a lot of fun to be around. I can see why you’d pick her. Sorry it didn’t work out.”

“I already told you I don’t need you to coddle me,” Fenris said. His voice was frosty. “If I needed your approval court a woman, I would have asked for it.”

Hawke lapsed into amiable silence, as she often did when Fenris started to nip. She rolled her head on her neck and massaged her shoulder muscles through her red robes. Her black hair hung down in messy sheets, falling over her face in a soft cowlick above one brow.

“I know why you all find it strange,” Fenris said, stiffly. “I almost miss in Tevinter, where the lines were so clear, and I could hate the Magisters without exception. I still hate magic. I still think it’s something nobody has a right to use. But…”

Fenris wiped his face with his long fingers. “But despite what your rebel leader might think, I’m not blind to the suffering of the mages in this country. I used to think the circle would solve everything, but it just doesn’t work. They can’t even prevent mages from becoming abominations, or escaping, or evading capture altogether. The Templar’s system is so inefficient it’s a wonder why they even bother.”

“Oh?” Hawke murmured.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” Fenris said. “I still think the circle system is better than the horrors of the Imperium’s unchecked magic use. That hasn’t changed. But when I hear of mages as young as three being taken into confinement and never seeing the sky… and so many cruel men in this city prosper without so much of a spark of mana… it’s become… murky.”

“Murky,” Hawke said. She ran a hand down her her leg and massaged her cold feet. “I can see that.”

“What about you?” Fenris asked. “You seem able to break bread with mage extremists and the Knight-Commander in the same afternoon. Do you have any convictions, Hawke, or does the ideas of little people mean nothing to you?”

Hawke pulled a cheshire-cat grin. “You want to know what I think? I think the argument about the mages is the world’s biggest, most tragic sideshow. I think it’s a clever distraction. It’s a flashy drama that keeps you looking forward while the pickpocket takes your wallet.”

“As simple as that?”

“Sure,” Hawke said, rubbing her chin. “Kirkwall and Tevinter look different, but what’s the common denominator? The rich get richer, and the poor get poorer.”

“Hmm. You ignore all the complexity, because it doesn’t suit your narrative… On this we’ll never agree,” Fenris said. “But I can hardly blame you. If the person I was ten years ago could see me now… he’d think I had gone soft in the head even considering mages as more than treacherous dogs. I can’t even agree with myself any more.”

“You’re growing up,” Hawke said, taking another swig of red wine. “Happens to the best of us, buddy.”

With an annoyed grunt, Fenris snagged the wine bottle from her and tipped it back.

“But,” Hawke cleared her throat, “you can’t be telling me your interest in Merrill was purely idealogical?”

Fenris looked gloomy. He was quiet for such a long time that Hawke was preparing to change the subject when he spoke again. “I lied to her once.”

“About?”

“About the Dalish,” Fenris said. He stared into the fire. “I told her that we elven slaves in Tevinter knew about the Dalish, we just didn’t care. But of course we cared. I knew almost nothing about the Dalish, I couldn’t imagine how they lived, I couldn’t even imagine how a society would even function with slaves doing all the work — but of course we all thought about them all the time, even if we never discussed it amongst ourselves. A new life among the Dalish was the prayer on our lips every night. I… If I’m honest, I think I idolised them.”

Fenris closed his eyes and leaned on his hands for a time. His ears flicked, as if batting off a fly. He breathed through his nose.

“I like Merrill,” Fenris said, simply. He sighed. He seemed to hover on the edge of saying more but eventually decided against it. He drank some more wine.

Hawke wanted to pull him into a hug, but she wasn’t sure he’d appreciate one, so she kept her distance. She shifted and tucked her feet back under herself, running a hand through her black hair.

“I know it feels like the end of the world,” Hawke said. “But it’s not. You’ll be glad you tried it, one day. And you might even find someone else.”

“I disagree,” Fenris shot her a flat look. “My life is one endless mortifying humiliation that I can never escape from.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Hawke said, stealing the bottle back.

“I almost forgot why I came,” Fenris said. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a slim envelope. “She left me a letter.”

“What did it say?”

“I have no idea,” Fenris said. “Her handwriting is awful. I was hoping you could take a look at it.”

Fenris passed the note over. Learning to read had been very emotionally difficult. In Danarius’ service, any exposed chink in his armour had been efficiently targeted. Admitting to not knowing something and leaning on Hawke for guidance had felt very frightening. If Hawke hadn’t been, well, Hawke — her strange mixture of adamantly loving and infuriatingly flippant — he probably would have never been able to learn at all.

“I see. She’s used to writing in Elvish, so she’s left in all the triptych dots and embellishments on the letters. It doesn’t help that she’s using a leaky quill,” Hawke said. “She just starts Fenris—. It looks like she’s scribbled out something before it… My dear Fenris?”

“She probably just forgot how to spell my name,” Fenris said, flatly.

“Can you blame her? You spent a month deciding whether it should be Fenrys with a y or Fenris with an i.”

Fenris tutted. “You’re still upset I didn’t let you spell it F-A-E-N’-R-E-E-S-E.”

“In this economy, you want to invest in as many vowels as possible.”

“Please just read the rest of the letter, Hawke.”

Hawke cleared her throat:

My Dear Fenris,

I’m sorry about what happened today. If I had remembered roses were used in human courting, I would not have brought it out in front of everyone. I told you last week I was envious of my neighbour who had flowers in their living room — I’m afraid to buy them because I’m worried I won’t be able to take care of them. But I think I will keep more flowers in my house from now on. With all else we’ve accomplished together, I’m sure I can learn to water them, at least for a little while.

Your Merrill.

Fenris was silent for a little while, absorbing the content of the letter. He frowned to himself. “Is that it? No post-script?”

Hawke flipped the letter over. “That’s it.”

“I don’t understand. Does she not understand it was a courting gift? She said that she does. But this isn’t a yes or a no. It’s… something almost irrelevant.” He massaged his brow. “What does she want me to take from this? It’s confusing.”

“That’s Merrill for you,” Hawke said.

“Hmm. Please read it again,” Fenris asked.

Hawke read it aloud.

“Did you read the letter wrong? She must have written Yours, Merrill,” Fenris said. “With an s. As in, short for Yours, Sincerely, or Yours, Faithfully. Not Your Merrill.”

“No. It says Your Merrill,” Hawke said, running her thumb over the words.

Fenris’ brow furrowed. He frowned into the fire, head heavy with thoughts.

Hawke pulled out a piece of parchment and began to scratch something out with her quill. The firelight flickered and bounced on the glossy feather of her quill. When she was finished, she waved the parchment gently until it had dried.

“Here,” Hawke said, passing back Merrill’s letter and her own piece of parchment. “Your note back, and also, I copied it out in nice, large, legible letters. That way, if you want to reread it yourself, you can.”

Fenris’ eyes widened.

His heart squeezed. Here was Hawke, his first and truest friend. He took the two pieces of paper and stared down at Hawke’s rounded, large script — so familiar to him, the first handwriting he had ever learned to understand. He remembered her hand over his on the quill, directing every pen stroke when he first wrote his own name.

“Thank you, Hawke,” Fenris said, although the words felt insufficient to convey his true gratitude. He wanted to say — thank you for everything. The depth of his gratitude could never be truly expressed.

“Anytime, buddy,” Hawke said, with a yawn. “Now clear off. I want to sleep.”

Chapter Text

Merrill found a mage between the produce stalls.

Anders was already agitated, a frown creasing his pale brow, eyes like hard chips of winter sky. She turned away but he was already on her scent, following her through the crates of cheese and past the mounds of fresh red tomatoes.

“Oh hello,” Merrill said. “Did you need something?”

“He’s bad news,” Anders said. “You can’t trust Fenris.”

“You don’t like Fenris?” Merrill asked, in mock surprise. “I had no clue.”

“Merrill, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” Anders said.

Merrill sighed. She picked up an apple and inspected it for spots, turning it around in her palm.

“I’ve seen it happen a dozen times before,” Anders said. “You might think he likes you, but he’s only giving you presents so you’ll lower your guard. It’ll be a different story when he gets you alone.”

Merrill put the apple down and padded to the next store. “Anders… I appreciate your concern, but we’re both adults.”

“He’s manipulating you,” Anders said. “He’s just trying to make you feel special and pretty.”

“You don’t think I’m special and pretty?” Merrill asked, a note of hurt in her voice.

“No!” Anders said, and then flushed. “I mean, yes! Uh, I don’t see you that way, but the point is — he’s trying to take advantage of you.”

“Anders,” Merrill said as she passed a handful of coins to the vendor in exchange for a tangerine that she tucked in her bag. “I’m sure you’ve seen many awful things in your youth and I know why you’re worried, but I’m hardly a cloistered circle witch and Fenris certainly isn’t a Templar trying to groom me. I’m in no danger.”

“But it’s the same thing,” Anders insisted. “He hates mages. You can’t think you’re the exception, I know you aren’t.”

“I’m not sure he hates mages,” Merrill said. “He might disagree with you, but he’s never stood in your way, has he?”

“Trust me, he does hate mages,” Anders said. “He’s not like us.”

Merrill wasn’t sure there was an “us”, but she let the comment lie. She sorted through the stall of dried herbs, rustling seed pods against each other as she felt for the hidden kernels inside.

“There are so many other men in Kirkwall, Merrill,” Anders said. “You’re… you know, not unattractive. You could probably find a dozen elven men in the alienage alone to court, and none of those are quite as terrible a match as Fenris!”

Merrill gave a full body shudder.

“Oh, Anders, that was scary,” Merrill said. “I felt like I just glimpsed what it must be like to be a young Tevinter noblewoman with an overbearing mother… Perhaps being an orphaned elf in the alienage isn’t so bad after all.”

“I’m being serious,” Anders said, crossly.

Merrill giggled. She counted her coins. “Do you have change for a sovereign?”

Anders glared, but counted out the silvers. They swapped coins.

Merrill drifted through the racks of rugs at the edge of the market. Heavy pelts of colour blocked the reflected light from the dockside. The elf ran the back of her knuckles along the crimson carpet fur, the same way she used to pet the Halla back home.

“I just don’t know what you see in him,” Anders said. “Why are you even considering this?”

“I thought it might be fun,” Merrill said. “With all of Hawke’s business and my own experiments, everything I do is so heavy. I never got to live a carefree life like the young girls in my clan did. So if I get the chance to just have a good time, why wouldn’t I accept that?”

Anders snorted. “If all you want is a good time, you can visit the Blooming Rose.”

“Well, what’s your excuse?” Merrill asked. “Why do you want Fenris to like you?”

“I don’t!” Anders snapped. “I don’t want Fenris to like me. I don’t even like him.”

“Really?” Merrill asked, admiring a deep purple rug with white stars. “If you just hated him, you’d avoid him. Instead you push into his company so you can make your ten-point argument about why he should stop hating mages and start siding with them instead. You want to argue him into being your friend.”

Anders’ cheeks coloured. “That’s not true. I don’t want to be his friend.”

Merrill raised her eyebrows.

“It isn’t!” Anders exclaimed. “The only reason I’m around him so much is because Hawke’s our mutual friend. It’s hardly my choice. And the reason we argue all the time is because — well, he always starts something with me!”

“Of course, Anders,” Merrill said. She picked up two bolts of yarn. “Which colour would suit his complexion better? Red or blue?”

Anders glared at the yarn. But gradually, his expression thawed, and his eyes softened. He gained a thoughtful countenance, and took a long time to respond.

“Probably blue,” Anders said, finally. “I think it will be a nice contrast with his tan skin.”

“I was thinking the same,” Merrill said, and bought the yarn.