#bean scribbles

When Fenris raps the heavy knocker on the door, he waits. Not the normal wait -- it's longer than usual. Would it be rude to knock again? Or is he finally being seen as a nuisance, and ignored until he goes away? Before he can make up his mind, shuffling on the doorstep, he registers sounds from inside. The door swings open. Instead of Bodahn, it's the dwarf boy. His vacant expression shifts as he lifts his head, eyeing Fenris from head to toe. Or perhaps not. Fenris isn't sure. "Hello," the boy says. He hesitates. "Hello." Hesitates again. "May I ask--" "Friend." The declaration is soft, like everything else to come from the boy's mouth. Soft but sure. The boy smiles. "Master's friend." And without waiting for an answer, the boy walks back inside. Leaves the door open -- an invitation. Fenris takes it. He pushes the door shut behind him but by the time he turns around, the boy is gone. Odd dwarf... He needs no guide to Hawke's room. On the landing, he encounters the one person in the estate whom he avoids. "Ah. Serah Fenris, isn't it?" Leandra asks. The title is heavy. Awkward paired with his name. It can't seem so only to him. "Just Fenris will suffice, my lady." "Just Fenris, then," she says, and a sparkle of Hawke's humor flickers in her eyes. "I suspect you're looking for Garrett." "I am." "I'm afraid he won't be home for a few hours. Is your business urgent?" "No," he says. "I have no business with him. I--" Shit. He coughs. "I... came to return something I borrowed." He thinks her eyes flick to his empty hands. She's careful enough to keep from smiling, but there's mischief in that look on her face. The tips of his ears burn. "I see. I'd hate for you to make a wasted trip. If you'd like, you can leave it with me and I'll make sure my son gets it." "Thank you but no. I'll return another time." He has every intention of leaving as swiftly as he came. She speaks again and he stills. "Perhaps I might ask a favor of you, if you've no other pressing matters at hand." Fenris is not like Hawke. He does not deal in favors. But rejecting the woman outright just seems... wrong. He does not answer, but he listens. "Would you come with me?" She leads to the only room in the estate where Fenris has not ventured. For good reason. As if he'd have any business in her private chamber. And yet... The walls are littered with portraits. Fenris recognizes Hawke and Carver, but there are others he does not know. A sweeping family portrait -- presumably the Amells. Another of a girl smiling kindly. A graying man with Hawke's nose and brow. He knows he is looking at Hawke's family. His father, perhaps his sister -- Bethany, it was Bethany. Fenris had never met her but he knew she was Carver's twin. Hawke seldom spoke of her. Her name was heavy on his tongue. Even now, years later. Fenris stares at the faces above him. So many similarities. The shape of their lips, the curve of their brows, their strong chins. Subtle things. Did Hawke pose for the portrait of their father, and Carver for the one of Bethany? They must have. For all the shared features, they must have. Fenris wonders. Not for the first time. He wonders what he has in common with his parents. Ears, nose, eyes, of course -- the standard look of an elf. But he tries to think of what his parents might look like, what creatures gave two halves to create him, and he comes up empty. Blank. Until he thinks of the only creature whom he knows for certain has given anything to his appearance. A deep, old ache stirs within him. Under his skin, in his blood. In his markings. He tears his eyes from the paintings. Leandra has a tea table set with dainty bits of porcelain and silver. She's still steady at her age, unbowed and proud. He watches her fill a second cup from the steaming kettle. "How do you like your tea?" she asks. "I... pardon?" "Cream? Sugar?" "No," he says. "Thank you." She sits, and there is an unspoken invitation for Fenris to do the same. He forgets how to walk, somewhat. He makes it to the table and sits across from her. A noble woman serving me tea. The irony is not lost on Fenris. If Danarius could see this... "You had a favor to ask of me," he reminds her. Leandra smiles. "And you seem to have accepted." Fenris blinks once. "I do not understand." "Your company, dear," she says. He dares not repeat himself for fear of looking like either the ass or the fool. "I'm not as popular as Garrett is these days. When there are guests and letters and summons, they are all for my son," she explains. "Bodahn is here when I need him and Orana is very sweet. But Garrett is busy and Carver... well. I have few visitors. Home feels lonely at times." "I'm afraid I am not good company." "It would seem Garrett thinks otherwise." Again, his ears prickled with heat. "Garrett is... good," Fenris tries. "He's a decent man and friend." "I'm glad you think so." Leandra cocks her head. "Is your tea too hot?" Fenris takes a sip to appease her, clinking the porcelain rather more noisily than she does. He recognizes the flavor. Orange blossoms, rose hips, and perhaps a hint of royal elfroot. Fenris brings the cup to his lips again. Savors the smell, the warmth, the flavors. Where does he know this from? He doesn't recognize it as anything he's ever served Danarius. "You know," Leandra says, "I lost count of how many petitions for marriage he's turned down. I thought perhaps he felt I was meddling too much in his personal life and he refused them all to spite me." Her laugh is gentle. Tired, but tender. "Silly of me. Garrett has never been like that." Fenris pulls the cup from his lips. Watches the tea leaves settle at the bottom. A cold pit settles in his stomach. "I was not aware that he was looking for a spouse. Though I should not be surprised, given his station." "He hardly has time to sleep, let alone think about marriage," Leandra says. "I hoped to help him find a wife. It's clearer to me now why he didn't want my help. Or a wife." He is not a fitting partner for a lord of Hightown. Fenris is a whim, a carnal want, but not a marriage candidate. He has no business finding comfort in Hawke's arms nor his bed nor -- anything, anything here. It shouldn't hurt to think of Hawke moving on. Having his life. Of another touching him in the places Fenris has touched him, or Hawke's hands lifting, feeling, burning... But it hurts anyway. It will always hurt. Hawke will forget him. The one time Fenris let down his walls and let Hawke in, Fenris will always cherish. But for Hawke, it will fade. As all things fade. He does not know how to begin but he cannot sit in silence. "If I am in the way of... That is, if I am causing problems for Hawke..." "You're not a problem, dear. You're very much the opposite." "No," he said. "You don't understand." I can't do this. She didn't know, and how could she? "I understand that my son cares for you a great deal," Leandra tells him gently. "And while I don't know you well, I would say a man who comes to call so often must care for him." They had no future. Fenris could not even live in the present. He wasn't ready, might never be ready. He couldn't do that to Hawke. To tie him down with indecision and wavering convictions. He couldn't let Hawke squander his happiness. "I find it difficult to believe you have no issue with your eldest son considering an elf." Fenris drops his gaze. "Assuming, of course, that there is anything to consider." "'Considering?' Is that what the young people call it now?" She laughs. He flounders, blushing horribly. Leandra glances out the window, letting him burn up without the pressure of her gaze. A distant sort of look comes over her. "I have watched my family suffer so much. I have watched Garrett put on a brave face for us all and carry burdens that never should have been his to bear. But we're here now. Things are getting better. They will never be as they were, and I will never get back all I've lost. But it is better." A sigh lifts her chest. She smiles, an honest and comforting thing that fills Fenris with an odd sense of longing. "I want Garrett to be happy. He's clumsy with his feelings, and he doesn't think much of marriage. But I know my boy. I know you make him happy. If that is what he wants, however much he might stumble on the path, he has my blessing." Did Hawke say something to her about their relationship -- or lack thereof? Probably not. They scarcely speak to anyone about their joke of a love life, and yet it seems to be a well-known secret. He blames Varric. But if even Hawke's mother sees that there's something going on... well, perhaps they are not as subtle as Fenris likes to think. Perhaps the real culprit is all these years of mounting sexual tension. Leandra refills his cup. "Do you like this blend?" He nods and drinks. "It was my daughter's favorite," she recalls fondly. "After we were compensated for the Deep Roads expedition, this was one of the first things I bought." He recalls the source of familiarity. He remembers catching a whiff of it on Hawke, a little herb satchet he keeps tucked in his belt. Clearly not some alchemical brew nor anything to heighten magical abilities. A Fereldan good-luck charm, maybe, he'd thought. Fenris is empty where he knows he should ache. It's been nearly five years since she died and Hawke still carries her. They are quiet while their cups empty. He takes his time. It is odd to sit in silence with this near-stranger. Social norms dictate that he should make small talk with her, although he has no idea how to go about it. Luckily he detects no pressure from her. Not to talk about the weather, or Hawke, or -- Maker forbid -- himself. It is simply quiet. But he is done, whether or not she tells him he is overstaying his welcome. He finishes the last dregs in his cup. "There is something I must attend to. Thank you for the drink." "You're more than welcome. Shall I show you out?" He mumbles something along the lines of "there's no need" but she rises from her chair anyway and guides him downstairs. When she opens the door for him, another flicker of dark amusement flashes in his mind. This woman, a noble, a human... treating him as something akin to an equal. Hawke's disposition must be hereditary. "I'm sure you have more important things to do than wile your time away with an old woman," Leandra says, "but if you have some free time, I'd appreciate your company again." He nods. Not a promise -- just an acknowledgement. The time spent here has, surprisingly, not been unpleasant. "Take care," she says. And then it happens. He let his guard falter. He didn't notice -- not until her palm brushes against a bare strip of skin on the back of his arm, uncovered by his armor. The shock of foreign flesh on his markings. He jolts, yanking away. Fenris comes to himself enough fast enough not to reach for his blade. But fuck if the temptation didn't strike him like a whip. He can't bring himself to look at her. He's ruined it now. For a fraction of a second longer, Fenris stands on the doorstep. Poised like he hasn't decided whether to fight or flee. Light footfalls carry him from the estate. His feet hardly touch the ground; he flies. Crowds part for him and no one takes pursuit. He nearly batters down the door to his own mansion. When he slams it shut behind him, the wall's dusty hangings clatter against the stone. Fenris opens his eyes. Chest heaves. Dust particles settling in a narrow beam of light. Fenris grasps the curtain and yanks it fully shut. Alone again, as he should be. As he wants to be. He presses his back against the door and slides down to the floor. With his knees drawn up to his chin, Fenris withdraws into the familiar comfort of nothingness. - He is unsure of himself. Fenris has never done this before. He can count on one hand how many people he considers himself close to in any capacity -- with fingers to spare. Even within that tiny, tiny group, Fenris has never done this. He puts in research. Watches people in Hightown's square, and even asks advice from  the trinket-peddlers in the bazaar. He tries to learn the etiquette -- Marcher, Fereldan, Kirkwaller, anything -- in the act of gift giving. Never in his life has he had something he would bestow as a gift. Slaves are property, property can't own things. Slaves have nothing to give because nothing belongs to them. Fenris is not a slave anymore, but the concept of ownership is still... muddy. Things that are his, he clutches so tightly that none might part him from them. His clothes, his armor, his blade, the mansion -- these are his. Sometimes Hawke gives him things or Fenris finds them on his own -- like a necklace or a band, imbued with elements of focus or merely good luck for battle -- and Fenris is fiercely attached to them. The mere act of holding them and saying mine is, in itself, an act of defiance. So, it is strange to him to purchase something with the intention of giving it away. "What's this, now?" Leandra wonders. The tin is very plain. Fenris did not know how to wrap it. "For you," he says. She takes it from him and unscrews the lid. Inside is a clutter of dried sprigs, brown and black and crushed to tiny pieces. Leandra brings it to her face to smell it, though Fenris can already detect the aroma from across her little table. "Tea leaves?" He nods. "I've never smelled anything like it," she says -- not unkindly. "It's a blend from Seheron. The leaves are woodsmoked with cloves. The flavor is strong, but it is an effective sleep agent." Her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles. "Then I'll brew it tonight. Maker knows I could use a good night's rest." She places the tin in a spot of honor atop her own pretty, painted box of tea leaves and sugar. "Thank you, Fenris. That was sweet of you." He reddens at the crests of his cheeks, glancing away but not with embarrassment. He's done well, then. Good. "Oh, and that reminds me. Would you believe I have something for you as well?" Surely he misunderstands. Fenris lifts his head again and watches her cross the room. She plucks a glass jar from the mantle and when she returns, she moves her chair closer to him before she sits down. "Last week you'd mentioned these winters were drying you out something terrible. Hopefully this helps." The salve is opaque, green-tinged, and its scent unfamiliar. "Is it some sort of medicine?" Leandra says, "It's a skin cream. Your hand, dear?" Fenris hesitates. There is no pressure, and with three children raised, Leandra seems to understand something of boundaries -- even ones that seem rather ludicrous at the surface. She is patient with him, though. She waits. And Fenris prepares himself. He picks off the armor and glove, exposing his bare hand on the table between them. So many times has it dried, cracked, split, and bled. Scars remind him of the spots that always reopen. The scars are ugly. And yet even they do not compare to the white markings scoring his entire body. He takes a breath. Leandra presses a dollop of the cream into his palm. She is careful, gentle, but purpose drives her. Even when he stiffens, holds back a wince, it is necessary. This will make it better, he tells himself, biting back at his baser instincts to withdraw from the pain. It's harder than he thought. She turns his hand over and coats his scarred knuckles, the crevices between each finger, and around the edges of each nail. And for a moment, when Fenris looks to her, he does not see Leandra. He sees another woman. An elf with black hair and cooper skin. Hands both tender and firm patch his scraped knee. The woman speaks, but he doesn't hear a voice -- doesn't know the words. All he knows is warmth, the softness of spring grass, sun shining off of her eyes. Green. Green, like moss, like... He doesn't know what this is. A memory, an illusion, a mere wish...? He doesn't know. The wisps of it fade as quickly as it had come before he can even think to chase them. "...ris? Fenris?" A blink, and he remembers himself. He flexes his bare hand. Supple skin shifts over sinew. There is no pain. No bite of  cracking skin. "I tried to mind your tattoos," Leandra says. "I hope I didn't..." "No. It is all right." Again, he curls in his fingers. The skin is still hard, but not stiff like before. "I think it will be easier to hold my sword like this." Leandra gives an exasperated shake of her head. "Boys. Of course your first concern is a fight." After he redresses his hand, she presses the jar into his palm. "Use it as you need it, dear. I hope it brings you some comfort." For a moment, he expects to see that... vision again. Pointed ears and viridian eyes. But instead, he sees Leandra. It's better this way, he thinks. This is real. But the strange, innocent embrace of his vision is real, too -- even if the vision itself is nothing more than a fabrication of his mind. "Thank you," he says. He means it. And when she smiles, Fenris nearly returns it. - Fenris knows what a decomposing body smells like. He knows the smell of gore. It has followed him for as long as he can remember. But he is not ready for what they find. He knows the evils of magic. Has felt the evils of magic, bears inescapable reminders of it etched into his skin. But he is not ready to see it. Not like this. They built a pyre for her in the tunnels. For Leandra and the bits of the other poor souls stitched to the grotesque flesh puppet they found bearing her face. Fenris has cleaned himself so many times. He scrubs and scrubs but he cannot rid himself of the smell, of the rot. He gives up only because he cannot bear to think of Hawke alone any longer. But he can't take this pain away. Hawke wants absolution. Justice. He wants his family back. Fenris can't give him any of that. He can't help. He can't even share Hawke's pain. Fenris doesn't know what it's like to lose a mother. But he discovered, so very briefly, what it might be like to have one. And it doesn't matter that Fenris broke things off. Nothing else matters but the heavy hang of Hawke's head, the slump of his entire body. Defeated. No creature can fell him in battle. But this is different. Fenris makes no noise. He is sure Hawke does not even notice him coming closer until the tips of his bare feet come to rest between Hawke's. Hawke lifts his face, the pallor of a broken man. "Garrett," he whispers. He can't speak. He cradles Hawke's head in his hands, fingers buried in raven hair, and he pulls Hawke against his stomach. Shaking arms embrace him around the middle. Hawke shudders, pulls in a sharp breath -- and sobs. I will be strong for him, Fenris tells himself, even as his eyes mist over. They are strong and they will overcome. But this pain, so raw and new, reminds him of why he is so afraid in the first place.

"I know you do."

"Yes," she said. "But not yet."