At Your Side (A Dragon Age fanfiction)

In the Market

A few weeks later, they were ambling through the streets in the blue light of early evening. While the grouping changed depending on who was available and what the job was, more often than not it was the four of them—Hawke and Varric and Fenris and Merrill. Hawke told herself it was because she and Varric had the most to gain and Fenris and Merrill the least to do. But she had to admit, too, that Varric worried himself sick over Merrill when she wasn't with him, and that Hawke herself had grown so used to the weight of Fenris's gaze on her that she felt naked without it.

"Hanged Man tonight?" Hawke asked.

"Every night." Varric grinned.

"You live there," Merrill pointed out. "Of course you're there every night." She yawned. "I don't see how you can both stay up so late drinking and still be able to get up and fight the next day."

Hawke shrugged. "It's better than going back to Gamlen's."

"You've lived there for more than a year, but you still don't refer to it as home," Merrill observed.

"It isn't," Hawke said harshly. "It's Gamlen's home, and he never lets us forget it."

"At least you're together," Merrill said. "That's more important than where you live." Her eyes were sad and far away.

"That's true," Hawke said gently, wishing yet again that she understood why the elf couldn't—or wouldn't—go back to her people. "But I wouldn't consider Gamlen's a fit home for Mother and Bethany, anyway," she added after a moment. "I still can't forgive Gamlen for taking Mother's inheritance and losing the Amell estate."

"Estate?" Fenris said sharply. "You come from Kirkwall nobility?" Hawke turned her head to look at him, surprised at his obvious displeasure. Then it occurred to her that perhaps he equated nobles with slave-owners ... a narrow-minded view, but understandable given his history. Either way, he was ascribing to her a claim she didn't feel.

"No," she said, "my mother comes from Kirkwall nobility. I am a Fereldan soldier. But that doesn't stop me from wanting to give her back what she's lost." Fenris nodded, looking away, but some of the tension eased from his face. Hawke turned to Varric. "You're slipping, Varric. I thought everyone knew that story by now."

"Hawke, you wound me. Give me credit for a little creativity! That 'descended from nobility' story was tired before your boat docked. My stories are fresh and have the element of surprise."

"You mean they're not true," Merrill said.

"That, too." Varric chuckled. "Anyway, it isn't my fault the elf here is behind on his Hawke folklore."

"Perhaps I should catch up, then," Fenris said dryly.

"Don't look at me," Varric said. "I never tell old stories." He cast a sideways look at Hawke. "I'm sure Hawke would be happy to tell you all about herself."

Hawke glared at him. She couldn't decide whose teasing was more annoying, Varric's or Bethany's.

They were walking through Lowtown's evening green market—the leftovers from the daytime Hightown market, sold at a discount to Lowtown residents. Wilted lettuce, wormy apples, rubbery carrots. Still a lavish and lush selection compared to the leftovers that would be tossed in a bin for the denizens of Darktown once night fell.

Suddenly a shrill voice rang out, calling across the square. "Duckie! Yoohoo, duckie!"

The voice was coming closer, still calling out. Hawke looked up and saw a heavyset woman with a fussy curled hairdo that was meant for someone decades younger coming toward them, and incredibly enough, she was looking at Fenris.