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"Please, please, come right in! The Lady has been expecting you!"
Bodahn swept Fenris in. The dog eagerly bounced at the doorway to the main hall, pointed mabari teeth sunk into an already ripped toy so that he wouldn't bark quite as often.
"Your, ah, feet, serah?" Bodahn said, half-suggestion, half-command.
Fenris looked down to where the dwarf was pointing. A mat and slippers ahead of his bare toes.
Before he could object to the slippers, the dog dropped the toy and began to bark, and Bodahn heaved a big sigh of lament.
Martel's voice echoed down the steps and into the entry: "Why is he barking now?"
"A guest, messere!" Bodahn called back up over the noise.
"What?" she shouted back.
"A guest!"
"I can't bloody hear you!"
"What's all the noise about?" another lighter, finer voice called from another room. "Honestly! Can we not have five minutes of peace?"
"Excuse me, serah," Bodahn said, still pleasant, but weary, as if he spent most of his days shouting over the dog.
Such racket would never have been permitted in the manse Fenris had been chained to, and so he was glad to hear it – the noise and ruckus of a normal house. It disarmed the Hawke mansion. He'd seen the Lowtown hovel the Hawke family came from and had been worried for a brief moment that they would become pretentious at best, entitled and cruel at worst.
Instead, they seemed to be much the same -- loud, chaotic, often drunk, and prone to a sort of bickering that walked the line between petty and affectionate. A comfort to him. If he had experienced such familial warmth, he did not recall it, and if the absence of Carver, Bethany, and Malcolm tormented them, it was not obvious except in their eagerness to have company.
As a compromise, he wiped his feet on the mat but ignored the slippers as he entered. He rather liked the feeling of the cool stone after the hot summer outside. Then Fenris ignored the dog until he let out a final bark and sat in front of the fireplace, still bouncing every few seconds with the hopes that Fenris would toss a toy.
"He's stopped," Martel said from the top of the steps.
Fenris restrained himself from looking up and instead bent to reward Rabbit the dog's silence with a pat.
"You reward him with attention when he's loud, so he continues to be loud," Fenris advised when he heard her steps at the foot of the staircase.
"He's a charmer, I'm afraid," she sighed. "I can't resist his slobbery face."
"I did not realize a man needed to slobber to have your attention. I will make sure to correct that." Steady, steady. He remained focused on chin scratches for Rabbit.
Martel snorted loudly behind him. "I'd rather you didn't. Or at least clean up after yourself."
He gave Rabbit a final pat, stood, and turned around. Waiting before looking made the reward of seeing her better. He didn't remember when he'd figured that out but now he made himself wait and wait until the last second.
"But to be fair," she continued, "everyone rewards me with attention when I'm loud."
"One of many reasons you're rewarded attention," he said before he could stop himself.
There was nothing special in what she wore or how she looked on this particular day. It was a loose, sleeveless blouse, and a skirt with a dark blue sash tied at her hip. It was the compromise she had made with her mother: in exchange for not having to wear the ostentatious dresses, she would not go around looking like a farmhand. But! She still had to look "presentable." He'd seen this look before, or some variant of it. Nothing new.
But as always, it landed on broad hips and broad shoulders, muscled arms exposed. Her black hair was slumped in a loose knot by her ear, and already she had a sly smile as she met his gaze. She did not command a room; she was simply its eternal centerpiece, regardless of where she stood.
"True," she said, the smile widening, "I'm also quite tall."
He couldn't resist a grin in return. Before he could get distracted yet again, he extended his hand with the gift: one of the infinite bottles of wine from Danarius' cellar.
Martel took the bottle slowly and turned it in her hands though she'd seen its label a dozen times already. "You don't need to keep bringing these."
"Are you not enjoying them?" he asked.
She sighed. "We are, but that's not the point. You're welcome here without wine, Fenris. You need only bring yourself."
He averted his gaze quickly before he got locked into agreeing with her just because she was staring at him with her earnest dark blue eyes. "Varric says—"
"He's a liar, and you know that." They both grinned.
"He says it's rude to arrive anywhere without a gift."
He had known that, of course. Traditions in Tevinter were not so different. But when Fenris had carried in Danarius' gifts, it was because Fenris was being shown off like a prize horse. Rather than bringing a gift, Fenris was in fact bringing a threat. To enact the tradition himself, to personally bring a genuine gift, what little thing he could — it made him a person.
Martel clicked her tongue and scoffed. "That dwarf. He just wants free booze." She jabbed a finger towards him, stopping just shy of tapping him on the chest. "You should be inviting him over and making him bring you free stuff. I know Isabela swipes bottles when Corff isn't looking."
Fenris chuckled. When he smiled, she smiled bigger. She found any opportunity to do so and he liked that. She was right, and he had no qualms about accepting what he was owed in life: any chance to luxuriate, whatever careless form it took -- drinks, late afternoon naps, food, smiling at a handsome woman from Ferelden…
But extorting Varric for booze was a different matter. And he knew that the Hawkes could afford whatever they wanted and they did not need Danarius' discard. The wine itself was not the point.
"I have little to give except these, Hawke. Perhaps someday I'll have enough to truly return your kindness."
She searched his face, then looked back down at the bottle. "Very well," she sighed. "I'll have Bodahn pop it open. They're supposed to breathe or something."
"We don't typically care for that," Fenris sniffed. They made sure to never do anything Danarius had demanded.
"No, but I don't think you want my mother giving you a haircut after she's had wine."
"Ah," he said. "Fair point."
The dwarf found his way back to the main hall and took the wine back to the kitchens.
"Enchantment?" Fenris heard.
"Not for you, m'boy. This is an adult drink," Bodahn answered.
"Enchantment…"
Martel guided Fenris to another smaller sitting room, Rabbit in tow.
There was a chair on a drop cloth at the center of the room, the rest of the furniture pushed a mindful distance away. They arranged it like this every month, just for him. Every month, for the last seven.
At first he had been nervous, suspicious. A strange woman, even if pleasant-faced and portly, bearing sharp scissors so close to his neck? She asked him what he wanted and he did not know. We'll get that hair out of your face, at least, and you'll think about it for next time.
Martel chatted lightly with him and kept him distracted. A story about her first year in Kirkwall. A memory of Lothering. The time Rabbit, a puppy at the time but still outrageously strong, had brought a live goose inside the house. The time Gamlen had been mugged by eight-year-olds – twenty of them.
It went by quick, and there was no blood, no violence, not even a yank. Just wisps of white hair on his shoulders and the cloth beneath his bare feet.
Now it was an excuse to chat. Lady Amell shared absurd gossip and he shared what he overheard from his neighbors in exchange. She, too, had few friends yet, and a good gab seemed to make her happy. And when Lady Amell was happy, Martel could relax.
Fenris sat on the chair, Rabbit fwumped down in front of him, and Martel sat cross-legged beside the dog, skirt tucked messily. He reached down to scratch Rabbit behind the ear to distract himself again. Short hairs, itchy, scratchy, but still soft. Mabari were complex.
"Oh, good! You're here." Lady Amell's voice sounded from an adjoining storage. "Just a moment and I'll be out."
"He's brought wine, Mother," Martel called.
"Did he?"
She emerged with a small box containing a comb, a brush, a mirror, scissors, pins, and a new contraption Fenris did not recognize. He craned his neck to look but could not make sense of its row of even, sharp teeth.
She came around to stand in front of him and tipped his face up to look at her, then side to side so she could examine the fall of his hair. The touch did not startle him. The stare did not anger him. He examined her back.
Mistress Amell and her daughter had something similar around the cheeks and jaw, always warm and rounded and pleasant, then ending square and sharp. But Martel clearly took after her father in musculature and stature, for Lady Amell was short, shorter than even Fenris, with more delicate wrists. She was weathered, marked by smiles as well as frowns, by sun and wind, hair gone steel grey earlier than most. She did not look like a noble, and Fenris thought so affectionately.
"Very kind of you, Fenris. Thank you. Your presence is the greatest treat of all, of course."
"That's what I said," Martel interjected.
"It never hurts to say again."
It took everything in him not to duck his head, bashful at the appreciation. No one ever said thank you to a slave. No one cared for his presence, only his violence. "It is the least I can do," he murmured.
She squeezed his shoulder as she came to stand behind him and set the box on a corner table that had been moved and cleared of its vase. Her hands were warm and callused by years of labor and he got a whiff of lilies from her perfume.
"Are you ready, my dear?" she asked.
"By all means," he answered.
"Then straighten, if you please. You'll ruin your back, slouching like that."
Fenris straightened and there were several pops in his spine and shoulders.
And then she began.
With a sweep, she pulled his hair back out of his face and his vision was clear. Martel smiled up at him, Rabbit's big head in her lap. He slobbered on her nice skirt.
"So that's where you keep your eyes," she said with false astonishment, as she did every time. "Lovely green." And his stomach fluttered, as it did every time.
"Speaking of eyes, Martel," Lady Amell said, "I do believe I've heard Bran Cavin's son has been looking for a wife of late."
Martel's expression soured abruptly. Fenris stifled a chuckle.
"Bran Cavin's son has been looking for a wife for a very long time. We should take that as a clue, mother. Besides, do we really need to play matchmaker for me?"
"You're not getting any younger." Snip snip snip beside his ear.
Martel's gaze was studiously focused on Rabbit's ear. "We can't all run away as girls."
"The world is open to you now! Back in Lothering, I was worried I was going to have to set you up with the thatcher's son."
She wrinkled her nose. "He reeked of hay. Ah, not too short, mother," Martel warned suddenly. "Please don't give him Father's hair again."
Early on, before they had settled on what he liked for himself, Fenris had spent a month forced to wear a hat because Lady Amell had accidentally trimmed his hair the same way she had Malcolm's, and it disturbed Martel too much.
"That was once and it grew out quickly," Lady Amell huffed. "Anyway, he is – was – a thatcher's son, darling. Of course he'd smell like hay."
"That redheaded sister at the Chantry always smiled at me." Martel raised her head and winked at Fenris as she spoke.
Lady Amell paused in her trimming and sighed. "A Chantry sister? Be serious, Martel."
"What, you can run off with a Circle mage but I can't dally with a Chantry sister?"
Fenris flinched. That was the issue, wasn't it – Malcolm Hawke, a mage, and here: his beautiful, tall, winking daughter, also a mage. One of many issues. The biggest one.
"Did I nick you, my dear?" Lady Amell asked quickly, carefully checking his ear.
"No," he assured her, "it was me. I apologize."
She gave his ear a soft, reassuring pat. "Just be careful." Snip. A white tuft fluttered and landed on his knee. "Martel, your father and I were in love. We made vows under the eyes of the Maker."
"So did the sister, I'm sure." Her impish grin again, infectious.
"Honestly, Martel!" Lady Amell snapped. "Enough. We're talking about your future. You have responsibilities now. You must consider someone who can be trusted and who can protect you given... your condition."
"Right. Now I have responsibilities." Martel deflated and resumed her dedicated inspection of Rabbit's ear. He huffed and tried to pull his head out of her grasp.
Fenris cleared his throat and began to speak, hoping to rescue Martel from admonishment. That there might have been a more selfish reason to intercede – it wasn't worth considering.
"I did overhear the neighbors say that a number of widowers and more senior bachelors will be present for an upcoming ball. They seemed disappointed but perhaps in between matchmaking for Martel, you could... find a suitor yourself, Lady Amell."
"Oh!" she sighed, half in lament and half in curiosity. "I'm surely past that point."
Martel looked up at him in surprise. He winked back at her. Another tuft of white hair floated past him. It was concerningly large.
"No, no," she said quickly, taking the cue. "This house is so big. Surely someone to spend the time with would be nice." She paused. "Just promise me it's not going to be the seneschal."
Lady Amell sniffed. "That odious little man? No."
Martel tossed her head back and laughed. A chuckle escaped Fenris.
"Fenris," Lady Amell said suddenly, "I'd like to try something new, if that's alright with you." She pulled the contraption out of the box and passed it to him.
Upon closer inspection, while the teeth were even and sharp, they did not seem intended to cut, but seemed more like a very small, short comb. When he squeezed the handles, a pair of blades intersected quickly just to the length of the comb.
"A dwarven invention. All the young men seem to have short hair these days – fashionable. This would allow me to shear it quite close." Her hands came to a rest on his shoulders and she squeezed gently. "It might be nice to try something new, wouldn't it?"
Fenris glanced at Martel and raised his eyebrows questioningly.
Martel shrugged in response. "You'd be at risk of your eyes being visible all the time. We'd all see when you roll them."
Wouldn't be able to hide when he stared at her anymore, scrutinizing, trying to understand how she had become the way she was. Though with Lady Amell standing behind him, perhaps the answer was clear.
"Will it hurt?" he asked before he could stop the question. He grimaced.
"I don't believe so, but if it does, we'll stop," Lady Amell assured him.
"And if you hate it," Martel added, "it's just hair. It grows back. Yours grows at an absurd rate anyway. If we didn't cut it, we'd be braiding it in another two months. Now wouldn't that be nice!"
Rabbit rumbled at his feet, as if in agreement.
"We," her mother repeated. "You say that as if you participate."
Martel clapped a hand against her chest and batted her lashes dramatically. "I'm moral support. It's very important, Mother."
Fenris stared at her and then looked back down at the clippers. Knowing what he wanted was so hard. There were so many objects, so many possibilities, so many experiences, each with their own dangers and values, and if he chose poorly he would have to suffer the consequences. Some days so much as choosing between an apple and a pear at the market gave him pause.
He glanced back up. How did Martel know what she wanted? Always? He'd never seen her hesitate, even when things went wrong. Especially when things were going wrong.
But having options was what he had fought so hard for. To follow fashions or not as he desired. To take risks if he wanted. Even if it went poorly, at least it was his own decision.
And if he was going to take risks, it was safest to do so here.
But only if he wanted.
"Perhaps another time, Lady Amell," he said at last, and passed the clippers back to her.
She patted his shoulder once again. "Not to worry." She dropped them in the box and adjusted the pins in his hair. "Have I told you we once had to shave Martel's head completely?"
He shot Martel another look. "Is that so?"
"Mother, I was six."
"All that beautiful dark hair!"
Fenris smiled as he listened.
Fenris had his hood up, and he was grateful for the downpour to give him the excuse. His feet slapped the wet cobblestones. It was the third day of this endless rainstorm and Hightown's streets were empty; even Aveline's guardsmen had tucked themselves into corners and under awnings.
He nodded at one of Donnic's men. He didn't remember the name, but they all surreptitiously redirected inquiries about Danarius' manor and the squatter elf so that they went nowhere. When Aveline had rebuffed Fenris on the matter, he'd gone to Donnic, and when Donnic had rebuffed him on the matter, Fenris had won a game of diamondback and requested protection in place of winnings. It was all above-board. If they never told Aveline, she could never say no.
The Hawke-Amell home looked no different than before, but it was more solemn than the other houses in the line now. When Fenris banged the heavy knocker on the door, it seemed to echo all throughout. He waited, rain pattering on his shoulders and feet.
And waited, and waited.
Finally the door opened a crack and Bodahn peered through it. When he saw it was Fenris, he opened it wider.
"It's good to see you, serah," he said as quietly as he could, which was still quite loud, "but Lady Hawke is not taking guests today."
It was possible she might never take guests again. Fenris hesitated, unsure if he should leave her be, or if his situation had grown too dire to ignore.
Before he could decide, he saw her figure shuffling past the entry in the main hall.
"Hawke!" he called.
She turned slowly and looked at him.
"He was just leaving, my lady," Bodahn said quickly.
"I was not," he snapped.
Martel blinked, sluggish, slow, and shook her head. "It's fine. Let him in."
Bodahn, normally pleasant but incessantly jabbering, shot Fenris a silent, dirty look before pulling the door all the way open. Fenris stomped past him.
"Your feet, serah," Bodahn said behind him as he shut the door.
"Enough, Bodahn," Martel cut in. "Go take a nap or something."
He seemed to dig his heels in, defiant. "My lady, you— "
She shook her head and softened her voice. "Please. I'm sure Sandal could use some company."
The dwarf let out a breath. "As you say, messere."
They watched as Bodahn disappeared around behind the staircase. Then it was silent. Not a woof, not a single Enchantment!
"I'm sorry," she said suddenly. "It's been tense here. Gamlen's been staying. As it turns out, he rubs people the wrong way."
Though the comment had the cadence of one of her quips, it had none of the intensity. Normally tall, broad-chested, Martel now shrunk, shoulders curled as she wrapped her arms around herself, hair loose around her shoulders. Whatever she was wearing was obscured by Lady Amell's day robe, patterned with flowers and bees in dark red and gold. It pulled tight at her shoulders, sat loose at her waist, and came up short at her ankles.
Fenris didn't know what to say. He silently extended his arm.
Martel stared at him and the wine in his hand. When she took it from him he worried it would slip from her grasp, but she kept a grip on it. She stared down at the label and ran a finger over it.
"Thank you," she said quietly. Then she blinked at him. "You're wet."
He glanced down at himself. "Is that so? I wasn't aware."
That almost got a smirk. Almost.
"Where is Rabbit?" he asked, missing the dog's enthusiasm.
"In Mother's room." Her glance aside suggested she, too, had been there with him. "What's the occasion?" She smoothed the bottle of droplets.
He shifted on his feet. "I need… help."
She sighed and shook her head. "I'm sorry, Fenris, I'm not sure I'm in a state to —"
"Not your usual type of help."
He had grown accustomed to the magic, somehow. He knew it was wrong, but in some way, his mind had carved a space out for her and marked it as safe. When she transformed into a bear and mauled bandits, that was okay. It was absurd. Favoritism. Blood magic? Unacceptable. Turning into a bear? Fine, just fine. It threw nuance where he could stand none.
Supposedly.
Yet somehow knowing that she didn't need magic to snap him in half made a difference. The morbid understanding that in a last-ditch effort, she would pummel rather than cast changed his perspective of her. It was petty that Merrill was not afforded the same potential, but there was only so many shades of grey he could entertain, and he would rather have given those shades to Hawke. Fuck what Anders thought, though.
She raked her eyes tip to toe. "Fenris?"
He took a deep breath and pulled the hood from his head.
Martel's thick brows shot up. After a moment, she clamped a hand over her mouth. "Maker's breath."
"Go on, get it out," he sighed as he ran a hand through the haphazardly chopped locks. A few strands that had gotten trapped came out. He'd seen himself in the mirror. It was a disaster and every attempt to fix it made it worse.
"You look like a hen's tail feathers," she said from behind her hand.
"Yes."
"Have you consulted the birds nesting in your hair before coming here?"
"Continue."
"Has a rat taken residence on your head?"
"No."
"I could hold you upside down and use you as a broom."
"I suppose."
"The prettiest coconut in the shy."
"Martel," he said plaintively.
Her hand dropped from her face. "What happened?"
Leandra was supposed to do it. Leandra had done it for the entire life he cared to remember. Now there was no more Leandra and all of the pieces they could find had been burned. Her ashes sat on the mantle in a very nice container, which he took very great care not to look at directly. "It was getting too long so I made the attempt myself."
She clamped a hand over her mouth again. "But there's a barber. Several of them. Varric swears by his."
He knew that. Then tried to envision a strange dwarf touching his hair and head and nearly broke the mirror.
Sure, there were touches he had grown accustomed to – Isabela's light punch when he refused to crack a smile at her innuendo, or Merrill's light tug on his shirt to ask a question, or Anders' shove when they got into it, or Martel's—
"I don't think that's a good idea," he said quickly. "I apologize. I wouldn't have come if it wasn't… this." He gestured again at the mess on his head.
He'd said something wrong. Her mouth twisted and she dropped her hand and her eyes. Then she sniffed and straightened her shoulders. When she looked at him again, her gaze was cool. "I know you were trying to be kind but you look ridiculous."
He growled. "Can you help or not?"
"Oh," she gasped and ran her hand through her own hair, "please don't make me fix this before Isabela's seen it."
"Hawke."
"Fine. Oh, I wish I could — "
"You will not call them over."
She groaned. "You are a hard man."
She motioned for him to turn and pulled the wet cloak from his back so she could lay it out in front of the fire.
Then she shooed him into the next room, as she had every month before for the last three years.
It was dark. Martel busied herself lighting the candles and sconces about the room. It was but a touch of her finger to each wick. He made no remark about it. In the weak light from the windows, her hair glinted, greys scattered amongst the black. A shadow moved in the back of the room and slunk away quickly, quietly – Orana.
Together, they moved aside the settee and table, leaving enough space for a lone chair in the center.
"The cloth?" he asked. "It'll be a mess."
"It's fine," she said, "I'll clean it up. I've got fuck else to do. Mourning is quite dull."
"You don't have to stay in here," Fenris said as he settled into the chair.
There was a brief moment of silence.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. She was drooping again, gaze locked on a candle.
"I can't make myself leave," she said, so quiet he had to strain to hear. "It's like I'm waiting, like I need to be here in case she comes back."
They both glanced at the doorway to the storage room. Leandra did not appear.
"It was different when Father died," she continued. "There were three of us, and a village. We argued and yelled. It was bad but it was…" She shook her head. "It was ordinary. He was gone, and it hurt, but it made sense. He was sick. Mother wasn't—"
Martel choked abruptly, then coughed. Fenris looked up again. She had clamped a hand over her mouth as if she were about to vomit. Unthinking, he tugged on the sleeve of the robe until she pulled her hand away from her mouth and settled it in his. Unthinking, he ran his thumb over her dry, chapped knuckles and squeezed. Even if he were to think, it was too late.
After a second, she made a small noise and pulled her hand back out. "Me and Gamlen can't even argue properly," she continued quickly. "It's ridiculous. We argue about everything but not Mother, somehow." She tucked both hands into the voluminous sleeves. "Sorry. You're here for a haircut, not drama. Or… a lack of drama."
"I don't—" Fenris began.
Martel cleared her throat loudly to interrupt him. "Wait right there," she said. "I'll get the scissors."
Fenris sat.
He felt a pang in his chest, though he couldn't identify what it was. But the wide berth he had given the Amell-Hawke home in the last two months hadn't been just to give Martel her privacy.
He was afraid of something true: that he would come into the house and she wouldn't be here.
Now he was here, and she wasn't, and there was nothing he could do except desperately, pointlessly wish she was.
Did he have a right to?
She was all Martel had left.
But Lady Amell cut his hair and welcomed him at meals. She and Martel had taught him to use the kitchen so that he did not eat all his food at The Hanged Man. When he'd made enough money to afford things, she'd taken him to the markets. Martel had taught him to read, and when she was done with her lesson, Leandra had stepped in and done it better. When they burned her remains, whatever of them they could find, he listened to the songs, Martel's nails digging into his forearm. He'd even known some of them and sang along quietly.
The rain pattered on the large windows high above. It seemed dim even with the candles, but he decided to remain quiet on the matter. Time had taught him some tact. It was hard enough that he was here asking her to do something her mother had done for years.
In fact, the discomfort about it nearly drove him onto his feet and out of the manor but before he could, she emerged from the storage with the box rattling with the comb, the brush, the mirror, scissors, pins, and the clippers he had thus far refused.
"It's all in here," Martel affirmed, eyes red, but voice clear and even once more.
With nowhere else to put it, she pushed the box in his hands to hold and pulled out the comb. With it, she pushed his wet hair back and forth, clicking her tongue in dismay.
"That's not inspiring," he complained.
"Excuse me," she said, "I'm not the one who went in with a knife and did — what did you even do?"
"I — took action."
"Action," she repeated skeptically.
A day or so after the cremation, he'd taken his dagger and cut. He had been so convinced in the moment that it would be fine, that the loss of Lady Amell meant nothing, and that he needed no barber, and that he could do it himself. He didn't need a Hawke or an Amell or anyone at all.
After a moment she set the comb back into the box and gently pushed his hair back into place. The motion swung the sleeves of her mother's robe and he got a very delicate whiff of Lady Amell's perfume, so light he thought he might have imagined it. Lilies.
These were the first touches from Martel in some time. He tried not to think of them as such.
There was combat. There had been wounds. She was not a healer, but she could stop bleeding. At times, she sent a thrum through him like thunder and he moved more quickly. Sometimes he became like sap, and earth stuck to him, protective.
But it was not the same, and he couldn't pretend it was. This was gentle, her fingers alone, no magic. Only calluses and warmth.
"Fenris?"
He tipped his head back as far as he could and blinked up at her.
She blinked back down at him, gaze like a kraken, pulling him into the blue.
He looked away first, focusing ahead again.
"The shortest parts are very short. You did a number on it. I'm not sure we can do your normal look."
"I can grow it out," he said, knowing that he couldn't.
"Don't be stupid. You'll look like an ass."
She clamped a hand over his forehead to keep him seated as she pushed through the box, though he did not make much effort to stand.
"I cut Carver's hair for most of his life."
Fenris sat up straighter. "That concerns me."
"Well, he stopped letting me after we got here. Apparently he was too good for his big sister's haircuts. That's why he looked like a giant prick. Hope the Wardens have barbers."
He pushed his head out of her grasp and turned in his chair to look at her. "So what now? We shave it all off?"
She planted a hand on her hip. "You always go to extremes. No, Fenris, we don't shave it all off. We just need to cut shorter. The clippers Mother got might work here, if you're willing to let me try them."
He frowned at her.
Martel blinked evenly at him. "Or you can find someone else."
If he wanted to, he could. At this point, he could even afford a very nice barber, one who did the best of the best. Varric's, even, who did the best of the worst. There was no reason to assume Martel could do it, after all, aside from the fact that her mother could.
Nor was there a reason to care what he looked like, really. He was Fenris. He bit when hands got too close without permission. A gentleman of leisure but not of class. If his hair got long or short or strange or far too normal, it was not his business what anyone else thought of it.
But he didn't want someone else. He wanted the Amells. The Hawkes. He wanted Rabbit at his feet. He wanted Lady Amell chattering pleasantly behind him.
Suddenly the house seemed so quiet and empty. He jerked his head away and stared straight ahead. It was not his loss to grieve. But his eyes watered and he couldn't keep his face quite still. When he inhaled, it came as something of a sniff.
Behind him, Martel inhaled and laid a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, but caught her wrist before she could pull away, and pressed his forehead into her arm, into the sleeve of the robe. Lilies and a powdery scent. He could almost hear Lady Amell in his ear: Let us focus on what's doable, shall we?
"Something short," he agreed when he had his voice back. "Whatever you think is best."
"I'll keep it nice," she said. "No one at The Hanged Man will make fun of you."
"I hope they try."
She chuckled behind him and began her careful work.
This was now the second thing he knew Martel Hawke did slow and steady, where everything else was quick and sudden and rough. He struggled to focus on that knowledge, but instead found himself trying to keep his expression straight and his sinuses clear.
He'd been in this chair not three months ago. Lady Amell had chattered pleasantly about… He couldn't even recall. It had been so normal and regular. He didn't know he was meant to remember, that it would feel so important. Suitors, perhaps, or books, or bread, or the last tea with the neighbors. She'd advised him on some matter last time, or maybe the time before. His life was full because hers was full.
"Fenris?" Martel asked tentatively. "You're shaking."
"I apologize," he said quickly and took a deep breath.
Her hand landed on his shoulder, her thumb on the back of his neck, tracing down. "It's alright if you miss her."
"I don't wish to intrude."
She let out a short laugh. "Intrude? It's not an intrusion. It's good. It's nice. She was so… nosy. And nice." When she laughed, it was watery. "She was like that in Lothering, too. Everyone knew her and loved her." Her next laugh was a sob. "I want everyone to miss my mother. Because everyone should have known her and—"
When Martel stopped short, Fenris stood, droppig the box in his seat, and pulled her face into his shoulder. She wrapped her arms around his waist, the metal of the clippers pressing into his side, and wept. Lily blended with the sweet, sharp scent he had come to associate with Martel under his nose. Tears leaked out of his eyes into the robe and try as he might, he couldn't get them to stop until he sniffed some more.
Finally, Martel pulled away and wiped at her face rapidly. He caught her hand before she cut herself by accident and smoothed her hair.
"I didn't mean to bring this up," he said apologetically.
"Oh," Martel sighed, wiping her eyes more carefully, "I cried over her socks this morning." She took a deep breath and stared at the top button of his shirt. "When my father died, I couldn't really cry. Bethany and Carver and Mother needed me. And when Bethany died, Carver and Mother needed me. And when Carver left, Mother needed me. It feels selfish to cry this much. It's nice to have someone need me."
She spelled it out so neatly. His hands swept up her shoulders to cup her sharp jaw. It did not cut.
She looked at him. In the dim light, her ocean eyes looked black, ringed with red, ready to swallow. Her face crinkled. "You look so stupid right now."
Fenris let out a noise in the back of his throat, annoyed but charmed. She was always like this. Always irritating, always generous. He squeezed her face. "Your mother cut hair very well. You have big shoes to fill."
She let out a short laugh, but sobered quickly and frowned at him.
"What is it?" he asked.
"You wouldn't have come here?" she asked.
"I don't understand."
"You said if it wasn't for your hair, you wouldn't have come."
"Ah." He smoothed her hair again. "I've never had anyone, so I've never lost anyone." The vague memories that he was still sorting through - immaterial, unreal. Belonging to someone else.
Her heavy brows rose in realization. "Fenris…"
"It hurts," he told her bluntly. "Like that time the dwarf from Nevarra stabbed me in the chest, but longer and slower. That's the feeling, I imagine." He still had the scar.
She nodded. "Unfortunately, that's right."
"I can't imagine what you're feeling."
She clamped her hands over his, one cold with the metal of the clippers, and pressed her lips together in thought.
He wondered if he should kiss her, just for the sake of giving them both something different to feel. But that would have been cruel. They were emotional. He was emotional. It would cross a boundary. He'd made a decision, she'd accepted it, and in fact, he didn't know what it might do to him at this point. Instead, he tightened his hands around her face, squeezing until she wriggled him looser.
"I'm glad you're here," she said at last. "I've never done this alone."
"Isn't Gamlen here?" he asked.
She tilted her head and shouted, "Fuck Gamlen!" so loudly that it must have echoed up the steps.
If Gamlen heard or thought anything about it, he didn't answer.
"Passed out, I bet."
"Come to The Hanged Man after this," he said. "It's quiet without you. All Varric does is write."
"I cry randomly," she objected. "I'm not good company."
"I need you there," he said quickly. "Without you, Anders and I will kill each other."
"I thought you said it's quiet."
"Uh—"
"Is this a paid event? Can I place a bet?"
"Who are you betting on?" he asked suspiciously.
She paused. "Are you also the bookie? That seems unfair."
He couldn't help but grin, and in turn, she smiled.
Fenris smoothed her hair one last time. "No one will bet on me if my hair looks bad."
She raised her brows, but shunted him back into his seat. "You'd be surprised."
Martel clipped his hair, trimming the sides and leaving some mass at the center that he could part sideways or slick backwards. He made sure to smile at the mirror when she placed it in his hands, but he was genuinely pleased. More options, more opportunities, more decisions. He wondered if this was what Lady Amell had intended when she first brought the clippers. He would never know.
"I like this," he admitted.
"We can see your eyes," she pointed out.
He tipped the mirror so he could see her reflection. From the angle, she looked almost like Leandra – the chin, the jaw, the cheeks. Only missing grey. They both saw it and there was a hitch of silence.
Then they both smiled.
"It's new," she said.
"Sometimes that's good," he said with more certainty than he felt. It was a habit learned from the Amell-Hawkes.
Finally, Martel pulled the mirror from his hands and dropped it in the box, then pulled the box from his arm and dropped it on the floor.
"Rabbit!" she shouted. "Come down!"
After a moment of scrabbling upstairs, the mabari burst down the steps and around into the room, sliding to a stop in front of Fenris with a welcoming bark. Fenris reached over and scratched the dog's ears.
Unable to resist, Martel sat beside the dog, robe splayed, skirt tucked messily, and scratched his chin.
For a moment, Lady Amell stood with them, and all was well.