Author's Note: So, yes, I'm alive; and no, I have not abandoned this story! I'm so sorry it took so long for me to update, and I appreciate everyone who's read this from the bottom of my heart.

It might take another stretch of time before the next chapter is posted. I've recently moved, and may have misplaced the notebooks I write in... so, here's hoping they're found eventually.

Cheers and enjoy!

Chapter 6 - of cows, marriage, and mental stability

"Would you like something to – oh for the Maker's sake, stop doing that." Leandra narrowed her eyes at Siobhan as she leaned wearily on the table, fiddling with the ring in her nose. It didn't hurt anymore, but it itched something fierce. "You look like a bull."

Hawke had learned from experience that the only way for her to make pleasant conversation with her mother was not to at all. So, she bit back a retort, and tried not to focus on the pungent dried cod Leandra was attempting to drop onto her plate. Siobhan was trying to convince herself to visit Anders' clinic, to speak with the mage about her baffling dreams. He would be the first person in years to learn about her issue, not to mention the first person since her father that she'd actually sought advice about it from. The whole thing made her uncomfortable; she needed an extra dose of bravery, not nausea. Siobhan batted Leandra away in annoyance. "Bread is fine."

"Won't you at least toast it?" A cacophony of images from her dream the night before flashed into Hawke's mind; she shook her head and promptly shoved the fluffy white bread into her mouth, hoping to avoid further conversation. With no Gamlen to argue with or Bethany to dote on, Leandra likely felt obligated to turn her attention to her eldest. Siobhan suspected that the idea of them conversing made her mother just as uncomfortable as it did her.

"The family next door, the Briars? Their daughter is getting married." Leandra settled herself across the table from Hawke gracefully. Even while sipping from a horrendously misshapen mug she managed to stay poised; it was disgusting. "I believe her name is Moira."

Hawke grunted in response as she dunked a chunk of bread into her black tea.

"Of course, her betrothed isn't anyone of import, but she seems happy." Leandra looked at her expectantly, evidently wanting a response. "Radiant, in fact."

"Mm." Hawke grunted again and busied herself by ripping the tea-drenched carbohydrates in her hands into even portions. She popped one into her mouth, eyes searching the room for something else to occupy her attention.

"You don't seem to be as happy in Kirkwall as I'd have hoped. Perhaps a betrothal would change things?"

She began to laugh, but because of her full mouth couldn't; she choked instead. Leandra turned from her daughter with pursed lips when Hawke eventually hacked and spat the hunk of mush into her cup. "Why, so we can afford to speed things up in regards to regaining your estate?" Siobhan doubted she'd heard a more ridiculous suggestion in her entire life, and once a vagrant had informed her that they should relocate to the moon to enjoy its mild winters. "I hate to break it to you, but I'm not what nobility looks for in a wife. Beauty, mental vacancy and virginity seem to be requirements – Bethany would be a much better candidate."

Leandra did not seem impressed, although that certainly wasn't out of the ordinary. "Bethany is too young for marriage, and you know that's not what I meant. I am merely suggesting that a bit of stability would be of advantage to you."

Siobhan couldn't believe her ears; she stared at her mother as if she had sprung a second head. "Mother, I don't know if you realize this, but I haven't been in a stable relationship since Eddard Mirehouse."

Leandra's delicate features scrunched in confusion. "Eddard Mirehouse was in Honnleath. You couldn't have been more than fourteen."

Hawke regarded her mother expectantly. "Yes."

"And you've had plenty of men around since then."

This confirmed it; the woman really was daft. Siobhan held her mother's gaze and raised her eyebrows. "Exactly."

Realization finally seemed to hit Leandra; she sighed and narrowed her eyes even further, clenching her hands around the unsuspecting mug. "Well. Whatever your romantic entanglements entail, know that I just want you to be happy."

This was too much; Siobhan didn't think she could maintain an air of civility for much longer. She pushed her plate away and stood, stalking toward the door. "And you're happy for me no matter who I marry, even if it's some illiterate washer-boy?"

Leandra crossed her legs as Siobhan stooped to struggle into a pair of boots. "Even then."

"What about a woman?" Hawke cursed the buckles on her footwear for taking so long to deal with. She wanted out.

"Yes."

Finally the last metal clasp was fastened; Siobhan straightened and blew the hair from her eyes, snatching her daggers from their place by the doorframe and strapping the sheaths to her back. "What about an elf, or a dwarf? Perhaps a strapping Qunari?"

Only silence could be heard from the common room behind her, a response that made Hawke smirk. Her mother liked to pretend she was endlessly open-minded, but it was no secret that she harboured a veritable host of prejudices – which Hawke felt were entirely unlike her own wariness of mages. Not similar in the least. Besides, Leandra's distaste for elves was comically hypocritical. Her own husband had been the son of a Dalish woman, although that little tidbit of information Malcolm had tactfully glossed over with his wife. It was something only Siobhan knew, and even then she had only been told once her father had grown tired of her constant complaints and finally explained her namesake.

"You make light of it now, but I was your age when I met your father. It is not so unlikely for you to meet someone as well." Leandra ignored her daughter's last remark, straightening as she sipped her tea.

The thought that Hawke had met someone – someone entirely unsuitable, not to mention unattainable – occurred to her. She allowed herself a moment to entertain the idea of introducing Fenris to Leandra ("Mother, meet the escaped amnesiac elven slave I found squatting in Hightown; Fenris, meet the bigoted woman who can't stop gaping at your big eyes and pointy ears") before pulling open the door.

"Well then, I promise as soon as I come across a runaway apostate who asks for my hand, you'll be the first to know." She gave her mother's back a sarcastic wave before slamming the door and rushing down the steps.

"Andraste's Maker-damned weasel infested..." She muttered heatedly as she strode away, words devolving into a string of incoherent curses. Sure, she and her mother didn't have an ideal relationship, but at what point had Leandra shoved her head so far up her own ass that she couldn't tell her bread-winning eldest child from some simpering girl?

The moment you started acting like one, a plaintive voice at the back of her mind retorted. Siobhan squashed the voice down as she turned a corner, feeling imperious that she was learning to maintain an iron hold on her mental condition –

Until she nearly bowled head-long into Fenris.

"Hello." The elf looked surprised, but not unhappily so; he raised his dark eyebrows as Hawke stopped in her tracks and righted herself. A small grin pulled at the corners of his lips.

Before she could stop it Siobhan felt a large smile plaster itself across her face. So much for self-control. "Am I hallucinating, or are you really walking the streets of Old Town in broad daylight? Smiling, no less?"

"I'm not." Fenris composed his face into its usual serious demeanor, but his green eyes were still glinting. Hawke enjoyed that, despite the stereotype of elves being smaller than humans, she still had to raise her eyes to look at him; it made her feel like less of the ungainly oaf she was. He waved his hand loosely across her line of sight. "This is all another drunken dream, and you will soon wake with a sore head."

"Smiling and teasing? We'd better get you to a doctor." Hawke found she felt too light-hearted to continue standing about; she began walking in the direction she'd originally been heading, trying not to smile too widely as Fenris fell in beside her. "What are you doing here?"

"I've been following you." Fenris replied matter-of-factly, causing Siobhan to look over at him in shock; all traces of jest had been wiped from his face. She nearly stumbled.

"Seriously?" She couldn't imagine why he would, much less how, though to any recent stalker's credit she hadn't exactly been without distraction.

Fenris nodded, keeping his eyes trained on the dusty street before them. "I have been cataloguing your every move, peering through the windows of your Uncle's and the Hanged Man. Your life is so fascinating that I'm planning to write a book."

"Write a book? But you can't – oh. Oh!" Laughter bubbled up to her throat, and she had to stop walking until she caught her breath. "That's what, the fourth joke you've made in the past week? If Varric's not careful you'll be outshining even him."

"But not you." Fenris was grinning again. It wasn't an expression she was accustomed to seeing him wear, but Siobhan thought it suited him immensely.

"But of course. I'm on an entirely different level." She scanned the smattering of people going about their business as they resumed their walk, but only absently; there were no city guards about, and everyone was largely ignoring them. Fenris might have been a former slave on the run, but he could take care of himself. She stole a glimpse of the taught muscles of his arms; he certainly could take care of himself. She cleared her throat before continuing. "This seems utterly out of character. Shouldn't you be holed up in your mansion brooding over something?"

"I find it hard to brood when I'm around you." The way Fenris said it seemed off-hand, but it was enough to make Hawke's heart skip. "You interrupt far too frequently for me to really focus on it. And as for being here, I'm in search of apples."

"Ah, yes, the slums' apple trees really are lovely this time of year." Hawke gestured to the stone and brick and general misery that surrounded them. If she ever found something green growing in the area, she would eat her hat. "Do you plan to climb the trees to get the apples or just bash the trunks and hope something falls out?"

"As outlandish as it sounds, I plan to buy them from the market." Fenris said. "My presence in Hightown can be ignored by the neighbours until I am out in public, then it seems to become an issue."

Hawke halted when she realized they had walked clear past the entrance to Darktown. She'd become so engrossed in their conversation that any thought of her nocturnal problems had been wiped clear from her mind. Evidently it was difficult for her to brood around him as well.

"The man at the fruit stand said there wouldn't be any apples until at least next week – don't look at me like that, I always keep tabs on Lowtown's produce situation." Hawke sorely missed the fruits and vegetables that had been so readily available in rural Ferelden, and was still not used to the dietary trials city living presented. She gestured behind her to the stone stairwell carved into the wall. "I was actually going to Anders' clinic, so I'll just be heading back that way."

Fenris' face darkened, his eyes narrowing as he glanced behind her to the Darktown entrance. He crossed his arms. "I was not aware you were friends."

The notion gave her pause. They were certainly friendly, but she wasn't sure that she would consider the mage anything more than a cohort. The relationship she had with him – and if she were being honest, with most people she knew – felt more business-like than anything else. She helped keep his comings and goings under the radar, and he had certainly become indispensable when it came to healing, so they were both getting what they needed from the relationship. Hawke figured it wasn't necessary to take things any further.

She hadn't allowed herself to grow particularly close with anyone since Carver's death, except for maybe Isabela. Even then, Hawke had to admit that the Rivaini hardly counted; rather than loyalty and commitment, a friendship with her required little more than a sense of humour and the odd sexual encounter. And Varric? Varric liked everyone.

She could hardly inform Fenris of that without sounding trite, so she shrugged instead. "He's not so bad, for a mage."

"That you must say so suggests otherwise." Fenris' scowl made him look like he tasted something sour, but he motioned that he would accompany Siobhan nonetheless.

They trudged downward in silence. It wasn't that Siobhan had a problem with talking, especially with someone as fascinating as Fenris had proven to be, but it was rare for her to feel like she wasn't required to offer some sarcastic quip or entertaining story. Frankly, she was surprised that their mutual lack of conversation seemed natural. She felt at ease, even when they delved deeper into the claustrophobic passage and were immersed in darkness. The Maker-awful stench that signaled the bottom of the stairwell barely even registered.

They were nearly at the clinic when they rounded a corner in a particularly narrow passage. The sound of unmentionable liquid dripping from the dank ceiling was unnerving, though Hawke couldn't imagine why it would be. The hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention, and she felt her muscles tense.

She shot a quick glance at Fenris; the elf's lips were pursed, his eyes darting warily around the cramped hallway. Hawke stepped lightly, careful to avoid the dark puddles dotting the reed-covered floor as she struggled to shake off the mounting paranoia. A tiny noise from down the passage, barely perceptible, caught her ear. Hawke would have recognized the familiar shink anywhere.

It was the sound of a dagger being slid from a scabbard.