Creating memories. That's what this is for her, the scratch of charcoal on paper, fingers blurring black into grey, a line here, a curve there. Here is the Arishok, vainglorious and towering; here is Bethany, powerful yet innocent, calling lightning to her fingertips. Oh, how she missed her little sister.

Her art is hers alone, something private, a way to shut out the world and remake it into a place without sadness, without fear, without regret. If people notice the smudges on her skin, they never mention it. Perhaps it is too hard to think of her as having a soul.

His unique looks are a joy to sketch and she has drawn him countless times. The way he fights in battle, all fire and fervour and deadly intensity, muscles straining against his armour as he swings his sword ferociously. The way he sits slightly apart from the group in the Hanged Man, sharp gauntlets idly scratching at the worn oak table. The way he looks in sleep, a sight few have seen, oddly peaceful and somehow younger, the bitterness he carries with him like a shield nowhere to be found. She finds him beautiful, works hard to capture the sinuous lines of his body, his natural fluidity, his expressive eyes.

Tonight she finds him in her library, sitting on the floor among her pictures of him. He'd gone to choose a new book for their lesson and knocked the folder from the shelf, spilling her art across the wooden floor.

He looks up at her, wonder in his eyes.

"You drew these?"

She nods, flushed and speechless.

He is silent, picking up each piece reverently as if she were the greatest living artist, and these sketches were worth far more than raw materials.

Yes, he thinks, I remember this.

This is the time they fought the Varterral, his face contorted in fury and fear. She had not drawn herself but he knew if she had, she would be lying on the floor bleeding behind him. He recalled the terror he had felt at her injury, the rage he had turned upon the creature who had inflicted it.

This is the time they had sought a kidnapper, a murderer, hiding in the caves outside the city. She had depicted him as he punished the man, his hand inside the killer's chest, ending his life with one quick movement, a severing. He looked calm in this one. Is this how he was, at such a moment? He shivered.

This is him in the Holding Pens, so close to an act of vengeance, to ending one of those who had tortured him so, before. His face is taut, determination and pain clear in his expression. He marvelled at how well she had captured the exact way he had felt at that moment, pausing in that doorway, knowing that within the next minutes he would be confronting his old master's apprentice.

And this... this is another memory entirely. He blushed as his fingers softly traced the image of him drawn from below, leaning over her, eyes aflame with desire. The hard planes of his chest contrasting with a surprising softness in his expression, hair falling over his face, a half-smile on his lips. He thought he had probably been inside her at this moment, the moment she had held in her mind and created later. Oh, how he remembered this, or times like it.

There are more like this, his unguarded moments spent with her. She had sketched him drinking wine, reading, polishing his sword. Reaching out to touch her face, eyes deep with emotion. He had never realised what she could see in his eyes, the words he had spoken to her without making a sound.

And in every picture she had made him exquisite. His breath caught as he gazed at what she had created from his rough edges, his scars and brands, his unusual features. Is this what she really saw when she looked at him? He ran his fingers over his chin, feeling the slightly raised lines of his lyrium markings that he had always felt were ugly, made him something less than a man. Many times she had touched him, stroked her fingers along his body, tracing the burnished patterns etched deep into his skin. He closed his eyes, recalling the words she spoke to him when they were alone together, saying that he was all she ever wanted, that he was the most handsome man in all Thedas. He had laughed, not taking her seriously. He knew all too well that he was damaged, scarred of skin and sour of countenance. The reflection in his mirror told him all he needed to know.

Yet the man in these works of art was striking in his splendour, proud and intense and powerful. This man appeared to have a quiet dignity even in the most violent of battles, and a grace in his bearing which made him magnificent. Even the brands that marked his body were flowing and elegant, highlighting the power of the muscles beneath his skin. His eyes were fiery and passionate, and what struck Fenris was how alive he seemed on the pages.

"This is really how you see me?"

"Yes, Fenris. You are the most beautiful man I have ever known."

And for the first time, he began to believe her.