Wolf and Hawk
Chapter one
Covering the span of the three years between Act I and II of Dragon Age II.
-…-…-…-
Elves did not wear beards. Aedale Hawke was positive of it.
Happy genetically depilated folk, she thought dryly, recalling the fascination that Merrill seemed to have for Varic's shameless fur pouring out of the ever-unbuttoned shirt. It appeared that chest chair was the elven equivalent of what a smooth, perfectly shaven skin was to humans – an unattainable ideal. Isabela informed her once – that woman gets way too much satisfaction out of the sight of other people's furious blushing – that yes, she could testify that elves are smooth everywhere.
Except the head. Unless they shaved their heads too. What for, though? Without practice on other… planes of the body you could cut off the top of your head. Aedale eyed Fenris' short hair – and then lengthened her stride to walk alongside him, staring at his jaw, very conveniently placed directly at her line of sight.
The elf caught her glance and raised an eyebrow.
"Hawke?"
Aedale coughed. "I zoned out."
Does he shave?
It was her little private obsession, which, if Varric ever caught wind of that, would be mocked mercilessly. What's that, Hawke, a little beard fetish? Shall I remind you who was the last guy with a glorious beard that we met? Sure you may not remember, it's not too important, just a little blood traitor who left us all for a painful death in the endless maze of the Deep Roads. Wanna tell me something, huh?
Aedale could almost hear the heavy sarcasm in Varric's voice. She shook her head. It wasn't the dwarven beards; dwarven beards were nothing worth a fetish. Actually, no one's beard was worth a fetish. There was just one face whose beard, or the lack thereof, interested her. That face with thin, pale lips, dark skin – contrasting his completely white hair – and surprisingly big, dark, shining eyes of the colour of sandy green.
His cheeks were never as silk-like smooth and soft as ones she observed at other elves – particularly for the comparative purposes. They looked exactly like a carelessly shaved skin should look like, rough, dark and rugged. He had to shave. Aedale did not know any other way for a skin to look like that.
Then again, nothing in Fenris was like other elves. They were delicate, soft, even the men – especially the men – with the look of a wounded puppy which they probably had inherited after their Arlathan ancestors. (She spared a moment to imagine how, in the olden days, every elven child would be brought in front of a batch of puppies to learn and imitate their expressions.) Everything in them was subtle, light, gentle, like a touch of a raven's feather or a fluffy squirrel's tail. Even the Dalish, wild and distrustful, kept the abundance of this fragile charm.
And Fenris… No. If it were possible, she would think he were not a pureblood elven – but he was, obviously, it wasn't how the genetics worked, if he were halfblood he'd be human. But the masculine genes of the entire race, greedily saved by entire generations of elves, accumulated in his tall frame, transforming weakness into agility, gentleness into sharpness, fragility into power full of predatory grace. He kept the unnatural thinness of his race, framing it with impressive muscle nevertheless; long white hair fell on his neck like a wolf's mane. Gone was the sweet smoothness of the little elven faces; it was replaced by sharply drawn, masculine jaw and rough dark skin. Only the customary pointed ears and big eyes affirmed his belonging to the species; but even in his eyes there was a lurking shadow of fierceness, a dark, sinister cloud, feelings too fiery and caustic for the ethereal elven nature.
If the other elves were puppies, then he had grown up – and become a deadly mabari.
Just less hairy.
Of course, she had never seen another Tevinter elf, but considering that, she thought that none of them would ever be similar to this lyrium-tattooed abomination – as he thought of himself, it seemed. The markings on his skin were an integral part of his frame, betraying his emotions clearly. Usually they would reflect light no more than a regular white tattoo, but during battle they shone with a white-blue glow. They would flash, also, if something – a careless word, one spell too many, an accidental touch – for a split second drew him out of his bubble of stoic calm...
"Hawke? You're staring."
Aedale blinked quickly.
"What? No. Am not!"
"It's okay." A corner of Fenris' lips rose a millimetre. "Do you need this?" He reached to his neck with a hand clad in a clawed steel gauntlet. The Magister's Life Amulet was the object of quarrelling for the better part of the previous day; they had taken it from the carcass of one of the night bandits, who in turn, in a miraculous stroke of luck, must have stolen it from the caves of the Tevinter slavers. At first, Fenris had refused to have anything to do with an object that had belonged to a magister; it'd taken great difficulties for Aedale to convince him that he could use its power against its creators. "The sooner I get rid of that thing, the better. You could have said you wanted it for yourself –"
"No, no!", she protested quickly, watching the steel claw pull at the fragile chain; Fenris did not seem overly fussed over the subtleties like clasps. "You can keep it! I don't need it, really, I'm okay, it's all right, no charms for me!"
The elf stopped.
"You are staring at me since the begging of our journey, long and persistently. Why?"
She smiled at him with calm eyes, but cursed her lack of stealth skills inside. Should've been a rouge, Hawke... Thank Andraste Varric is not seeing this. Fortunately for her reputation he was at his place at the moment, at the Hanged Man, meeting people, crafting stories, writing down fictionalised memoirs and scribbling inappropriate comments to her notes.
By the Maker, what was wrong with her?
Fenris must have noticed her hesitation. He raised a corner of his lip in an expression which could be taken as a smile on his face only.
Shit.
Well, Hawke, if you've lost the battle, at least die with your curiosity sated.
"Do you shave?"
Beyond the horrible awkwardness she decided it was worth it. For a second, Fenris' expression changed into that of an averagely intelligent sheep.
"Pardon?"
"I was just wondering whether you shaved," she said innocently, as if it were a question about his favourite strategy in Wicked Grace. (Varric had informed her that he had none, but held an ace poker face instead.)
The elf collected himself – Aedale noticed how fast it went – and answered, indifferent:
"No."
She stared directly ahead and silently started counting the steps. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two..
"Could you possibly explain your question?" asked Fenris, evidently more interested in cleaning his right gauntlet. Aedale grinned to herself. No, but I can make something up for you.
"Last time I visited you, I wanted to find a razor in your bathroom, and your hair on it. I need them to conduct a shady, dark, illegal ritual that, with a little bit of luck, will allow me to blow up the entire Kirkwall, which in turn will enable me to go and hunt hamsters in peace till the end of my days. This whole nobility business is so tiring..."
Did I overdo it? Something fiery flashed in Fenris' eyes, and Aedale stopped mid sentence. Maybe suggesting dark rituals with his body parts wasn't the best idea. Way to go, Hawke, that went smoothly. For a split second the air was dense with tension.
But then Fenris' face twisted into his typical almost-smile, and the mood was comfortable again.
"Blow up the city? How typical. Although I did not expect such thirst for destruction in you, Hawke."
"You know nothing of me, Fenris."
And so the challenge was offered…
"Yes. For instance, I had no idea you were so fond of staring. At myself."
...And accepted.
He knew. Of course he knew. That he decided to bring it up only now did not mean that he'd had no idea of her constant, obsessive observation. He was a fugitive, a slave in hiding – she could only imagine that his nerves were constantly tense, frayed, expecting the tiniest glimpse of distrust or hostility. She wondered how he'd interpreted her constant attention – fascination with something new and strange, lack of trust, or unhealthy curiosity?
"Well, I want to know you better," she said with a soft tone, which would work on mother better than a rose bouquet on a jealous lover.
He laughed soundlessly – or rather his chest shook in a few short exhales, which at a stretch could be called laughter. Aedale wondered how his real smile would look – honest, open, and unguarded.
"Not me, but my hygiene habits, Hawke. Tell the dwarf that if this kind of details will find a place in his memoirs, I shall rip his heart out myself."
"Is this how you treat the people interested in your life?"
A corner of his lip arched again, this time more predatory.
"Yes, exactly."
His eyes lost focus, as if staring into a far echo of a memory; she shot him a curious glance, wondering what kind of memory she'd just woken. But it didn't seem to be too painful, as the white lines of lyrium on his skin remained calm.
"Once a dwarven merchant tried to find out a way my tattoos were made. As it turned out, he was interested in… reversing the process."
"And, naturally, monetise the lyrium acquired?"
"Naturally."
"But it's so much more useful in this way," she said without thinking and immediately got a long, inquisitive glance of the green eyes.
"It is… useful, yes."
She nodded, blushing slightly; she did not remember Fenris looking at her like that, ever; not in this way. There had been a lot of shoulder-to-shoulder conversations; lots of staring lightly up and to the left of her face; or the disquieted, distrustful, or brooding glances cast at her in passing.
But now it looked as if Fenris were… curious.
Get a grip, Hawke.
"Maybe I really know nothing about you." He stared into the horizon again, and Aedale blinked with a strange sense of loss.
"Yeah. You don't even know I want to go keep hamsters!"
"Hunt hamsters, Hawke. A lie has to be consistent."
She shrugged, satisfied that he had actually been listening to her rambling. "One out of two. Or both. That story needs alcohol to make sense."
Fenris nodded, strangely serious out of a sudden. "Speaking of which… There are six bottles of the finest Tevinter wine that Danarius left in the cellar, the very same I was made to serve during greatest feasts. It would be good to finally get to know its taste."
Aedale blinked, surprised.
"You're inviting me in for a party?"
"For wine, Hawke." This journey was apparently a time to discover new sides of Fenris' – curious, and now… almost awkward? "But yes, I think this is indeed what I am doing."
"Definitely!" She nodded enthusiastically, and some minor tension disappeared from his face. Finally, she thought. The places of all of her companions were as familiar to her as her own recently acquired Amell residence; she freely popped in and out of Varric's rooms at the Hanged Man, Merrill's ever-messy house in the alienage, Anders' dark but spacious clinic in Darktown… Fenris had been the only one who never made any move to invite her to his home, so the visits in the former residence of a Tevinter magister were cut short to getting the host to a team quest.
She'd never imagined that he could ever feel awkward about inviting her.
"I'll come," she assured him again. – But you won't rip my heart out if I ask something personal?
"I can't promise that."
She heard in it the unspoken invitation and threat alike: you come closer at your own responsibility.
Watching him lengthen his stride to walk up to Merrill and Aveline, his long shadow gliding on the road, she realised he had not been joking.
-…-…-…-
N/A
Written 2011-2012, updated 26.03.2016r.