The short summer's night was just starting to close around them as Hawke and Fenris left the Hanged Man together and headed back up through the city towards their homes.

Fenris had been getting quieter throughout the evening and noticing this, Hawke had decided to make her move to leave, using the excuse that she had to let Echo out for a walk. The speed with which Fenris had folded his hand of cards and stood up to follow almost gave her whiplash and she linked her arm through his to walk to the door with a wave of goodbye behind them.

The cool air outside and sudden, startling quiet made her realise just how loud Varric and Isabela had been getting, boisterously prevaricating over the events of Varric's latest story; the adventure epic of Tiora Sparrow and her handsome – no, grouchy – no, lanky elven love.

They walked through the rest of Lowtown in silence, Hawke pulling Fenris a little closer to her though the evening held no chill. As they climbed the stairs to the Hightown Market, footsteps perfectly in time, Hawke could see the moon starting to rise and casting it's long reflection over the expanse of water below. She gently poked Fenris in the side and at her small gesture he turned to look at what she had spotted. The small turn at the corner of his lips showed her that he appreciated the beauty, as the last of the day's light succumbed to the black horizon of the scene, or perhaps he just enjoyed how she appreciated it. She was never sure.

They still said nothing.

As they crossed one of the courtyards, a silent decision made between them to turn towards Hawke's house, a strain of music reverberated across the still stones. Hawke tilted her head slightly, registering the twang of a harp in a regal, imperious tune but her attention was swiftly captured as she felt Fenris tense beside her, his arm jarring in her grip.

She looked at him to see the familiar shadows, always carried with him though growing more hidden every day, return to darken his face.

"Fenris?" Her voice was soft but startling to them both.

He didn't relax, body still taut and when he looked over at her there was a sudden, fierce anger in his eyes. "This is a Tevinter Waltz. It was very popular at Imperium events." He said stiffly, a strain catching his voice.

"You went to many of those?"

"Danarius was—a highly regarded man. And of course the more public the appearance, the greater his need for his pet bodyguard." Fenris' voice had dropped low, spitting out the words as though they were poison.

From the position of their linked arms, Hawke gently shifted so that she could reach his hand, and gripped him tightly. After a moment he gently squeezed her hand in return and his head dropped slightly to gaze at their linked fingers. White hair fell over his eyes, blocking the fury blazing within from her sight though she knew it had not gone out.

"I'm sorry…I shouldn't—"

"You have every right to rage." Hawke interrupted, because she didn't need him to relive it as he described it to her. She could imagine well enough the ballrooms of magisters in their lace and frippery, their dance a spectacle of posturing and preening. She had been shown her share of high society, events she hadn't been able to avoid in her duties, and she knew that groups of powerful people in one place inevitably led to them trying to outdo one another. She had found the costumes and pomposity intolerable where she was expected to fit in. She couldn't dare to imagine the scene from the perspective of a servant. He had been less than that, a magister's slave - seen as no more than a piece of dirt, or worse, serving as a symbol of status and distinction – a sentiment as vulgar as a notch carved on a bedpost.

"But Danarius is dead. You took your revenge and you cannot let him continue to rule your life." At this he spun away from her viciously, turning to face her and his rage was a fearsome thing directed at her. She made sure to keep her grip on his hand. "You can let him go, or he will always be a ghost on your back."

He continued to stare at her, now his face gave away no hint of his emotion, his eyes glowing and Hawke wasn't sure whether she was handling this right. It was her method though and so she pushed on.

"Memories will always haunt you but someday—you have to let them stay memories. Sometimes a dance is a dance and those people are not the ones who hurt you."

His eyes flickered with something she couldn't interpret as she held them in her own. They stood face to face a moment longer and she watched as slowly, experimentally, his stance softened, hackles lowering as he let out a long breath.

"A dance—is a dance." He repeated gently and she nodded.

"Your memories won't leave you but you can stop them from controlling the rest of your life. That's how you will be free."

"Free." He said the word as if he was tasting it, a new vintage he was adjusting his palette to. She nodded again, reaching out for his other hand. She rubbed her thumbs in small circles over his skin as the music of the song faded away. The unseen band smoothly started up a new tune, something softer and sweeter, not as domineering and proud. Hawke stepped incrementally closer to Fenris.

"And sometimes, we have to make our own memories. To replace the ones that only do us harm." She said gently and Fenris looked at her, brow creasing slightly.

She stepped forwards again, one arm releasing his hand and coming to rest on his shoulder. Then she let go of his other hand and her arms were linked around his neck.

"Hawke," Fenris' voice came hoarsely into the small space between them, a deep growl. His hands found their way to her waist.

"A dance is a dance." She said in a whisper, his eyes burning into hers with a fire that held her, caught in his grasp so completely she felt her breath halt in her throat. She leaned forwards, tightening her arms and pulling her body close to his, her head leaned against him and when she stepped delicately to the beat of the music, he moved with her.

There was no great crowd, no bright lights and no fancy costumes. They didn't belong in there.

Here was their ballroom. Here in the streets, with the light of a few flickering torches and the moon barely risen. As the city itself watched over them with grim stone walls and their only music stolen from an open window, they found their place.

The floor was theirs.

More hopeless fluff, i feel like these two need it. Any comments are greatly appreciated