The trek to Lowtown was rather quick; the night toying with the shadows to force smaller details to vanish. The refineries churned loudly as columns of smoke spat up into the cold nightly air, smouldering ash clotting and dotting along the ground in vacant clouds. Lowtown was a cesspool, a filthy district filled with cheap whores, cheap wine and plenty of crime. At night the thugs would usually make their patrols, the amount gratefully not being as numerous since the Sharps and a healthy gathering of slavers were removed. But like vermin, once a number had been culled another would move in to take its place, the cycle of debauchery continuing.
Fenris had scaled down the stairs with ease despite his deteriorated and slightly drunken state, clothes charred with the remnants of drakefire. The warrior's breastplate had taken a beating as well but unlike his sword it was created of higher quality metal. It would only take a few knocks of a blacksmith's hammer to batter it back into place but for now his appearance was the least of his concern. The elf found his muscles aching and creaking with fatigue the further he went but did not let it distract him from his cause. The pain was but a reminder of the transpired events that had happened in the Bone Pit, a pain that he felt he entirely deserved.
Hawke always had a way of getting under Fenris' skin in the same way the elf had a way of getting under his. It wasn't the same as it was with Anders, the will to kill constantly looming in the background like a haunting shadow. No, the frustration he felt with Hawke was different, almost fond. The warrior knew the man had good intentions and wanted him to have his eyes opened to the evils around him. But no matter how much Fenris had tried to prove his point or how many horror stories about the Imperium he recited, the mage was still content in his own beliefs. And it was enough to make him want to beat his face in or perhaps even do more.
His thoughts were cut as he suddenly felt a wave of energy wash over him, lyrium markings sparking in that faint uncomfortable tickle that alerted him to the presence of magic. They itched and beaded with anticipation the closer he drew toward the Hanged Man, his elven eyes checking every shadow and every corner for any hint of movement. The sword on his back swung wearily, a limp evident in his step as he trailed with caution. The blade was unsharpened and unhardened, a virginal weapon whose only use was to be jabbed between a skeleton's ribs. It wasn't the best line of defense, the shape marring it as a decorative hobbyist's tool rather than a weapon used for cutting open wounds into an enemy. It was also far too short for the elf's liking but if it meant putting distance between him and any would-be attackers then it would suffice.
Suddenly, as he neared the corner he found the aura singing away, the markings wriggling under his skin. It was that same familiarity, a sense that brought his mind to realise that he had not planned out how to talk to the mage for the entire night and journey spent coming here. What was he going to say? Fenris was a gifted swordsman, an intimidating and invaluable ally on the battlefield but to be placed into a situation where he had to rely on being social and talk out his feelings; it was his Achilles heel.
Rounding the stairs his eyes meet with Hawke's, grey burying curiously, almost disbelievingly into green. Despite his close run in with death, the elf didn't look too dreadful. His usually neat hair was unkempt and his face sliced in a myriad of different cuts and open wounds. The middle of his lip had split entirely, a fresh scar no doubt that would likely take weeks to fully recover.
The relief in knowing that Hawke was okay felt like a breath of fresh air, the posture of the smaller male shifting as he steadily came up the stairs two steps at a time. He lowered his gaze somewhat as he ascended the case, steadily limping his way over until he leaned against the wall next of Hawke. Fenris kept quiet for a moment with mind reeling. The mage was safe and alive but that only deepened the problem at hand. How was he going to apologise and why would he especially after what the human had referred to him as? Fenris was out of his depth here, never having had to deal with the repercussions of a social life before. Even the Fog Warriors weren't this awkward.
So he decided to go out on a limb; choosing to ease the conversation with common ground, a mutual understanding - something they could familiarize themselves with. "The mansion is open if you're still up for drinks." Sure, invite the man with more alcohol; make him forget about what happened in the pit; the elf found him immediately regretting his chosen introduction. But on the other hand, perhaps forgetting about it was for the best. As Isabela would say 'the past is the past and that's where it should stay'. Making short talk over a round of drinks in good company, private company might be just what the two men needed; a leverage to get over their hiccups and to relax and unwind.
The elf cleared his throat as he looked away, brow twisting and furrowing as he fought to find the right words. "I...apologize for the outburst today," Fenris spoke in a slow, slightly higher pitched tone, like you could tell he felt out of place and awkward simply mentioning about it. "The argument between me and the mage clouded my judgement. I...didn't realize it may have affected you as well. I'm sorry." He forgot that Hawke actually cared about his wellbeing at times, remembering the days when he was simply tossed around as a toy or treated like a pet at the hands of the cruel oppressors in Tevinter. The elf had glanced up at the end of his apology to give Hawke a rather earnest look, one that made his eyes rather round and sad. Merril had mentioned of the elf's puppy-dogs eyes more than once, the ex-slave often denying its existence entirely for the sake of his pride. Yet here in a rare moment of honesty and vulnerability the elf's defences had lowered enough to make the apostates observations entirely true.
He watched Fenris shift from foot to foot, the elf's awkward words filling the silence around them. The mage opened his mouth to answer, only to shut his lips and meet the wolf's eyes. He allowed the silence to stretch on as comfortable as it possibly could before getting to his feet. Fenris smelled like a bonfire in summer, scorch marks and ashes still marring his wounded features and he looked as though he hadn't recovered properly from the fight, his clothes and armor still bearing the marks of the beating he'd received. His appearance had most likely discouraged any night-time adventurers lurking the shadows, that and the short sword across his back. Hawke's eyes were drawn to the weapon, staring as he imagined Fenris using such a light sword. He'd grown accustomed to the elf gracefully wielding a long sword that any other weapons made the elf seem ill-settled.
"Can you wait here? I'll just get my things," was all he said instead and when he received no discernible refute; he made his way back in the tavern. He could feel the warrior's stare drilling into the back of his head and it almost made him glance back just to assure himself that Fenris really was standing there.
It wasn't the alcohol, nor was it half an hour of standing in the cold; but Hawke could feel goosebumps running up and down his arms. He slipped past the drunken bodies and up the stairs in a half-run, almost bursting into Varric's suite with a wild look in his eyes. Most of his crew was visibly startled by Hawke's arrival but Varric was smirking; a bottle of mead held out at the mage. Hawke took it with a smile as Isabela continued her lurid story with as much pomp and dazzle as Varric's tales. Anders was staring at Hawke with an odd look in his eyes before turning his attention back to the pirate.
Carver, on the other hand; was turning over Hawke's long sword in his hand; a frown creasing his dark brows. He didn't give it up easily, but Varric set him straight when the boy acted as though he wanted to claim the weapon for himself.
Finally, with both bottle and weapon in hands; Hawke hurried his way down. This time, he did burst through the door, the heavy wood slamming against the wall with a resounding bang. And there Fenris was, leaning against the wall Hawke had vacated; his head inclined towards the mage's noisy exit.
"Sorry, Carver held me back for a stupid reason," and hefted the sword round his shoulder, taking care that its sharpened point did not scrape and dull against the stone. He was still trying to figure out how he'd hand the sword over to the elf without insulting the other. Varric proposed accidentally leaving the weapon in the mansion; Anders suggested stabbing the elf with it. Isabela, after hearing the story; suggested a show and tell. How that was supposed to happen Hawke didn't know, probably because they've changed the topic in a hurry.
It was an uncomfortable weight on his shoulders and every step he took made the thing slide down his shoulder, which had Hawke hefting it back to place every meter or so. Lowtown was quickly fading behind them, and soon they were climbing the stairs towards the elf's hideout. There was no light-hearted banter to fill the silence between them, but there was no lack of voices laughing and screaming all around. They heard an occasional fight breaking out, spotted one or two glittering eyes watching them from the alleys. But they didn't run into any trouble, most folks around here recognized Hawke and his friends.
Only when the smell of piss and rot faded away to be replaced by the smell of night-lilies blooming did Hawke realize they've reached Hightown. Countless windows beamed down upon them, candles flickering behind glass to throw living shadows upon the two. It was much quieter up here, where the rich hid behind their opulent homes and threatening guards. As they walked through the paved streets, Hawke couldn't help but pause in front of the old Amell estate. He had once walked past it with his mother on their way to the Chantry, Leandra stopping to rub her weathered hands against the lime walls. She'd been so sad then, but Hawke could do nothing but grip her hand in his and lead her away.
Fenris, barefoot and quick made no sound at his passing, the only way you knew he was there was when you caught sight of his markings and hair, a silver beacon despite the moonless night. Hawke had no need to look however, painfully aware of the elf's every move. Most mages would have no problem tracking the elf if they were close enough. Magic did have a tendency to call out to lyrium, and Justice had once said he found the elf's markings... hypnotizing.
But that wasn't the only reason why, it was a known fact between him and Varric; that Hawke couldn't help gravitating towards the elf. In battle, the mage always had the warrior in the corner of his sight, always the first one to assist once he saw enemies crowding around the wolf. He'd always played it off as his way of looking out for his friends, but Varric did point out that Fenris had Hawke's attention more often than not. Had anyone else called Hawke a 'scourge upon the face of the world', they'd have received a fireball to the face, but all the elf received was an exasperated sigh and another tankard of ale.
So he followed Fenris to his mansion, never losing the elf in the dark because of the lyrium pathways and favouritism, which meant that Hawke was free to spend his thoughts elsewhere such as on what exactly was he supposed to say.
He thought it over thoroughly and came to the conclusion that though he needed to apologize for what he said; he was never going to regret throwing the wolf at the healer. And when he's finally seated in his usual seat, mead burning down his throat; the mage finally found the guts to speak.
"Before anything else, I want you to know that I regretted my words deeply. It wasn't mine or anyone's right to drop insults on you just like that," he let the words settle for a moment or so before continuing; knowing full well that what he'll say next would only incite the warrior's anger.
"But I will not say sorry for making Anders heal you. I did what I thought was right, though the words I said were wrong and given a chance, I'll do the same thing all over again. You were dying and I couldn't let you do that. I've buried too many bones in my time, and though it may be selfish; I won't let any of my friends die on my watch."
Bethany... Her memory was like a haunting spectre and Hawke had to admit that a great part of his morals had been shaped by her passing. Her death had been a low point for all she left behind, and Leandra's accusing words had only driven the spike of guilt further into her eldest.
"You're not a lone wolf anymore, Fenris. You have people by your side now, people that care; though Anders might say that he doesn't," a smirk lit the mage's face at the thought of Anders's reaction at the idea. But he soon grew serious as he took another swig from the bottle passing between them.
"So... take care of yourself better, I get worried sometimes."
The walk back to Hightown was filled with an understanding silence, the screams and threatening glances from the shadows almost expectant as they made way up the heavy flights of stairs. If Fenris wasn't sore before he certainly was now; his legs and muscles swelling with each stride until it became painfully clear that the concussion he had received wasn't to be taken lightly. Realistically he knew that he would require a few days rest as well as Hawke, both of them looking at their worst for the first time in months. But if the mage was required to whisk the warrior way from his abode on another horrendous trip through the wilds or otherwise, then Fenris would be more than willing to accompany him.
The elf noted the man gazing at him occasionally as they passed through the empty streets, leaves and the occasional lost hat rolling through the open districts in the wind. Potent flowers and oil was always a stark change to the stench of shit, ash and dirt. Hawke looked rather ragged but the fugitive noted the look of calm and relief clearly evident in his features. What puzzled him most was the sword the mage seemed intent on carrying. It was a blade worthy of a fighter; its edges clean cut and inscribed with a pattern of what seemed to be hydras. The elf was almost tempted to ask Hawke if he wanted him to carry it instead, the human's step laboured and off balance as he tried to keep the heavy weapon from slipping off his shoulder.
With a loud creak and the smell of burning wood, the two entered the abandoned mansion, the last set of stairs welcoming to a dying flame. Fenris quickly went about re-stoking the fire, adding a few new additions of firewood pried from the furniture of the estate. An expensive but small painting was added to the midst, the picture of a nobleman with what seemed to be a chained monkey quickly dissolving into a sea of molten yellow.
Time passed merrily between the swigs of the bottle. For once the elf had opened conversation and was more than willing to respond. Fenris was lucky the entire mansion didn't burn down while he was gone but if it did, it wouldn't exactly be of any terrible loss to him.
"I know what you did was right, Hawke. I couldn't have made it out of that pit in the condition I was in. I...never thought I'd say this but...thank you," The elf shifted in his chair, hips wriggling further into the cushions to stabilize himself as the hand on the armrest extended out to grasp around the girth of the offered bottle. His gauntlets were laid near the floor of his chair, allowing his sore fingers and knuckles to refresh without constriction. "And I know I'm no longer alone but I don't need your pity. I have been alone for most of my life. Danarius wasn't exactly someone I would call refreshing company." He tilt his head back lightly to take a guzzle of the wine, this particular selection rather amber. It was quite delicious, the burning sensation in the back of his throat surrendering to a warm welcome.
The comment about taking care of himself better caught the elf in a mild chuckle, his eyes shifting over to capture Hawke's. The man willingly and openly admitted to caring about him was soothing to the elf. Too many times had he been insulted, treated with malice that kind words were truly appreciated. In their own way they seemed, seem rather irrational. If anyone needed to be taken care of then it was Hawke. The man couldn't step two feet outside without someone jumping him yet here he was, worrying for the ex-slave's sake.
"I'm sure you get worried a lot." Fenris teased in a playful tone, a tiny smug grin pulling at his lips. After the walk through Lowtown and back the three bottles he had consumed previously now were rushing to his head, making the man speak his mind a lot more proficiently. He handed the bottle back to Hawke for his turn of a swig, feet kicking a small broken leg of a chair into the flames to smoulder away.
"Tell me," The elf started after a moment of hesitation, his gaze slipping toward the flames as if searching for the right way to propose the question. "Why is it that the abomination can perform such magic but you cannot? Surely, there are ways you can learn. You are after all, fairly skilled." It was a puzzle that had been bothering him for some time. He didn't want to admit it but Fenris would be more open minded in regards to accepting the healing magic if it came from Hawke's hands instead of that creatures. Each mage had a different influence of magic much like a fingerprint. It was a signature, some mages specializing in certain elements while others cheated and simply turned to blood magic because it was easy and effective. If the fugitive could get Hawke to be the one to heal him in battle then the healing would indeed be welcome.
Truth be told, Hawke hadn't expected the query, especially from Fenris himself. The elf avoided magic like the plague, more content with proving why all mages should be locked up in the circles. But it was a question he himself had asked long ago and he now gave the answer that his father once gave him.
"Because every mage is different," he answered thoughtfully. His father had ended the lesson at that and had left the young Hawke to figure the rest out for himself. It took him quite a lot of time, nearly two years and countless conversations with other mages before he realized there was no proven reason why.
"No-one really knows why a certain mage is more proficient with primal spells instead of arcane ones. Some people said it's hereditary, some claimed it has to do with how powerful a mage is," The bottle changed hands once more and Hawke took a small swig of his own. "But I've always thought it was because of how a mage grew up, and what his priorities are. Take for example Merrill and Anders. Merrill is more of a primal mage, her spells heavily based on earth and lightning which are naturally occurring. Consider her Dalish upbringing in comparison to Anders who has grown up in the Circle. Anders and his ability to heal is a result of years and years of studying the heavy tomes in the Circle libraries. Healers must be knowledgeable about the inner workings of a body in order to do their job correctly," the idea of Anders poring over books was a laughable one but the mage knew that the idea is indeed a fact, at least more several years ago.
"This brings this circle back to me, and why I can't use healing spells. My family had three apostates, and even though we lived in Ferelden, an apostate still was a threat to everyone else. Books about magic were rare and often tightly controlled by the templars. My father, a Circle escapee; knew how to heal and make seals. And though he tried teaching me and Beth the basics of that particular school; he couldn't do much without the proper texts."
The mead finally ran out, and they've switched to one of the elf's wines instead. The fire smouldered warmly in the hearth and with the alcohol in his system, Hawke was growing very comfortable in his perch.
"I might be able to learn from Anders, he'd probably be happy to have another hand around the clinic..." he brought his attention back to Fenris, his own curiosity growing too much to ignore.
"Why'd you ask anyway? I doubt it's because you wanted to understand the inner workings of a mage." Hawke blinked at a thought and nearly slapped himself for considering the idea. Magic was magic and there was no way Fenris would have a turnabout just because different hands were casting it.
"Correct me if I'm wrong... but are you asking me this because you'd prefer my magic... over Anders?" The words were out of his mouth, too late to swallow them back down. Hawke sat stiffly in his chair, fingers wearing a hole in his pants. He avoided looking at the elf, convinced he'd just made a fool of himself in the warrior's eyes.
It was curious how very mage carried a different signature and it made sense how the mages each explored different branches of the magic tree from their experiences. But that didn't make things any less dangerous. Despite what encounters they may have had as individuals, as a whole mages were still incapable of handling their power. Fenris often wondered what it would be like to sleep at night, visions and dreams of demons speaking to him, tempting him with otherworldly offers of power and desire.
The elf sighed gently as Hawke made the observation. So he had been that obvious, had he? He knew asking the mage about his magic trials would instigate a question in turn, one that evidently made the warrior shift uncomfortably. Just what was he going to say? Admit to Hawke that he preferred him over Anders and give the man the wrong impression? No, he would have to select his words carefully, enough to satisfy the mage's curiosity without giving away too much incentive.
Fenris cleared his throat in a brisk but gentle manner, hips once again rolling back into the cushion of his chair. "It's-it's not that," The elf stumbled. "The...abomination is untrustworthy. He is a dangerous and troubled man, one I suspect has hurt many in the name of his so called plight." Not that the fugitive was one to talk, if anyone was dangerous and troubled it was him. After all, he was the only one in their band that could deliver a fatal blow with a single strike even without a weapon, not to mention a horrible and cruel death at that. "I would not willingly place my life in his hands...but in yours...it might be different."
It wasn't exactly a smooth explanation but it was one that didn't stray too close to being personal. The elf leaned down to grasp at another bottle of wine, his deft fingers uncorking the head quickly so that he could fill his mouth with more wine lest he wanted to continue his awkward confession. Heavy gulps of the fluid flooded down his throat, enough to cause the elf to cough slightly as he raised the bottle away from his lips, wiping his mouth on the back of his knuckles.
"Back in Tevinter, very few mages pursued the art of healing. There, they taught only pain and how to conquer one's enemies in the most destructive of ways. To feel magic that isn't intent on breaking a man..." His words turned to silence as his brain flooded with a swarm of foreboding memories. A banquet in a grand hall, magisters of assorted ages gathered around luxurious tables filled with expensive imported foods. Slaves produced like trophies, their bare skin glistening as their masters paraded them around in circles, greedy fingers sliding over them to test their loyalty and obedience. A boy no younger than five lying at an altar covered in his own blood, Danarius standing over him with a vicious haunting grin.
"But enough," The elf called in demand, his body swaying slightly as he came to face the mage once more. Fenris eyed the man down, bare fingers swinging the bottle back and forth in a lazy pattern; gaze though drunken still thick with intent. "Tell me, Hawke. Did you ever have lessons with your father that didn't involve magic? Your brother boasts how he received private training with your predecessor. Didn't you seek to gain the same knowledge with a weapon as he did?" It was a clever question, one that the elf had carefully plotted, reminding the mage as why he intended on bringing the weapon with him.
If Hawke planned on giving Fenris the sword then it would only drive the wedge of debt further into the elf's pockets, a constant painful reminder of just how much he had begun to rely on the human for aid. It was endearing but also extremely frustrating. He didn't need the mage looking out for him or anyone. He was self-sufficient and independent but slowly as the weeks had worn on; relying on the mage wasn't entirely without its rewards. Dare he admit but Fenris felt that he had not only gained a debt with the mage but possibly a blooming friendship as well.
A connection he had not felt, appreciated nor accepted in a long time.
"Hah! Carver said that did he?" Hawke retorted with a grin, the image of his younger brother's private 'training' with their father surfacing in fond memory. "Bet he never told you how that came about. Next time you see him, ask him about that." But soon the mirth died down as the memory only served to remind him of what he'd lost.
"I had no interest in swords and bows; Carver was doing enough slashing and hacking to satisfy our need for gore. What I did do though, was take a crash course in fisticuffs from the soldiers stationed in whichever town we were hiding at. My father would sometimes spar with me, but those occasions were rare and often interrupted."
He talked easily, reclining in comfort against the cushions padding his chair. He noted how Fenris' eyes often strayed to the long sword leaning against Hawke's chair. Saw how the warrior would frown a bit every time he did so. The mage reckoned he'd finally get over his inhibitions and just straight out ask what the sword was for. But that seemed like a long time coming and every minute Fenris spent wondering about it was likely to turn the gesture sour.
So he finally gave up and wordlessly handed the sword over to the elf along with the coin purse that contained the rest of the elf's share. He couldn't hide the fact that the sword was for the elf, but there was no way in hell that he'd back out now.
"I took the cost out of your slice, because I knew you'd never take it if I gave it to you as a gift." he explained with a sigh, noting the tiniest of reactions from the other. "It cost nearly nothing, but Aveline assured me it was a better piece than your old one. The Hightown shops had better but more expensive swords, so we got this from an old guy in the Darktown sewers." Well, the Black Emporium was still a shop, a nifty one at that; but downplaying i's appearance might do something for the elf's hesitations.
"He said it was the very sword the King of Ferelden himself used when he was still a Grey Warden, but it could also be some dead person's sword he'd filched off a grave. Who knows with these things? But if you don't take it, then I'd have to look for another brooding glow-elf that can wield it like you do."
Hawke adopted his best wilting look, almost pouting as he stared soulfully at the wolf. "Isabela would be heart broken. Varric will call me a chicken. Merrill would probably visit you with a basket of freshly baked bread and milk, hoping to cheer you up. Carver will be an ass about it, since that's the only thing he does best. Aveline... well, I don't really know how she'll react. But Anders will definitely hold a party." his tone was teasing as he coaxed, tried to sell the whole thing off on Fenris all at once.
"In a way, it was I who broke your sword because I dragged you to a fight with a thick-skinned dragon. So you can look at this as my way of making reparations." Hawke was quickly running out of excuses and he somehow wondered whether Anders' idea would be feasible; stab the elf with it and run.
The elf's curiosity was finally sated but it did little to ease the welling of guilt in his stomach, one that Hawke knowingly buried into. "Enough, Hawke..." The elf had answered to Hawke's pleas in an irritated tone, the mage's reasons becoming more ridiculous and outlandish with each passing second. With a roll of his eyes and shoulders the elf pushed himself from out of his chair with a squeak to come stand before the offered sword. Its surface glimmered in the dancing light of the fire and Fenris had to admit it was even more enchanting up close. Steadily a hand rose to grasp onto the hilt and the other onto the coin purse, the satchel being hurled onto the bed where many others had accumulated in an unused pile.
He pulled the handle close, his eyes studying the markings in hope to find out if Hawke was telling the truth. The blade of a ruined king would be a treasure to wield but as far as the elf could observe there were no insignia or royal seals. He raised his other hand to grip onto the handle, feeling the weight of the sword in his hands as he gently bounced it in his palms, the blade surprisingly light. Casually the elf turned around, the blade still dancing casually within his grasp as his gaze caught sight of his target. With a quick swing and a push of his thigh the sword rose up over the elf's shoulder and down, its edge slicing through the wood of the closest table. The wood splintered heavily with the blow, shrapnel flying through the air as whatever was on the table collapsed toward the centre, the table caving in on itself.
The sword sung in the now silent air, Fenris steadily pulling the blade back to gaze down its length in admiration. The lack of weight and the ability to carve with ease was a tell-tale sign of good craftsmanship. "It is a fine offering. I think I'll accept it. Thank you, Hawke." The swordsman turned around slowly to place the weapon against the edge of his bed. Casually he strolled back over with a limp, the chair groaning under his weight as his body settled back down.
"You mentioned that you used to do...fisticuffs?" The word rolled slowly off the elf's lips, like it was a struggle to use the strange slang. Human's had an odd way of speech sometimes and it would make the elf speak slower than intended. He shifted in his chair, struggling to find a comfortable position as he thought about the prospect of teaching the mage. It would save him the trouble of having to manhandle people that got too close to the Fereldan in battle if the mage learnt how to properly defend himself. Also he had borne witness the jabs Carver had made at his brother, the chip on his shoulder deep enough to reach the Deep Roads. He could guess Hawke and Carver sometimes had the odd tussle and to give Hawke an advantage over his whiny sibling bought an unknowing grin to the elf's face.
"What would you do if I told you that you could complete your training...but not with 'fisticuffs'." Fenris proposed as he leaned forward, elbows resting in his lap as he eyed the mage down with drunken confidence. "Back in the Imperium, fighting with swords wasn't the only art we were taught. No, sometimes the magisters would organise arena battles where the only weapon you had were your own two fists. Of course it wasn't always a blood bath. Sometimes you were allowed to wrestle like two pigs in a pen...The looks on their faces as they watched you roll around in the mud were less than satisfying." Fenris rolled his eyes at the thought, the way Danarius would lick his lips as Fenris would hold his opponent face down into the ground in order to drown him in the earthly filth.
"I could offer you the same training, if you wished." He leant back with bottle in hand once more, lips painting in the tangy liquid as he emptied another two mouthfuls of the alcohol into his already burning stomach. His head spun momentarily as he pulled the bottle away to study the label; a grape here, a griffon there but otherwise the letters were all but blurred gibberish. "If you're interested I could teach you how to use that staff of yours just as my sword...well, perhaps not in the same manner." Fenris chuckled gently at the thought of Hawke running around swinging his stave like a scythe. "Either that or I could teach you hand to hand combat. No tricks, of course." The elf wriggled his fingers in amusement as the lyrium on his hands burnt to life momentarily, his skin becoming transparent for but a breath of time.
"I'd take you up on the offer if you promise to hold off on the mud wrestling," he answered with a laugh, though he'd only caught parts of the whole conversation. The image of Fenris swinging the sword was burned into the mage's mind. His manly pride taking a blow when he saw how the elf easily wave about the sword that had near broken Hawke's back. It just goes to show how far the mage had let himself slide with his physical training.
He wasted no time thinking the idea over, quick to agree with anything that'd let him stick to the elf's side, though Hawke doubted the sincerity of the offer. Fenris looked as though he was on his last legs, the fatigue and his drunken stupor piling up to impair the wolf's judgement. The mage knew that Fenris would have never said such things had they been sober and thinking clearly. But he wasn't one to let such an offer pass. Even if Fenris did forget by the morning, Hawke was sure to remind him of it.
The mage glanced around them, noting the empty bottles on the table. They've gone through what seemed like three or four drafts of alcohol. He had a couple of shots back in the Hanged Man but he'd been drinking at a careful pace, unlike the elf who'd been guzzling the drinks down like water which stands to reason why Fenris was in a jolly mood.
The mage took the last bottle from the elf's hands, and emptied it. It had been half full and sweet enough that the mage found no trouble swallowing it. He was delightfully buzzed, his chest warm and fuzzy with alcohol as he rolled his head back to stare at the ceiling. Though he knew he'd most likely wake up by the morrow with a killer headache, the apostate swore he won't regret it. It was a good ending to such a bad day.
"You know, when you left us back in the Bone Pit earlier. I almost swore we'd never see you again. You were so angry at me that I'd almost given up on reconciliation," the mage knew he was rambling, but he was so so comfortable as he reclined further in the chair, limbs folded over one arm of the furniture. His grey gaze was warm and liquid, like molten silver when it roved over the elf's form. A yawn threatened to break out but he swallowed it down and stretched his legs instead.
"But I'm glad you came back," and smiled. The mage got to his feet unsteadily, one hand holding on to his chair as he rose to his full height. He hadn't missed the elf's limps and his tired slump, but unlike Anders; Hawke was no healer. So there was nothing he could do to remedy the aches and pain Fenris had. The only thing he could do was to let the elf rest. Perhaps drop by again tomorrow with some compress or bath for the muscle pain they were both sure to suffer.
"I've taken too much of your time," the mage said, mindful of the hour. "You don't need to see me out, I can make my way," and with his farewell said, he turned his back on the warrior albeit a bit more dizzy than he'd care for.
Fenris let Hawke take the bottle from him in order to empty the last of it, his eyes shutting momentarily as he felt his head spin lightly, the world wobbling in a gentle sway around him. He couldn't help but chuckle at the mud comment, amazed that man hadn't resorted to perverted jokes like he usually would. The whole mention of mud and teaching Hawke to use his staff like his sword could have been taken as an innuendo but at this moment in time, the elf felt like he could talk freely without much care as to what would come from his mouth.
And then the mage had to go about the blasted bone pit again. Just hearing about it made the elf want to groan in complaint. He had invited Hawke in to forget about what happened and to simply let it rest so they could have a good end to their rather harrowing day. But no, here he was, blurting out how grateful he felt and as thoughtful as the gesture was, Fenris only wanted the mage to shut up. Thankfully, it was like the man had read his mind and had pulled himself to his feet, the mage swaying slightly as he attempted to ground himself before leaving.
The warrior chose to stay sitting, his hand rising slightly to bid him farewell as he watched the Ferelden turn around and leave the premises, the tattoos over his body tickling faintly as the aura shifted out of range.
The elf sighed with content as he allowed his eyes to close once more, the lazy licks of flame slowly drawing against the backdrop of his eyes to whisk him away into an eased slumber. For once there were no nightmares, no dreams about elongated hallways or the visages of evil mages, only the face of the man that had come to visit him. Hawke smiled at him in his sleep, his memories playing out a night the fugitive had joined them at the Hanged Man. The bar was barely discernible, blurring in an orange muck as the figures around him mumbled in a distant whisper. The only thing he could clearly hear was the rich laughter of the mage before him, the man's eyes glittering with mischief as he held up his hand, a solid deck in his hands. The victorious and confident grin on Hawke's face was enough for Fenris to gather he had won the game, his eyes slowly casting down at his hands to gaze at his own set of cards. All that stared back at him was vacant white, no numbers, no pictures, not even an inked border; an empty set of white nothingness.
The laughter drew the elf's eyes back up, the mage placing his cards onto the table before him. "I win." Hawke declared with a smug expression, the mage leaning forward enough so that the wolf could clearly make out the flicks of colour dancing behind those trickster eyes. Fenris' heated gaze then slipped further, watching as he neared the veins on the mage's neck and found his own body responding; his loins tightening against the fabric of his pants. "It's time to collect my prize." And with that, Hawke closed the distance between them, the elf's eyes grazing up to capture Hawke's once more as their heads leaned closer, the elf finding his body yearning to edge nearer, hands grasping to pull at the man's collar. But before he could advance a sudden noise startled him and Hawke's face all but washed away into the backdrop, the elf's eyes flying open as he suddenly launched out of his chair, toppling sideways to land on the ground with a loud bang.
His head pounded and Fenris had no choice but to groan, his eyes clenching against the streams of sunlight bursting through his windows. He could hear the sounds of footsteps nearing the edge of his stairs and immediately the elf's heart race; despite the protest of his pounding skull and aching muscles the warrior quickly scrambling to his feet, glass bottles scattering across the ground as he found the sword leaning against this bed. Gripping the handle the ex-slave quickly turned around, hauling the sword up onto his shoulder as he carefully approached the door, lyrium markings itching and poised to burst.
"'Ello? Elf, you there?" Varric. With a groan of pain and disappointment the elf lowered his arms, the sword swinging at his side as he walked across the open landing to find the rugged dwarf half-way up the flight of stairs. "What do you want, Varric?" Fenris asked with a less than pleased tone, his fingers running across a pounding temple surging with blood. The dwarf noted the elf's appearance, a knowing and rather amusing look pulling at his solid features. "Good news! Hawke's just got another deal today which means we'll be heading into the Deep Roads in less than a week. You're welcome to come join the celebration...after you pull yourself together, of course." Fenris wasn't quite sure what the dwarf meant until he felt the rather uncomfortable graze against the inside of his leggings. It didn't take him long to realise he was sporting his arousal and rather openly, his sword quickly lowering to block the view though the dwarf had probably seen a thousand hard-ons in his lifetime's worth of work to truly care.
"I'll see that I come to it later." Fenris muttered quickly as he spun around to drag himself back into the bedroom, only this time to close the door behind him without the dwarf peeking in. He threw the sword against the wall, the sound of the blade ricocheting causing a painful ring to reverberate within his sensitive ears. His mouth felt horribly dry and so he scrambled over toward his bedside table to recover a flask, emptying the stale water into his mouth with heavy gulps. Thankfully his erection hadn't been full enough to cause too much embarrassment but knowing the dwarf and his fondness for writing stories, Fenris knew he was going to spread a rumor of having seen the elf in his morning glory.
Isabela would be jumping all over the tale within a heartbeat.
The Bone Pit affair, despite the troubles they had; was actually one of Hawke's better ventures. Hubert, in a singular stroke of genius had offered Hawke half of the rights to the mine. Needless to say, the mage had more than jumped at the chance of supplementary income and after the workers heard that one of their bosses was a Fereldan like them had emerged from their drunken coma to go back to work.
You wouldn't have thought it possible, but the mine was actually turning out quite a profit. Hubert had courteously sent over five pieces of gold with promise of more by the next month. It was all Hawke needed to fill his and Varric's piggy bank for the expedition. And so, despite it being the wee hours of the morning; Hawke had woken Varric from where the dwarf was kipping and dragged him off to Hightown. The two spent most of their time standing around as one after the other the people in the expedition started to trickle in. They usually had such meetings at Bartrand's behest, the younger Tethras explained.
And once the snippy older dwarf himself arrived, Varric had led him away for a private talk. Hawke went around and talked to some of the people gathered where he met Bodahn and his adopted son, Sandal. The dwarf was an alright sort, and if his tale was to be believed; he was a brave one as well. Hawke couldn't imagine how it came about but the dwarf had once spent some time with the Hero of Ferelden. Hawke however could not help but doubt his words about Sandal's enchanting prowess.
Bartrand returned shortly with Varric in tow. The older dwarf had a stormy expression on his face while the younger was literally all teeth. After grudgingly explaining the outline of the expedition to the mage, the dwarf had given them a timeline: One last week of preparations before they set off for the Deep Roads. The elder Tethras took the bulk of Hawke's money and Anders' maps before shooing them off, claiming that there was nothing else they could do. The mage had been sorely tempted to set his pants on fire for that quip but he could also see why Bartrand wanted them out of his face. The shit-eating grins he and Varric were sporting would be enough to piss off even the most peaceful of men.
So then they made their way back to the Hanged Man to make plans for the expedition. There was also the case of who was better brought hundreds of feet below the surface for two to three weeks' worth of treasure hunting. Anders was an obvious choice, seeing as how the man's taint would be useful in sensing darkspawn and though the mage had expressed his distaste for the Deep Roads, he had also vowed to go wherever Hawke dragged him to.
And so the dwarf and mage were left at an impasse wondering who they should bring last. Bartrand had specified that he would take no more than four additional people on the trip and Hawke had found the request reasonable. There wouldn't be enough food to go around if they brought too many men.
Aveline would have been one of Hawke's first choices, but the guardswoman had once mentioned that it would be impossible for her to leave the barracks for more than a week. Merrill was interested and had nothing to do in the alienage; but Hawke did not trust her enough to live with her for nearly a month with thousands of tons of earth above their head. Sebastian was definitely out, Choir-boy was still too caught mourning the death of his family to be of any use underground. Isabela , gifted fighter as she was had been noncommittal in her answers to the point that it was obvious to Hawke that the pirate didn't like her chances with the darkspawn which brought the choices down to Carver and Fenris, two of the warriors in their group; both proficient with the blade.
The two had mulled it over carefully, bantering reasons as to why this one should go and why this one should stay. In the end, they were both leaning towards Fenris but had held the decision off to talk it over with both men later.
And then he and the dwarf had decided a party was in order, even if people were still recovering from last night's binge. They only had one week left to prepare after all, and what better way to do so than to drown one's self in alcohol. The bar man had agreed to pull out some of his better vintage from storage for their celebration whereas Nora had grudgingly said that she'll cook some of her better dishes for tonight.
They've split ways then, Varric heading off to settle some business of sort; and Hawke went off to continue his interrupted sleep.
When the sun was low enough in the sky to turn the clouds purple, Hawke had woken and dressed. Carver was nowhere around though their mother said that he'll be joining them later in their celebration. Gamlen was looking at him with morose eyes, probably waiting to be invited to the party to which Hawke did not extend. Siruis had been grounded by Leandra for nibbling at her sewing the day before.
By the time he made it to the Hanged Man a short distance away the sun had hidden in the sea and the moon had risen to take its place. The sound of drunken cheers welcomed him into the warm despite smelly confines of the tavern as Isabela guided him to Varric's suite where nearly everyone else had gathered. They had just started on the ale, the first bottle just about half done when Hawke arrived. They had also started an intense game of Wicked Grace where Isabela had been exempted for her cheating ways. At least everyone had learned from their previous mistake of playing against the pirate. They'd most likely draw her in later, after the stakes had been lowered, but for now, it was up to Hawke to relieve them of their coins.
He settled himself in place and joined the game, going easy on the ale while they waited for everyone else to show up. Carver showed up in a few with Merrill at his six. Aveline and Sebastian arrived together, most likely after they ran into each other in Hightown. A wordless glance at the guardswoman had her shaking her head; the gesture was lost on everyone except Hawke and the dwarf. It was after all, Hawke's private way of asking Aveline if she'd seen a particular elf.
But the mage did not have to wait long, because the man himself walked into the room. The mage was several coins richer then, a small pile growing in front of him, more so when the new arrivals had joined in.
He gestured towards an unoccupied seat across the table from him, silently inviting Fenris to the chair before he dealt the elf in. Isabela, since she wasn't allowed to play just yet; handed a full tankard to the elf and decided to play a different game on her own, mainly make lewd comments about everyone else in the room, starting with Aveline.
"Your leg any better?" the mage asked once Fenris was seated. The cards flew from his hands in quick succession, dealt with speed that hinted at the mage's familiarity with the game. "Varric told me he's gone to see you earlier, said something about you having problems with your flooring?" The phrase had mystified the mage earlier when Varric said it. The dwarf had used a different term and had Hawke been the naive sort, he would have missed the innuendos.
"Or hardwood as he called it. Anything I can help with?" he asked with a barely suppressed grin.
The smell of piss and vomit assailed his nostrils as he entered the tavern, a few of the patrons turning in their seats to give the elf a curious or frightened once over. He had spent the day after Varric's untimely interruption cleaning himself up in the broken tub in the mansion's basement, contemplating about the lewd dream that had taken place the previous night. What confused him most was not the sexual tension he had felt between Hawke and himself but how his body responded so eagerly, the dream but a whisper in the back of his mind as he recollected the moment they had almost kissed. Warm waters and a dusty remnant of soap was used to scrub his body from head to toe, the clear waters turning into a muddy red by the end of his session.
He had scrubbed as much of himself as possible, attending to the various cuts and wounds still littered across his tanned skin. He had also taken the measure to wash his hair, the stink of drakefire still evident. After the bath Fenris had headed downstairs to re-stock the wine. Unfortunately, the supply was beginning to get low, the elf only counting a shelf and a half left. It would supply him for at least another month before he would run out and he made a mental note to try and squander more alcohol when he was given the chance and the free time to do so.
So now he found himself in the Hanged Man, scaling the stairs towards Varric's suite when he heard the sound of banter and the chinking of glasses. He entered the room only to immediately find one of the tankards slipping into his grasp, the pirate practically knocking it into his chest. He was late, the rest of the party already having secured a seat until all that remained was one facing...no. The elf carried the tankard with care as he guided himself over to the chair, his eyes scanning between the table's patrons as they handled their hand of cards attentively. It all seemed so eerily familiar, like he was replaying an event in his life that had already transpired.
He slowly lowered himself down into the chair, his free hand positioning his new sword faithfully at his side. This was just all too strange. He took a heavy swig of the tankard, the cheap ale stinging against his healing lip as he swallowed the swill almost gratefully. "Or hardwood as he called it-" Fenris didn't even realise he had been greeted until the words flew so quickly out of Hawke's mouth it almost caused the warrior to spit his ale across the table. The elf coughed heavily as he struggled to swallow the ale in his mouth, a fist beating at the side of his chest to aid the fit of coughs that threatened to consume him. His lungs constricted painfully, reminding that they were not entirely healed from the dragon's callous blows. The elf's reaction had caused a wave of laughter to erupt from the pirate wench's mouth, the corner of her eyes dotting in tears as she tried to suppress her mocking tone. Damn that dwarf and his overly sized mouth.
The fingers wrapped around the tankard tightened as more laughter joined the fray, this time by Anders who too knew about the elf's mid-morning mishap. Fenris's knuckles turned white, the tankard slowly crushing in his iron grip as he tried to steady the sudden wave of anger and embarrassment washing over him, his eyes but wide under the clear accusation. Hawke knew and that was enough for the elf to regain his composition, fingers steadily unwrapping from the tankard to pluck up the cards that were thrown before him.
No, he would not allow this to play out as it had occurred in his dream. He would not let Hawke waver his pride nor take advantage of his position; not this time. Now more than ever the fugitive was determined to win Wicked Grace. He had never won, not with Isabela cheating by hiding cards up her skirt or between her breasts but with her out of the way, perhaps it was all the elf needed. He did not feed Hawke with any more ammunition for his jokes, preferring to remain silent like a jaguar stalking his prey as he glanced down at his hand. Good, the thought. He possessed a healthy hand, not a perfect hand but definitely something he would work with. Tonight, he was going to wipe the smug grin off the mage's face and try breaking him in to reclaim his lost pride.
Fenris didn't even know what the prize was, but if things went according to plan then he would hope something would come along. He had thought it would be more than money. Sure, loss of coin would still cause Hawke to fume lightly in defeat but the elf yearned for something else.
Tonight, he was going to win, one way or another.
When he saw the glare thrown his way, Hawke knew he was in for a beating but he kept his hopes up and prayed that Fenris won't get the urge to test his new sword on the mage. The teasing words were meant only for the elf's ears, but Hawke should have known Isabela was listening in. The wench was never oblivious to anything perverted happening around her. It was like she had a built-in antenna for such things and though the trait would have been useful for something else the mage should have expected his luck to run out. What he didn't expect was for Anders to listen in as well. The fellow mage was sitting a few chairs off to the side, trapped between a bickering Merrill and Sebastian; but he still somehow managed to hear Hawke's jibe.
Perhaps Fenris would have been less incensed had Anders not been such a gossip, but Hawke still felt sheepish. The look he gave Fenris conveyed as much. Which didn't seem to work anyway since the elf was now focused on his cards. At least even if the warrior was bent on beating Hawke up for embarrassing him, he'd chosen to do it through cards instead of fists, that much being obvious because the first round ended with Hawke winning and Fenris a close second. Merrill lost that round and lost nearly a third of her silvers, her fault for raising despite her bad hand.
The game progressed quickly, and everyone noted how it seemed as though the winners were always either the human or the elf seated across each other. Varric had thrown his lot in a game ago and had instead started a tally. One after the other, the rest started dropping out until the only ones playing were Hawke and Fenris. The money they'd collected were merely changing hands every game or so though Hawke was leading by one win.
There were only four people sitting round the table, as everyone else had wandered off to different corners of the room with drinks. Anders and Varric were betting on Hawke and Fenris, respectively. The healer was actually snarling his curses every time the elf won a game.
But the competition was going nowhere and with the money pool merely circling the two, Varric had a stroke of genius.
"Why don't you two play for a prize, instead of coin?" the dwarf suggested, drawing both their attention from each other. "Loser has to do what the winner wants for a day. Don't glare at me elf, I'm not suggesting slavery. It's all for the game, right? Anyway, you can always stab Hawke with your shiny new sword if you're not happy with his request. What can you lose?"
It was a good argument and an enticing incentive whether he won or lost. The mage was looking forward to spending more time around the elf, and with Varric's suggestion; it was literally a win-win situation. He could have kissed the dwarf there and then.
He met the elf's gaze with a taunt, egging Fenris to accept the terms. "Don't tell me you're backing out now? What, you scared of a mage?" the mage dropped his voice at the word, adopting Fenris' insulting tone with more bitterness than he intended. Even Anders looked impressed and Varric was giving out a low whistle.
"Ooh, Broody. I'm not you, but that burned!" the dwarf barked with a laugh. Isabela, after hearing Varric's comment strayed over and watched as the game continued. The rest, attracted by the grave silence surrounding the table approached and watched with mixed expressions of bemusement and confusion as Hawke and Fenris literally stared daggers at each other.
The score was at fourteen and thirteen, in favor of Hawke. They've agreed to race to fifteen wins. The second to the last round had been in Fenris' favor which tied them at fourteen-all. Hawke had a good set on him, but he was missing a certain card to cement his win. The elf was a brick wall, and no-one had seen his cards. Varric dealt the last two cards and Hawke couldn't help but pray as he reached for his.
He dragged the flimsy piece of paper towards him and carefully lifted a corner of the card. Swears immediately erupted from behind him as the people who've bet their money on him started verbally abusing the mage. Hawke almost felt put out with their reactions as he dropped his set on the table. The last card was no good, and judging from the elf's smirk; it was clear who the winner of the game is. Indeed, with an almost suave flick of his wrists; the cards he held cascaded on top of Hawke's. It was a winning hand, the best he'd ever played that night.
"Aw, Fenris... Hawke merely wanted to help you with your tree. Isabela said grew too big to fit? I don't see how that would make you so angry." A light-hearted voice suddenly quipped as everyone stared wide-eyed at Merrill. Isabela finally lost it, and once the dam broke it had everyone laughing their lungs out. Everyone except for the two elves, one who had a mystified look on her face, and the other who looked as though he was itching to start using his sword on everyone.
Hawke stifled his laugh and went round the table to get Fenris to a smaller table to the side, a safe distance from the elf's weapon. He tried to keep his face straight as he refilled their empty tankards, silently urging the elf to drink. The warrior still had a peeved look on his face that Hawke merely found strangely endearing. Others would have run when they saw the elf, but it only made the mage grin, one that he hid behind his glass.
"Well, it's nearly midnight and you've won fair and square. I'm yours for a day, to do what you will. Be it washing your smalls or helping you with renovating."
"Scared? Pah. Not in your life, mage." Fenris answered coolly to the Fereldan's taunt, his eyes reverting back to his cards. Accumulated in perfect synchronization, the build of his deck was perfect. He kept the cards tucked in, shoulders hunched as he loomed over his hand to prevent anyone from behind him reading or spoiling his run. All he needed was one more, just once more to land the perfect execution and as the dwarf dealt out the last cards the elf knew he was victorious. His poker face shifted to that of a snarky smirk as he flicked his wrist, the crowd residing behind Hawke whining in protest as his deck was placed out; the elf's first win with the best build he had gathered all night, one to rival even one of Isabela's sets.
But his victory was short lived when the elven apostate spoke up, the innuendo and reminder of what had caused him to sink with such determination into the game enough for the wolf's fingers to clench tightly. The metal talons of his gauntlets cut into his flesh like knives, veins straining at the edges of his neck as crimson streams ran freely between his fingertips. The glare he gave Merrill was riddled with the intent to kill, the conjoining laughter all but causing the blood to rush to the fugitive's head. No, he would not lose his temper, not here. He had just won his first game of Wicked Grace ever and had beaten Hawke against all odds. Yet, despite having won, he truly did not feel like a winner, rather more as a target of ridicule for his companions. Blasted mage, why did he have to spoil such pleasant sleep?
The warrior unclenched his fingers as crimson dots dripped onto the table, a newly filled tankard jingling before him. Gratefully, he took the swill and emptied the entire thing down his throat in a series of heavy gulps, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he eyed the mage down. "You played well." Fenris complimented in regard to their game, the tie unbelievably close that several rounds had threatened to send Fenris's deck to the grave. He shifted in his chair so he could bring himself to stand, his legs aching from constantly guarding over his cards with a staunch hunch. He let his legs stretch lightly as the party members gathered around the two males to congratulate them both on a good performance. Yes, he was victorious and Hawke had offered to work for him for a day. Not in the manner of a slave, otherwise Fenris would have outright refused the game...but as a servant. "A tempting offer, I'll have to consider it before tomorrow morning so you can begin your tasks bright an early."
"So Hawke is going to become Fenris' manservant for a day. That must be interesting," Chipped in Isabela as she roved around the two men to nestle neatly between them, her eyes twinkling with mischief and a degree of interest that the former slave couldn't read. The woman leaned over to place an arm over Hawke's shoulder, almost as if she was consoling him...or encouraging him. "So what do you plan to have the poor sod do? Oh, and please, don't skip out on any details; I want to know all the dirty bits. Do you plan to have him fix your floorboards after all?" The will to slap her had always loomed in the back of his mind but now more than ever did his fingers itch ready to lay one on her.
Varric was also listening on the conversation, the dwarf preoccupying himself with re-stacking the cards as he leant over close enough to catch any juicy bits of information. What did Fenris really intend to do with Hawke? He had rarely been in charge of another person save for his experiences back in Tevinter where he would sometimes instruct the other slaves in regard to fighting or intercepting them on Danarius' behalf. But again, this wasn't to turn Hawke into a slave or 'manservant' as Isabela had so pleasantly put it. He thought deeply on the matter, his brow furrowing as he considered every possibility. Now that he had won the game, his previous vengeance had seemed to fade over and allowing him to reassess the situation more realistically. But if it wasn't for Hawke spilling the beans then perhaps no one would have laughed at him in the first place.
A wicked idea passed through his thoughts as he answered Isabela's inquiry. "I think I'll make him give me a foot massage," Fenris responded casually, his tone riddled with only a hint of ridicule. "And I think I'll also have him celebrate my victory with a dance." The green orbs of the warrior's eyes failed to hide his glee at the thought of the mage getting up onto Varric's table to pirouette like his own personal ballerina. It wasn't much but it would be enough to get the point across that his dignity wasn't out of reach.
"Maker save us all," Carver suddenly piped up. The boy had been sitting nearby and though he wasn't paying careful attention, the notion of his older brother dancing had roused him from his own thoughts, and if the smirk painted on his face was anything to judge by then he wasn't about to offer moral support. "You want this, to dance?" he asked, a rude finger nearly poking Hawke's eye out. "I have no idea what weed you've been smoking Fenris, but do you really want your eyes to bleed out?"
"As if you're one to talk," Hawke had retorted lightly, though his gaze was narrowed at his younger brother. "If I remember correctly, it wasn't I who sent that farmer's daughter home with a broken leg during the harvest festival."
"She slipped in a puddle!"
"Right, a puddle in the middle of a drought."
There was the sound of metal against leather as Carver drew his sword. Isabela was faster and she soon had the younger Hawke's sword hand twisted behind his back. The boy was spitting mad before, but he quickly changed his tone when the rogue pulled his arm further.
"I think you've had to too much to drink, Junior. Why don't you come this way and cry your heart out on Isabela's chest," the pirate cooed as she led Carver across the room. Hawke watched his brother throw a last glare at him before turning his attention back to the elf. He shook his head and threw the last of his drink down his throat. It was no secret that Hawke had been nothing but tolerant of his brother and that Carver tends to blame everything on his brother. But no-one had seen their arguments develop into an all-out brawl. They'd have never expected that Carver would actually pull a sword out on something so petty.
"Ignore it," Hawke merely said and refilled his tankard from a bottle. When he met the elf's gaze once again, the previous light of teasing humor was back in the grey depths. "A dance, eh? You sure you don't want to do this somewhere more private? Like, on your lap?" the mage had said with a chuckle. It wasn't that he was that good of a dancer; Carver had been half right when he implied that the mage was not that good. But everyone here had seen the mage in more compromising situations, how worse can a dance get?
He was properly drunk by the time he gathered enough courage to ask Varric for assistance. The dwarf had laughed and left to borrow a guitar from the barman. When he came back, Isabela had clapped in glee and took the instrument in her own hands. She then came over, strumming the wire and humming lowly. Hawke merely sighed and got to his feet; urging everyone to clear a spot on the floor. They moved the table to the wall and stood back silently, though nearly everyone had an amused grin on their face.
By then Hawke had loosened up enough to actually start swaying to the music, even going as far as to unbutton his shirt with Isabela's low voice settling on a Rivaini folk song. The mage did not recognize the words, but the tune was all that mattered as he stomped his foot in time with the guitar's sharp twang. His hands settled loosely on his hips, accentuating the bones of his waist as rolled his shoulders back. The pirate after getting her cue from the mage grinned and started the song in earnest.
He tapped his heels along with the guitar as he raised his arms above his head, mentally thanking the courtesans in the Rose who had these kind of shows every once in a while. Madam Lusine had said that the dance was supposed to tempt, and tempt it did with the way the moves were focused on the dancer's waist and chest. Hawke, who was lacking some of the important parts, made do with what he'd seen from the male courtesans, meaning that he was all but molesting himself as he ran his hands down over his taut stomach and toward his legs. There was little upper body movement save for when he was supposed to show off the way his back muscles moved. Instead, he treated the group to a show of his strung belly and how it moved with the music. With an almost discernible snap, he rolled his hips with the music, hands clapping to the tune. One foot in front of the other, hipbones jaunting and pointed towards the seated elf. Their gazes met and never broke as Hawke danced. Every step brought him closer and closer to Fenris, until the last strums of the guitar vibrated into nothing, and Isabela's song died off to a stunned silence.
He was panting deeply as though he had just run a marathon. The dance hadn't been that wild, but controlling his limbs to form the poses he wanted had been just as tiring. By then, he was all but sitting on the elf's lap as he braced his hands against the wall behind them. Fenris was trapped under his shadow, but the warrior had not broken the gaze Hawke had held for so long.
"That was... surprising." Varric finally said and just like that the silence was broken. Everyone was suddenly talking and someone was pushing a full glass in Hawke's hand as he collapsed on a chair besides the elf.
"Where the hell did you learn to do that!?" Carver was asking over the din.
"I remember seeing some of the courtesans dancing it in the Pearl, but I've never thought I'd see Hawke doing it," was Anders slightly hypnotized observation.
The mage merely grinned at their reactions and drank from his glass, turning his attention towards the elf instead as everyone finally got over their shock and started asking Isabela for another song.
"I hoped I performed to your expectations. I don't think I can live with the memory of a repeat performance," the mage admitted, finally clueing the elf in on just how out his skin he had been. Bravado was all he had going for him now, a facade that he strove to maintain even as his heart thumped in nervousness.
Fenris remained seated though his fingers had splayed automatically around the hilt of his sword, ready to draw the weapon to life should Carver persist in attacking his sibling in his drunken stupor. Thankfully, Isabela was closer and had taken it upon herself to haul the younger man away, Carver's sword dragging across the floorboards as he was pulled away into the pirate's bosom. He turned his attention back to Hawke as his hand released the handle and placing the now empty tankard down onto the table. "A dance, eh. You sure you don't want to do this somewhere more private? Like, on your lap?" The comment left the elf wide eyed, a corner of his lips twitching as an itch in his throat commanded him to cough. "N-No, no, that won't be necessary." The elf countered in a gentle tone, his hands poised in case the mage had gotten too confident and yearned to move closer.
Thankfully no such event occurred. The elf's tankard was refilled a numerous amount of times as the party continued on into the night. The patrons of the tavern slowly made their ways up into the adjacent corridors, the night still young as the bustle of celebration tempted would-be party crashers and curious bystanders to peek around the door. Varric had gone to fetch a guitar from the lower bar and those who stood around drinking and making conversation moved out of the way, their combined efforts easily shifting the large dwarven table and furniture against the wall. Fenris moved his own, much to Varric's encouragement of course to the back of the room to give Hawke enough space to dance while allowing the warrior to watch from the best spot.
With tankard in hand he came to sit, thighs lightly parting as Isabela had taken control of the instrument, beginning to strum away as the chords begun to fill the air in an elegant symphony. Hawke unbuttoned his shirt, earning a small coo of interest from the apostate elf as he slowly began to move in time with the music. Fenris sat back to enjoy the view, an amused smirk pulling at his lips as he tried his best to not chuckle at the male dancer. His movements seemed like they were meant for a woman, the elf's eyes roving where Hawke's hands pulled, watching as his hips rolled and shoulders swayed.
The pace of the beat begun to pick up and soon enough the elf found his mouth becoming dry, the man increasing his tempo as his hands wandered further, Fenris watching eagerly as his fingers trailed down his stomach and toward the lower reaches of his body. Mesmerizing was the only word he could describe it. Sure, Hawke was not the most skilled dancer with movements sometimes a little sharp or clumsy for his build but the gyrating turns of his body balanced with the accentuation of his masculine features was enough to silence the entire party. "Maker..." The guardswoman exclaimed as Hawke endeavoured to bring himself closer, his skin faintly scintillating under the low lighting in perspiration.
Fenris' mind had run on empty, watching as Hawke turned to shift his gaze over the mage's body, drinking him in. He couldn't quite make it out, if it was the alcohol making the dance seem appealing or if it was Hawke but the warrior had lost all train of thought as he found himself watching the man's ass, the cheeks plump and ripe like fruit ready for the picking. The alcohol must have been playing tricks on his mind.
Their eyes had kept locked together in a rather intense gaze, Fenris determined to keep Hawke steady as the mage panted against him, his muscles rather pleasant as they pressed against him. He felt almost tempted to reach up and steady the man by his thighs but the comments and odd compliments coming from their party members had the elf realise this was not the time nor the place to indulge in such selfish measures. Fenris left his arms hanging over the sides of the chair, determined to keep them both at bay as the mage leaned against the wall to catch his breath, weight shifting once more that had the elf briefly twitch with a delightful pain.
The dance had felt more than being intimate, like Hawke had entirely performed for Fenris personally; disregarding how the others would perceive or judge the interaction. It made the warrior realise just how dry his mouth had become, one of his loose arms swinging up to pull the half-empty tankard to his lips in order to quench his thirst. A thirst he did not realise he had suddenly laboured for the human...until this morning.
"Quite the show Hawke, I'm impressed." Fenris complimented as the mage pushed himself into the chair next of the elf, his bare chest still beaded with sweat. Fenris searched for Carver as he gave the younger Hawke brother a sly grin, almost teasing him in response to his previous doubts. The wolf took another sip of the swill from his tankard as his eyes cast out in thought. "Not too bad...for a mage."
And so the warrior raised his tankard, sluggishly seeking to make a silent toast with the rather exhausted raven. "The Deep Roads await." It was an offering of peace and a warm regard to the upcoming trip Hawke would have to face, a daunting one that stood as the pinnacle of their first year and a half in Kirkwall. With the toast completed, the elf brought the tankard back to his lips and emptied its contents once more, his eye watching Hawke from the side of his fringe as he downed the cheap ale until all that was left were stains.
He wasn't so bad for a mage or a man at all...