A/N: When I saw new battle acrobatics of mages, their staffs and perk "Pyromancer", I knew my mage just have to be fire-dancer. I love dancing with fire myself, though I dance with poi, not staff. I was going to mention it briefly, but then got the idea for separate chapter.

they'd call me spitfire

Bethany was her mother's daughter, Erica – a daddy's girl and Carver was no one's son. He couldn't say that he wasn't loved, but he never was the pride of the family.

One tough year, their parents didn't have enough money and Erica refused her Satinalia gifts so twins could get the better ones. Carver clenched his awesomely engraved toy sword and desperately envied his older sister, because his father looked at her with such radiant pride, the kind Carver never received himself.

Erica this, Erica that. Erica can do anything she wants. Mother taught her daughters dances as well as noblewoman's manners, but it wasn't enough for his arrogant sister. She didn't only dance, she danced with fire. She burned down three sheds until she learned how to adjust the flames properly and father let her! 'The girl has a talent with the element', he said, 'it'll help her to better master it'. He just built a new shed every time; the neighbors were getting suspicious, but no, anything for his precious Erica, his little firebird. She claimed only because of that practice she could cast dangerous spells indoors and not destroy furniture, but he knew it was just an excuse for her own selfish whims. When father died, Carver made her promise - no more dancing with fire. It was not only perilous, but also could be noticed by Templars. It was the first of their many spats, but this time she gave in.

Bethany probably would have submitted to the Circle without the influence of her older sister, but Erica - never. When Carver even briefly mentioned that option, she almost breathed fire at him. Well, more accurately, she spilled a sea of venom. Still, it was one of the rare cases when she at least took him more or less seriously. Usually, she would just huff at him and let whatever he was saying float in one ear and out the other.

This expedition in the Deep Roads was the last straw. For the last month all her news sounded like "Nothing new, fought a dozen undead and a few bandits, but that elf is getting on my nerves! Ugh!" But even with all her complaints she still took the elf with her and left her own brother home. And then, apparently because she would better suffer and spit at every step than work with her useless little brother, she brought Fenris with her to the Deep Roads.

Well, if she doesn't need her little brother, then he can find his own way in life.

"Hey, Varric. You're still up! Want to make good on that promise to throw a celebration party?"

"Sure, Hawke. What about him? You want to invite... a friend?" the dwarf asked warily, nodding to tall dark-skinned Rivaini at my side.

"Sort of. Rashcar is a drummer, he'll help me to make a little show."

"Hmmm?"

"I want you to clear out your room - blow out all the candles and torches, and remove the table - I'll need a little free place to dance."

"Dance? Well, that's sounds great, but I'm afraid we will miss a few details of this splendid show. You know, without any light."

"You won't. Because it's a dance with fire."

"What? Indoors? Hawke, Templars will notice if you burn down the tavern. Not to mention the impact on little old me, who happens to live here.

"Come on, have a little faith, Varric. You know I can throw damn fireballs indoors. Trust me. It's gonna be epic."

He sized me up, then nodded slowly.

"Oh, and by the way, Varric. Carver left to become a Templar. At least he didn't seal the door."

It was not bad, not bad at all. Isabela had seen dances with fire before, not performed by a mage, but undoubtedly with the same purpose. To make an impression. To spark lust and longing. The dancers she knew wore little clothes and were oiled for further seductive effect; Hawke wore a long, high-necked black tunic, so her body almost dissolved in the darkness of the room. Almost, but not absolutely - sudden sparks outlined her silhouette occasionally, adding intrigue.

Traditionally, flames were strongest at the start, dying out over time, but Hawke controlled them at will. Fire would kindle at one or both ends of the staff, run from one side to another, cover one of the halves or the whole length. Almost a little too complex for a simple dance.

She started like all fire dancers, slowly, with smooth motions and broad, almost lazy swaying of the flaming staff. But soon enough her tempo increased. It was hard to tell, if Hawke followed the racing beat or the music caught up with her, but she moved perfectly in flow of the deep, bold sounds. The drummer, the lean, strong man clearly of Rivain origin, with his long fingers and many-coloured beads in a black shock of hair, was apparently one of Hawke's paramours. The girl has taste, you had to give her that. And drummers were the pirate's favorite musicians. They have a rhythm, and it was one of the most important things in sex.

The powerful, raw beat filled the room and in the center of it was Hawke. Now it was clear from where her specific battle movements had arisen. Not quite aggressive strikes, but also not just alluring swaying. Bold, sometimes abrupt and risky motions, too dangerous, too fierce. But it wasn't also a simple demonstration of skill and magic, there was something more, hid, woven between her and the music...

Maybe it was something more than just a brothel dance after all.

At first, Aveline was worried about such a risky affair. Fire indoors, clearly illegal, and especially after everything that Hawke did to throw the Templars off of her scent. But then the mage started dancing and the guard forgot all her warnings.

It was pure wonder, not usual, everyday magic with spells and dirty details like blood and demons. No, it was true magic, like in fairytales that her father read for her long ago, with unearthly beautiful miracle and magical creatures that didn't need to be slayed. Flickering fireflies tossed around feverishly and then turned into radiant comets with wide colorful tails that drew wonderful patterns, glowing in the darkness. Then Hawke's staff flared up entirely and she swirled it like a large flaming wheel, filling the room in a red blinking light. She would turn her staff with fire covering only one half in front of her and then spin it behind her back with flames at the other half, and it looked like flapping wings of a great firebird.

For a little, precious while there would be no laws but the ones from storybooks.

How could she not understand?

It wasn't just a dance with fire, it was a dance with fire and darkness. It was a risky game and it's beauty couldn't exist without proper contrast.

She dances like this, a creature of blood between untamed fire and waiting dark, balancing and risking her life at every second and she still couldn't understand blood magic, though it was just the same. Darkness plays an equal, inalienable part. Hawke rounds, bends so low that her shoulder-blades almost touch the floor, twirling the blazing staff over her, and then in one smooth, passionate movement, she jumps up in an unbelievable somersault, dodging fire in the last second. And in every one of her moves, every one of her pass and steps, darkness catches up to her, it leads and follows her like a partner. Part of a lover, part of an enemy.

How could she not understand?

At first Justice didn't approve. This dance was childish, a risky, pointless game, a waste of time, a useless provocation of desire that distracts from the true goal. But at some point she stopped being a woman made of flesh and became a symbol. Justice knew the importance of symbols. The Fade was based on them.

Dressed in black, she hid in darkness, but created light. What a perfect metaphor for an apostate. Her dance was an embodiment of a mage's freedom and pride - forced to balance her own power, dangerous to herself, in constant need of moving, dodging, sliding away.

She outlined her own cage with fire and escaped it every next second. She created a blazing, deadly, constantly changing labyrinth of flames and survived within, but playing her own game. Fire dictated her path, it forced her to move in a definite way to not get burned, but with cat-like grace she danced as she pleased, not submitting, finding crazy, risky gaps in the glowing pattern.

She could be a leader. She had spirit, a heart of fire that could inspire people. But to lead them she would need to rip this flaming heart and carry it in her hand. She could be a leader, but would she?

He would make her see. He had to make her see and help.

He waited for a great story to tell, for new juicy details of Hawke's image. But it wasn't just a dance. It was her soul, bared, sincere, beautiful, vulnerable for those who can see under the first impression of joy and passion. When he saw her dance, he knew he wouldn't be able to tell this story.

But since he prided himself on being a spy master, he scanned the reactions of the others. Aveline looked like a little girl, utterly enchanted and with her guard down. That was good, she needed to forget about duty sometimes and just have fun. Isabela sat in a relaxed pose, watching the dance with slightly narrowed eyes and pointedly not impressed - the first sign that she was actually impressed. Merrill was predictably excited. She gasped at every dangerous trick, clasped her hands worriedly and covered her mouth admiringly when the fire drew another elaborate pattern in the air.

Anders leaned forward, looking at Hawke with hungry, almost predatory rapture. If Varric wins his bet and Hawke chooses the healer, the dwarf would have to warn her. The apostate looked at her not like a man at a woman he loves, but like a fanatic at regalia of his cult.

Speaking of the bet...

The elf sat with his usual imperturbable face, but he followed with his intense gaze Hawke's every move. His green irises looked like a thin border because of how much his pupils had widened. It was hard to tell which of the sparks in the darkness were reflections of the mage's fire and which - of his own interest.

What was even more interesting - Hawke's own intentions. Today, she would most likely leave with a bronze-skinned drummer, who devoured her with deep shimmering eyes and interlaced the rhythm of his music with her dance perfectly. But what was more important in the long term perspective - was who the mage will look at in the first moment after she finishes moving.

He waited and - naturally - enjoyed the magnificent view.

Tevinter mages, even poor ones, consider using their magic for tricks like these as shame and disgrace, so he never saw a show so impressive even at Danarius's feasts. But after a little while he couldn't call it "tricks" any longer. It was something more, not just performance, or a dance or even magic.

It was a burst, a rebellion, a scream of loss. It was strange to realize that independent, careless Hawke was hurt so much by the leaving of her brother. Too proud to complain or talk about it, she expressed her resentment without words. Just with desperately sharp, provokingly risky movements and fire.

She flaunted flaming, complicated lace and hid behind it like under a veil. A paradox, like everything about her. It was a warning and bait at the same time, a challenge to try to get past those burning barriers and certainty that no one would dare. He wanted to step through those blazing elusive walls and catch her hand, but restrained himself.

Don't be a fool, you're imagining it. You see what you want again. It's Hawke, what could she know about loneliness?

With the last strikes of the beat resounding across the room and fire dying out on her staff, she dropped down in mock-curtsy, almost kneeling, but with her back proudly straight. When she slowly lifted her lashes and he met her eyes in the fallen darkness, there were the most wild, restless and bright blazes of that night.