A/N: Hey, guys! Sorry that this chapter is so late – I've had a couple of setbacks. Firstly, at the beginning of the week, I got glasses for the first time in my life, which meant that I couldn't stare at a computer screen for more than five minutes at a time for days. Then my doof of a dog took a tumble across our hardwood floors and popped her damn kneecap right out of place, and now isn't allowed to walk much for two weeks and has to chow down on pills. Trying to keep a year-and-a-half-old dog (who is six pounds of pure energy) still is an exercise in patience. Needless to say, it's been a busy week between Ibuprofen and vet trips. =/

Anyway, this week's chapter is a day or two late, but next week's should theoretically be on time! And it'll be about a Qun festival that Hawke gets to take part in, so I'm really looking forward to writing it.

Thanks for your patience, and here it is!

Day 26

It was a beautiful morning.

The scorching Kirkwall summer had finished its final, sizzling death throes, and a mellow cool had broken through. Even the qunari, despite hailing from a sun-bleached island jungle, seemed to appreciate the relief from this particular brand of devastating heat.

Best of all, Hawke could now indulge in her urge to sunbathe without fear of cooking like a steak. The warmth felt soothing on her limbs, and she laid out a mat across the tops of some enormous supply crates, scaling up a few layers to the prime rays.

She laid out her books in the fan shape that had become her rhythm, dictionary and notes alongside the enormous, ornately-decorated book of prose. A nontrivial amount of pages sat tucked beneath the bookmark, a testament to her progress.

Stomach-down on the ochre-reds and browns of the thick mat, Hawke energetically picked up where she had left off the night before. The piece she was working on was promising, and though the longest she'd had to tackle yet, it was also the most personal. It was a love letter for sure, but to whom or what, she'd yet to discover. The idea that the answer might lie in the final stanzas drove her onward, and she was so engrossed in her efforts that she didn't notice the gathering of company.

When she next looked down, a half dozen karashok and ashaad sat on the crates around hers, working on weapons or discussing the Qun or any of a number of menial tasks that they saved for the pleasant mid-morning lull. They acknowledged her with a nod as she peered over the edge, and Hawke waved and ducked back into her book. She pulled the book up to hide her broad smile, burying her face in the worn pages. She felt giddy, like a child who had fallen asleep in a field and woken up surrounded by winged insects who would never have come near when she was awake and noisy, but settled in her stillness.

Not wanting to scare off her titanic, muscular butterflies, Hawke inhaled deeply to combat the urge to blather excitedly. Her nose was so far buried in the center folds that she didn't see another soldier approach.

"Humans have strange reading methods."

She let the book fall into flat hands and away from her face, turning to see a qunari standing in front of her stack of crates, eye level even with hers. When she recognized the face and horns of a Sten she'd developed something of a friendly rapport with, she smirked.

"And here I thought that the qunari, of all people, would appreciate what a good long whiff can tell you."

"From another living being, yes. From a book, no." He tilted his head, the long, thick white plait over his shoulder sliding with the movement. The Sten had been one of the first to engage her in full conversation, his relatively young age as a talking point and his past assignments along Seheron's coastline providing him a rare familiarity with the common tongue.

Another striking point was his broken horn, leaving a full third of one dominant horn missing. Hawke hadn't had the nerve to ask him about that yet, as she didn't know if it was a personal subject to the qunari as a race. It did, however, give her another means of identifying the men when she had trouble with facial recognition; their horns were as unique in size and shape and scarring as their faces were.

She'd know this one a mile away, though. Aside from the damaged cranial bone, she'd seen him smile a surprisingly frequent amount. Especially when they talked about weapons. He doted on the pair of enormous swords strapped to his back, and for every question he answered about the Qun, she would answer one about lyrium. He seemed interested in the augmentation of runes, and Hawke wondered if Sandal could whip up something that worked well with the Sten's mammoth strength.

She'd have to figure out how the qunari felt about gift-giving first, of course.

"Did you stop just to criticize my reading abilities?"

"No, though as a learner, you should value any criticism you are fortunate enough to receive." Hawke was about to shoot back a witty retort, but he ignored her opening mouth and kept talking. "You have a visitor."

She blinked, closing her books. "Another one? Or the same?"

"Different. Mahtabas."

Mahtabas. As she tucked her books neatly into her satchel and rolled up the cushy throw rug, she considered the new word. Bas was their word for 'thing' or 'foreigner,' and if she recalled correctly, mahta meant 'small.' She frowned. A child, then? No, the word for 'child' was imekari, and she didn't really know any children, anyway...

"A dwarf?" she guessed, climbing down from her perch to a lower level of crates, then to the ground.

The Sten grunted an understanding, walking toward the audience arena. "Yes. 'Dwarf.' Mahtabas."

A light beamed across Hawke's face as she kept apace. If her visitor was a dwarf, there were really only two people he could possibly be. Varric would be a welcome sight, though she'd received a note from him not two days before. And Maker only knew the reason that the other option would come all the way from her estate and directly into the qunari compound when he got knock-kneed just setting foot in Lowtown.

Sure enough, though, there he was, braids in his beard twitching nervously as he waited at the base of the steps.

"Bodahn?" she called, nodding to the Arishok in acknowledgment as she passed by his dais.

"Messere!" He brightened, a sudden liveliness in his movements as he bowed and waved. "It's so good to see you looking well. We've all been beside ourselves with worry. House doesn't feel the same without you around."

She smiled at his enthusiasm, but quickly shook her head. "It's good to see you too, but I sent word that I'd be here for some weeks yet. Why are you..."

Her voice trailed off as her gaze fell on the crate next to the dwarf, filled with familiar-looking scroll holders and gilded frames.

"Maker, no," she sighed. "Please tell me that that's not what I think it is."

Bodahn looked sympathetic as he gestured to the official-looking parcels. "I'm sorry, messere, but your lady mother absolutely insisted when she heard about your extended stay. She'd've had my headif I didn't bring these down at once! Oh, if you had only seen the way she –"

"It's all right, I believe you." She grudgingly walked down the steps, feet feeling heavier with each step. She really didn't want to take that box, but she knew that poor, devoted Bodahn would have to suffer her mother's wrath if she didn't.

Though the temptation to throw the lot in the harbor was overwhelming.

"Stop," commanded the Arishok from his reclining position. "You will explain."

Before you bring any strange, potentially dangerous or (even worse) frivolous clutter into my compound, while unspoken, rang loud and clear.

Hawke reached for the topmost tube and popped one of the ornate end caps open, sliding the rolled-up contents into her hand and unfurling it. She held the canvas up to show the Arishok, the face of a skinny, pale, gaudily-dressed aristocrat staring out from the painting.

"Betrothal portraits," she said, "courtesy of my mother." She flapped it around a bit demonstratively, one hand on her hip. "I've a month's worth of candidates to go through." She tossed it back in the box along with the canister.

The qunari leader studied her curiously, adjusting his position to lean forward and narrow his eyes. When he spoke, it was with a mildly interested tone. "You seek a mate."

"No," she corrected, "my mother seeks one for me. I just look at the pictures and pass judgment."

"You do not welcome her involvement."

Hawke grimaced. "No, I most certainly do not."

He frowned for a moment, silently watching her adjust the crate's contents before she attempted to hoist it up.

It was heavier than it looked, and the champion felt her muscles protest as she lifted it to chest level. Her arms, shoulders and back were screaming, and just as she considered dragging the damn thing up piecemeal, a pair of massive hands covered hers, and warmth pressed into her back.

She relinquished her hold as the Sten effortlessly hefted the box over her head and onto one of his shoulders, staring down at her from behind. She tilted her head back to meet his eyes, squinting and trying to imagine that his smirk was because he was just so happy to be helping her rather than amusement at her new inability to lift a single damn crate.

"You should not attempt such things while injured," he reprimanded.

Deflating, Hawke turned to face him. "Why is everyone here always scolding me?"

"Because you do things that require correction," he stated flatly as he started up the steps.

"You're all busybodies," she muttered, following.

"We aim to improve those who seek to improve themselves."

"And if I feel like I don't need any improvement?"

He was quiet then, and Hawke craned her neck around to see his expression. A smirk was plainly written across his features, crinkling a scar that crossed his lips.

"You're smiling!"

"I was imagining you meeting a comical death," he informed her. "It was very appropriate, given your statement."

She sighed, but smiled despite herself.

Hawke liked the half-horned Sten. It was good to see that not all qunari were as strict and taciturn as a certain axe-wielding warlord, who had been her primary company for the first few weeks of recovery.

The Arishok watched the two of them closely as they approached, grunting a short, muted acknowledgement when the Sten asked for permission to excuse himself.

And his leader's hawkish eyes burned intently into the human's back as she walked away.

She felt something amiss, and when she glanced over her shoulder at him, the intensity of his gaze caught her by surprise.

Something about that look made Hawke shiver.

"No," Hawke muttered aloud as she scribbled on a long piece of parchment, "because Lord Crawsbury's nephew has a neck that looks as though it could snap like a chicken's. And even if that's just the portrait, it shows he has a terrible taste in art." She put it aside, reaching for the next framed portrait or flashy tube. "Next."

She'd been going through these damn things since midday, and her body was beginning to stiffen. There had to have been at least four dozen candidates in the box, each carefully handpicked by Leandra for some reason known only to the woman herself. And it was Hawke's job to go through each one just as carefully, explaining to her loving mother why, precisely, each prospect was unacceptable.

Sometimes it was tough to find something wrong with the match. Other times, it was far too easy. Especially with the Orlesian nobles. With them, often all she had to write was "Ruffles" and that was enough.

Hawke had very clearly lost track of time in her efforts to get the whole lot done in the span of an evening. She blinked, looked up, and any trace of sunlight had disappeared from the world. Instead, a cool breeze came through the gap in the tent flap, and the lanterns were lit.

She was so engrossed in her work, she hadn't even remembered getting up to light them. And, to her great dismay, her zealous drive had only gotten her halfway through the stack.

"You were not present for the evening meal." A voice from the door caught her attention, and she turned to see the Arishok letting the door flap flutter shut behind him.

It was apparently far later than she'd estimated.

"I completely forgot about it," she sighed, rubbing at the corners of her tired eyes with equally tired fingers. "I just want to get these done and over with."

"I assumed as much." He stood over here, tilting his head to inspect the box and the surrounding floor area, which was littered with scrolls and portraits. "You have no intention of taking a mate, yet you will still look at them?"

"My mother worked hard," Hawke replied, shaking yet another froofy-looking portrait out of its tube and unrolling it. "And even though it won't do any good, hard work is hard work." She scanned the note accompanying the man's painting. "It would be disrespectful to her to not even glance at them."

"Then you are doing as I expected."

She looked up from her writing to stare at him, puzzled. "You're not going to tell me that I'm wasting my time and hers?"

He picked up the stack of responses she'd already completed. "She is diligent in her efforts. Though they are at odds with your own purpose, you pay it due respect." There was an every-so-slightly, barely noticeable hint of something tender in his tone as he continued. "It is admirable; it cannot be faulted."

The human sitting on the wide cluster of cushions smiled warmly, pleased by the rare praise from the bronze giant. However, just as soon as it had appeared, it was replaced with chiding.

"You are foolish to skip a meal while recovering from an injury," he declared.

She laughed sheepishly. "I was so busy I forgot to be hungry."

"That is unacceptable."

"I'll be fine," she reassured him, but her treacherous stomach chose that exact moment to growl loudly, and she cursed her innards for betraying her.

Immediately, a small and warm parcel was dropped into her lap, sending papers every which way. Hawke's curiosity eclipsed her irritation, and she tugged the strings holding it together until they loosened and fell away, revealing a trio of doughy buns sending delicious-smelling steam wafting into the air.

"Eat." he commanded, reclining a few feet away.

"I will in a moment," she said, gathering the scattered papers together again. "I just need to finish –"

"Now."

"But I've already started –"

An irritated grumble echoed from his chest, and within an instant, he had caught her chin in one massive hand, holding her to face him. A clawed index finger tapped at her jaw.

"Open your mouth."

"Hey! What are you –"

"That will suffice." With that, he firmly pressed the flesh of one bun between her teeth, satisfaction written on his face as he released her and pulled back.

Sulking, Hawke bit down and tore a chunk out of her dinner, her love of the spiced meat in the center not mollifying her one bit. The Arishok, for his part, seemed completely unfazed by her pointed glare. She was eating; he had won.

"You have formed an acquaintance with the Sten," he said as she reached for a second bun a few moments later. "I was unaware."

Pride warmed Hawke's face and she smiled despite her earlier vow to be surly. "Yes," she confirmed eagerly, swallowing the last bit of fluff from the first roll. "Aside from the healer, he's the one I talk to the most."

Her response was a vague snort of acknowledgment, which she took as encouragement to continue.

"We have really interesting conversations," she shared, wiping her fingers on the waxy parchment upon which the food sat. "And I get to practice new words with him. My language is getting better every day." She laughed a little at a memory of the Sten openly ridiculing her for mispronouncing the word for 'crate' into 'goat's milk.'

"Soon," she said casually, "I won't need to be so much of a burden on you."

He turned to her then, frowning. He shifted his posture, watching her while his chin rested in one palm. "I do not recall ever telling you that you were."

Hawke's heart beelined for the base of her throat, and it took far too much strength to swallow back down, along with the bread.

"I have trouble believing that I'm not," she managed, trying to sound flippant. "Besides, you've never said that you enjoy having me around, exactly."

"Do you require everything told to you?"

His stare held her in place, and while Hawke knew he wasn't going to spell it out for her, she got the distinct impression that she'd just figured out something very important about the qunari warlord. And also, on a related note, about why her heart had been behaving so very oddly since the day it had been accidentally pierced by Sebastian's arrowhead.

Maker, the Arishok didn't shy away from anything, did he?

He turned his attention elsewhere, eyeing the bookshelf with a quiet rumble. "You are an exercise in my patience. Sharing a residence with you will bring me to a previously unimagined level of enlightenment."

And suddenly, things were back to normal. Hawke snickered as the tension broke like a twig, settling back into their comfortable, far less intense rhythm.

"Right. Fifth word I ever learned in qunari: imeshara. Thanks for that. My gratitude knows no bounds."

He smirked then, and Hawke let out a long breath, feeling the coiled tightness in her chest dissipate as she reached for a small, rectangular frame that held the likeness of yet another eligible bachelor. She held it up at arm's length to get a better look, and no sooner had she done so than it was plucked from her grasp.

"I was looking at that, you know."

The Arishok narrowed his eyes as he regarded the portrait. "I know this one."

"You do?" She fished around until she found the corresponding note from her mother. "That's Viscount Dumar's son, Saemus."

"Correct."

"You've met him, then," she asked, somewhat incredulous. As far as she knew, the Viscount had never come to the compound and always used messengers.

"As have you." He nodded to the door. "He frequents this place as though it were an oasis in a desert; he would walk the path of the viddathari were it not for his coward of a sire's interference."

"Well," Hawke sighed, "that 'coward of a sire' is Viscount, making his son nobility and therefore a potential candidate for husband. And I have to figure out the best way to politely refuse, so if you'll excuse me..." She crawled over him much like a monkey, one hand on his knee to hold her up while the other hand reached out and yanked the frame back. "I need this back now."

He made no move to interrupt or move her, but instead watched her with interest as she calmly settled back into the groove her backside had left in the pillows, prize in hand.

It only took a few minutes of attempting to write for Hawke to realize how difficult it was to work with someone staring at you. She put down her writing utensils, turning to her companion.

"What?"

He leaned in a bit closer, curiosity evident in his expression. "When did you lose your fear of me?"

Taken aback, her brain froze for a moment. That had come out of nowhere.

Or had it?

She did just brazenly climb into his personal space when not two weeks ago, she would have cowered at the sound of his voice alone. He was powerful, he was intimidating, he was frightening...

...and he ensured that she was fed and wrapped his arms around her in his sleep.

The scar tissue on her chest throbbed with every half-beat of her quickened pulse in a traitorous, telling way.

Andraste's glorious lady-cock, Hawke swore silently. I'm in trouble.

"I suppose," she began, flexing her wrists out of nervous habit, "I'm still afraid of you, just in a different way."

The Arishok didn't miss a beat. "In what way, then?"

Her mouth ran dry, and she couldn't pull her eyes away from the sight of the veins in the back of her hand rising under her skin as her fingers curled in and out. "I'm not used to someone having so much power over me."

This must have confused him, she knew, as he paused before his response. "You still retain full autonomy here."

She shook her head a few times, and only slightly. "You misunderstand."

And there was silence.

Slowly, Hawke picked up her writing and began again, still avoiding the qunari's piercing eyes. She could feel him fixed on her face as she worked, and she did her best to focus on the task at hand rather than speculate what in Thedas he could be thinking about for so long.

She'd gotten through another two suitors before they were blessedly interrupted by the delivery of the Arishok's evening tea, and he pulled a thick book from the shelf to immerse himself in as he drank. It felt as though she had been finally granted shelter from a hurricane, and the exhaustion from the day and the last moments of their conversation had taken their toll in the absence of adrenaline. She couldn't prevent herself from gradually drifting off into slumber, melting into the hills of lush comfort.

She was only vaguely aware of being shifted, the world tilting, and the braided velvet under her cheeks being replaced by silken furs as she was laid down atop them. Smiling, she burrowed into the warmth of it happily, ink-stained fingers splaying across the plush softness.

And she would have thought it a dream, except for the familiar low, rumbling snores at her back that woke her in the morning.