Some Lovers

A 100 prompts challenge on Fenris/LadyHawke by Marianne Bennet

021: Generosity

Fenris wasn't to be found in any of the rooms of his purloined Hightown mansion.

Ariadne Hawke fanned her flushed face with the grimy book in her hand. It was late summer in Kirkwall and it felt as though not a single window had been opened in the house, allowing the humid air to gather and sit. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, the ivy running up the mansion's exterior casting strange shadows over the pockmarked parquet floor. Dust floated in pockets of daylight and Hawke resisted the urge to sneeze at the sight of the dancing particles. Eventually –after several attempts at resistance –she did and the sound echoed through empty halls. No: he wasn't here.

She started up the grand staircase to his favored room in the grand house. Touching the banister resulted in a hand coated in gray; Hawke supposed she shouldn't be surprised. Fenris very rarely allowed himself to be supported by anything.

The door at the top of the stairs was open and Hawke could not resist looking in. Usually, he was here and whenever she roamed in his mansion, his green eyes followed her. She would never stop to look at anything for long, for fear of provoking him –no, fear could not be the right word. She was not afraid of Fenris; it was just easier not to provoke him. But that was beside the point; the matter at hand was that she had never had a chance to explore this room's contents without Fenris looking over her shoulder.

The candles on the long wooden table were down to stubs and still burning, even though it was nearly midday. With a bit of paper pinched between her thumb and index finger, she extinguished each flame, all the while considering making a gift of candles or maybe a key to her estate's extensive storerooms. She had more than her household of four (not counting the cook) could use. Why not share it? She dismissed the thought even as it came to mind. He would never accept her generosity; how could she forget?

There was an open book next to the now smoking candles. Hawke couldn't read the language. It must be Arcanum. The spine had been broken in two places, almost as though the volume had been… thrown against a wall. Hawke's lips quirked upward in a smile, remembering the shattered glass and spilled wine that had marked their second meeting.

There was a pile of broken jewelry under the table. It looked as though it had been valuable but the delicate gold chains were broken, clasps damaged beyond repair. Hawke stared at the silver bracelet in her hand and wondered if Fenris had broken the heavy links with his bare hands.

"If I remember correctly," a deep voice broke Hawke out of her reverie, "that was a gift from Danarius to Agrippa."

She spun around and the sight of Fenris in the doorway called a dozen different responses to mind: I'm sorry. I didn't know you were here. I didn't mean to snoop. How did you sneak up on me like that? But what came out instead was: "Who was Agrippa?"

"Danarius's mistress or she was at the time that I left." His nose wrinkled with distaste. "She was a pitiful creature."

"That's generous of you. I didn't think you would feel pity for a magister." She dropped the silver bracelet onto the table. "Any magister."

"Agrippa had no magical talent. Her brother was the man whose favor Danarius was really trying to court." He dropped a bag of bread onto the floor and leaned his sword against the wall. "I take it your meeting with the Arishok ended quickly?"

"Apparently someone is running around with a recipe for poisonous gas."

"Gatlock," Fenris's lips curled. "Very foolish. And I suppose you volunteered to go running after it?"

Hawke shrugged. "He wants me to. What choices do I have?"

"It would seem that you have very few." His green eyes moved away from her and traced the line of the table, lingering on the open book and the extinguished candles. His silence made her feel ashamed.

"I… didn't mean to pry. You weren't here and I was curious. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Isabela has been in here half a dozen times, probably looking for my smallclothes." Hawke giggled in a very un-Hawke-like manner and Fenris smiled a very un-Fenris-like smile. He moved to join her at the table, surveying the items she had been perusing earlier. "Very few of these are my own possessions. You see little of my life in these trinkets."

"None of these are yours?"

"Like this mansion, they belonged to Danarius. Now, also like this mansion," he smiled a wolfish, more-typical-Fenris smile, "they belong to me."

"Did you not take anything with you when you escaped?"

"Whatever I took, I quickly discarded. I wished no reminder of my former life."

A little counterproductive, thought Hawke to herself idly, living in this place. "You really wanted nothing to do with your past."

"Not that past." Hawke thought about asking him what he meant by that but she chose not to. "That was before the hunters started coming after me and I realized I had to do something about Danarius of course. I take it you came here for a reason."

Those last words caught her off guard. She froze, nearly stuttered out her next words. "I have something for you."

She held the book out like a peace offering; he didn't reach out to take it. He gazed at the cover and his mouth slowly set into a stubborn line. "And what do you propose I do with this?"

"Read it?" He did not say anything further. She tried again. "Shartan was a slave–"

"I know Shartan was a slave," Fenris quickly cut her off. "What of it?"

"He freed himself."

"And what of it?" he repeated, traces of anger detectable in his voice and tense stance.

Hawke could not help but be confused. Like an idiot, she said, "He freed himself. It's… I suppose I thought it was a little like you."

"Yes, Shartan was a slave and he freed himself," Fenris summed up in a few irritable words. "And that is where the similarities end. He was born a slave, as was I. We have little else in common. I am no leader of men."

"I didn't mean to compare the two of you," said Hawke defensively in return. "I just thought you might like something new to read." She nodded at the open book on the table.

He followed her gaze and then stared at her incredulously. "You think I know how to read?" he asked, almost growling at her. "How many slaves do you suppose know how to read?"

Hawke looked away –at anything but at him –and then made herself meet his angry green eyes. "You could learn."

"You think I haven't been trying?" He smacked both hands down on the table; the silver bracelet clattered against the broken tiles. Hawke watched a candle roll across the floor until it bumped against the bench, close to her foot.

Fenris reached for the book of Arcanum, obviously with the intent of tossing it out the window or something equally dramatic. Hawke slammed her palm down on the open pages, locked his gaze with her own. "Don't start throwing things," she told him. "I could teach you if you would stop being so damn stubborn and proud and insisting you have to do things on your own."

"I shouldn't need a teacher," he snapped back at her. "I should already know these things. At what age did you learn how to read, Hawke? I should have learned then; every slave in Tevinter should have learned then. But because I was born a slave, I did not. I could not. And I should have been able to. And, now that I am a free man, it is nothing short of humiliating that I cannot."

It was a moment before Hawke found her voice: "I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing," he told her. "None of this is your fault. I shouldn't be angry with you."

"I just thought that maybe you would like it–"

"And I do," Fenris surprised her by saying. "I appreciate the thought and what the book symbolizes, even if I can't read it."

"But, Fenris, you could." She took a step toward him. "Fenris, you could learn."

Slowly, she held the book out to him. And, gently, he took it from her. When the tome was firmly in his hands –maybe their fingers had touched a moment longer than necessary –she let her arms drop back to her sides and looked up at him. Almost shy, Hawke asked, "Am I invited to stay longer? Maybe we could… start."

"Now?" he asked in return.

"Why not?" She shrugged. "Well? Am I allowed to stay?"

His voice, when he finally spoke, was almost rough. "You can… come here any time that you like."