His rooms—rooms, plural, two of them all his own, one a bedroom, the other a room to sit in and read and store his weapons—were at the foot of the only stairs up to Hawke's chambers. No one could get to her without his knowing it—not unless they flew in and descended from her turret bower above. So while she slept, she was safe from anyone other than Flemeth, he hoped. The only other people on the same floor as he were Aveline, as her other bodyguard should be, and Orana, in order to be on hand as her personal attendant. The elf girl confided to him that she had slept on the floor under the braided rag rug in her room for weeks until she worked up the courage to sleep in her own bed.
So Fenris was not lying in wait for Hawke that morning, he was simply being vigilant. And he did want to talk to her. "I would speak with you," he greeted her as she came down the stairs. Orana had already brought her breakfast and water for washing, so she was dressed and ready for the day.
"Aah!" she squawked, then laughed in relief. "Don't—don't do that. Not first thing in the morning."
"My apologies," he offered. "But I would still speak with you."
"What about? I'm on my way to my workrooms."
They went down the next flight together and—that dress. She wore the same dress she had on the day she rescued him, linen the color of fresh bay leaves. He would never forget a single detail of that day, but what he had not paid attention to then was how sensual it was. Most women, certainly all female mages, wore clothes that fit very tightly from neck to hip over corsetry so solid it was practically armor. Even when the dress was low-cut, nothing about them moved, nothing was soft or relaxed.
This dress was the antithesis of all those garments. It was loose, fluid, unanchored, no more complicated than a night gown. It flowed over her breasts and skimmed over her belly, buttocks, thighs. Yielding was a word that came to mind, and easy to take off followed upon its heels. Whatever she wore under it was…not enough to keep all of that fascinating anatomy from moving.
Luckily the groin protection his armor provided would keep his reaction from showing, although chafing might become a problem. He looked down at his feet, regained the thread of his thoughts.
"The witch. Your mother and Varric think her adorable. I cannot agree. She is dangerous."
"Merrill?" Hawke raised an eyebrow. "I think she's both. She's like a kitten—there's an innocence that sees innocence in everything, and that is how she sees the world—for the most part. There is no malice in her. However, that kind of naiveté is dangerous, to her and to others. I think she needs supervision."
"You need not be the one to provide it. She is not your responsibility, and I see no good of her being here." Fenris stated flatly.
"Carver passed the responsibility on to me. Without the protection of my House, out on her own in Minrathous, she would likely be raped and murdered within a day, or else enslaved. That would prey upon me, if it happened. As far as what good may come of her being here, she has already furthered my understanding of the nature of blood. You're making a face—," Hawke broke off. "As I said the other night, I am studying blood itself. Not blood magic, which really ought to be called pain magic."
"Anything to do with blood is suspect," he scowled.
"Fenris, I don't know how to tell you this, and I am very sorry, but…there is blood running through your veins right now."
"You mock me."
"No, I only tease you," she countered. "You haven't seen my workspace yet. Come with me, and I'll show you what I've been up to. " They had reached the ground floor , and she led him to the massive, iron bound door which looked all of a piece with its frame.
"I—." he began, a faint panic stirring in his chest. "I do not know…the last time I was in such a place—."
"You don't have to." She scanned his face, realizing his hesitance. "I only thought you might like to. Not everyone shares my enthusiasm."
"No, I shall. I want to see." He said it resolutely. "I would rather know than not know."
She passed a hand over the door, and the seams flowed apart. "A lock that opens to me alone—although a very determined person with a heavy axe and a lot of time could hack through it. The wood is several layers thick and the boards mounted cross-grained, so they will not split consistently. If ever there's an emergency while I'm down here, there's the bell pull."
They crossed the lintel, and when the door closed behind them, he noticed the back of it was shielded in lead. "Just in case," she explained. In case of what, she did not say.
They descended, and Fenris braced himself. He remembered Danarius' workrooms—the erratic torch light, the carrion smell of rotting flesh, the occult trappings and ominous dark stains on every surface, the perpetual clammy feeling of cooled sweat—. Twyla Hawke's workroom was clean, well lighted, so simple as to be austere, and had a faint breeze circulating through it.
He commented on it, and she said, slipping a cotton smock on over her dress, "That's Dagna's doing. It's equipment such as is used in dwarven mines and forges, adapted for home use. Here, this is a micro-seer. The dwarves have had them for at least a century, but this one magnifies many times more than those can…."
She showed him how to use it, first putting a slip of glass with a thin slice of iris leaf on the platform, then another with a smear of blood—her blood, which she drew by jabbing her thumb with a needle. He was sensitive to magic, courtesy of the markings and…there was none in what she did. Under the lenses of the micro-seer was a whole world teeming with a life all its own. She explained, and he listened, but he could not shake the awareness of her warmth, her nearness—though she never touched him.
"There is no difference between the blood of a man and the blood of a woman, nor between one who is a mage and one who is not, nor between human, dwarf, or elf. I suspect there is no difference between that of a Qunari, either, for they are made the same as we are, even if it is to one-and-a-half scale," she finished. "The blood of different individuals does not always mix when mingled—sometimes it clumps up. I suspect there is some factor I haven't yet identified.
"But what does it mean, Hawke? What do you hope to prove in proving this?" He looked up from the micro-seer.
"That perhaps all the races we perceive as different are not so, that the differences go no further than the surface, no more than a colony of cats with short legs differs from those with extra toes, or from those with ears that curl funny. That dwarves became dwarves because when you live underground it makes sense that people who are shorter and sturdier and quite strong do better, and when you live in the woods, slender feet, exceptional hearing and a slim build make for a better stealthy hunter, and so came the elves. As for the Qunari, being eight feet tall and heavily muscled is certainly an advantage in practically every way. And the rest of us—we're just a bunch of city cats who breed indiscriminately."
"Then we are therefore equal, and should live together in peaceful brotherhood?" he asked, and he heard the cheap glaze of cynicism in his voice. "No one wants to believe that, Hawke. Not the dwarves, not the Dalish, nor the humans and certainly not the Qunari. You will never convince them."
"If it's true, then it won't matter whether people believe or disbelieve," she said, "The truth stays true. I didn't go in expecting to find these results. I found them, and reasoned outward from there. If people disagree, I invite them to prove otherwise, in fact."
"How many different people's blood have you studied so far?"
"Only four. Dagna, Merrill, Anders, and myself. I'm not going to go around ordering my people to stick out their thumbs to satisfy my curiosity. I take only willing volunteers." She was near him, very near. Close enough that their heads had even bumped when she adjusted the mirror that reflected light into the micro-seer. She used a perfume that mingled embrium and neroli, he noticed. Half a turn, and their mouths would meet. His armor was chafing him sorely.
"That's—of a piece with how you have behaved ever since I have known you," he conceded. "Hawke—when we parted, before we were interrupted by Danarius, you began to say something. 'Had we—' was all you said. What did you mean to say?"
"You remembered—Of course you did. I—was going to say something like…I wish we had met some other place, some other way," her voice, usually so steady, so certain, faltered. "so that somehow it did not matter to you that I was a mage and a magister." Her eyes, being so dark, always looked as though they were tremendously dilated by wine or desire or both. They were inches apart. "But that is not possible, and so I hope the rest of your life is…is…"
He leaned over that last two inches and tentatively feathered a kiss on her lips.
A/N: Yes, I am evil. Very, very evil.