Fenris/F!Hawke, first time Fenris says "I love you"

There were words that had meaning to Fenris, and ones that didn't.

"Friend" was something he had learned to have, learned to be, since meeting Hawke and her other companions. Varric was a friend, as was Isabela. And Sebastian, a much more recent addition to the circle of those he thought of as friends, yet already as close as anyone short of Hawke herself.

"Family" was something that meant little to him, having no memory of his own as he did. He had seen other people's families, and sometimes envied them, when there was closeness and camaraderie, and sometimes been relieved he didn't have one, when there was not. Hawke's close relationship with her mother was enviable; Varric's betrayal by his brother not so much. And yet he still wondered about what family he might have had, in that time he could not remember; what his parents had been like, if he'd even known them – not all slaves did. If he'd had any siblings. He feared he would never know. Sometimes, after witnessing an especially bad argument between Hawke and Carver, he was almost thankful that he didn't.

There were words Fenris wanted to say, but wasn't sure how.

Words that overwhelmed him with the depth of their meaning; words he was frightened to say, since they revealed how precious something – someone – had become to him. If there was one lesson he had had ground into him over and over again by Danarius, it was that showing that something was special to you meant having it used against you, or taken away, sometimes even destroyed.

There were words Hawke said to him that he never returned; not aloud, anyway. But when she said them, it always moved him, and he tried to say back to her with eyes and lips and touch the words he could not bring himself to say with voice.

In time he learned he'd had a family. A mother, a sister. Had hope, briefly, and then had all hope dashed, tasting the bitterness of a betrayal he'd more than half-expected, having little faith in anything with its roots in Tevinter.

Hawke came to him, afterwards, at his home. Truly his now, he supposed, what with Danarius being dead and no longer able to reclaim it. Nor reclaim him.

She said the words again, later that night. He froze when she did, then lowered his head to rest on her shoulder. He swallowed, every muscle tense, then took his courage in hand, and for the first time, said them back.

Sten, Warden, Zevran – Masquerade

Even in costume, it was easy to tell at a glance who each of them was. The warden, short and curvacious, her well-known tattoos hidden by a lovely mask, a delicate oval of silver filigree, her dark eyes and lush red lips the only readily visible parts of her face. Her dress was a deep midnight blue edged in a froth of fine white lace.

The qunari was just as recognizable, at the opposite end of the scale, the set of over-sized templar armour he was wearing – complete with bucket-helm, though that was currently tucked under one arm – doing little to hide just who he was. At the moment he was eyeing the third member of their party, a puzzled expression on his face. "I do not understand why you are dressed like that," he finally said.

Zevran smiled, widely, white teeth gleaming between dark-painted lips. He shook back his long blond hair – not braided for once, but instead falling in loose lustrous waves around bared golden-skinned shoulders – and laughed softly. "Why not dress like this?" he asked, and lifted the heavy green velvet skirt in one hand, turning a few mincing steps, moving gracefully,lithely, for all that his waist was drawn in by tight corsetry and his height augmented by tall heels on the high-buttoned ankle boots he was wearing.

The warden sighed enviously, watching him move. "I just wish I looked that good," she said, earning a soft laugh and a willowy bow of acknowledgement of the compliment from the elf.

"It takes practise," the assassin confided. "If we had more time, I could teach you how to move like this."

"And you have practised this... this mummery..." Sten said, frown deepening.

"Of course. As part of my training," Zevran said complacently. "But come, we shall be late for Alistair's party," he pointed out. It was not until they were downstairs, approaching the throne room doors, that he spoke again, thoughtfully. "I am rather looking forward to Alistair's expression once he figures out who I am. I wonder if I can get him to dance with me first. Or better yet, afterwards."

That won a peal of loud laughter from the warden, and a very slight smile from Sten.

M!Hawke, Tevinter!Feynriel, meeting in dreams

He had always been on the periphery of Hawke's dreams. Well, not always, but for many years, starting as a small boy, a pale skinny shape that didn't belong in the nightmare Hawke was having, of the flight from Lothering and Bethany's death. He had looked up from the dream of the memory of his mother crouched over Bethany's lifeless form, and the boy had been there, pale gold eyes large and frightened. And then he was gone again, seeming to be at the time no more than another random senseless fragment of dream, half-remembered on waking and soon fading.

Yet he persisted; showed up in dream after dream. And he changed, ageing slowly, the fright in pale gold eyes some times more, some times less, but always there.

When he finally met the boy in real life, in the waking world, it seemed... fated. He saved him, of course, not once, but twice, there being little else he could do. Not when the boy – eventually a young man – still showed up in his dreams at odd moments. Sometimes embarrassing ones, though Feynriel – the name he'd learned was attached to that pale gold form, those pale gold eyes – never seemed disturbed by the content of Hawke's dreams. Perhaps because he'd seen worse, already, in the heads of other people.

"Why do you still come?" he asked once, years later, looking up from a nightmare of his mother's death to see the young man standing there, watching him quietly. "Why do you watch me?"

The faintest of creases appeared between white-blond eyebrows. "Does it bother you that I do?" the man asked. No fear in those eyes now; not for some time.

"I suppose it doesn't," Hawke said, softly. He looked down at the body; not Leandra's anymore, but Anders, sprawled on his stomach on the cold stone pavement, blood leaking from a gash in his back. "That never happened," he said, frowning. "I told him to leave."

"You thought of doing it," Feynriel said, quietly. "Dreams don't differentiate between thought and actual deed."

"Yes," he said, and looked up curiously. "How do you know?"

Feynriel shrugged, then sat down on the floor. No longer cold stone, but worn wooden boards and a rug, a rectangle braided of rags, the work of Leandra's hands, that had been on the floor of their house in Lothering. Which this was now, and the body had become a very young mabari, asleep, oversized head resting on outstretched paws.

"Why do you watch me," Hawke asked again, quietly. "All these years..."

And Feynriel shrugged again, smiled slightly. "You draw me in. I don't know why. Or how." He paused, and chewed on his lip, then looked up, met Hawke's eyes. "Perhaps it is just that you accept my being here. You see me, where others usually don't, but you don't... deny me. Ignore me. Forget me."

"And that's important? Being seen? Being acknowledged?"

"Yes," Feynriel said, and rose to his knees, then edged closer to Hawke. The mabari on the floor between them rose and walked away, vanishing. A pale gold hand reached out, fingertips touched lightly against his cheek. "Being seen is important," the young man agreed, breathlessly, and leaned slowly forward. Lips ghosted against Hawke's. His eyes closed for a moment. When they opened he was alone again, in the Lothering house. It was quiet, except for the crackling of a remembered fire in the hearth, and his own breathing.

"Well," he said, softly, surprised. And smiled.

Bethany/Anders, eloping

"Your brother is going to kill me," Anders hissed, as he helped Bethany out of the window.

"He has to catch us first," Bethany said, an amused smile on her face.

Hawke waited until they'd reached the solid ground at the foot of the ladder before pointedly clearing his throat and stepping out of the shadows.

"Oops," Bethany said. And laughed.

Elsa - anything about her

"That's enough for today, Elsa," Meredith said, voice unusually gentle. "You may go."

Elsa made no response, other then to clean and set down her quill, carefully cork the ink bottle, and put the papers she'd been copying out safely away in a desk drawer, locking it with a small key kept on a chain around her neck, before rising to her feet and leaving.

Meredith watched her go, lips pressed together in a thin line.

On rare occasion, when especially angry, she could be drawn into speaking of her sister Amelia. An apostate and, eventually, an abomination, who'd brought terrible death to an entire village of people. Friends, family, the random strangers staying at the inn, they'd all died at the hands of the thing that had once been her sister. Meredith had been the only survivor. Or so it was said.

She never spoke of her brother, who had been elsewhere that terrible, terrifying day. Never spoke to him, either, not until he'd shown up one day at the Gallows, a grim look on his face, a young girl at his side. She had the family looks – blond haired, blue-eyed, pale skinned – and carried a bundle under one arm. The grim look on his face had told her all she really needed to know, even before he released the girl's hand, and pushed her toward Meridith.

"This'un your aunt Meredith," he told the girl. "You're her problem now." And turned, and left, without any other word to either of them.

She'd done what little she could for her niece. Elsa, at least, would never be a second Amelia.

Flemeth/Fenris, Chained to the past

The young elf crouched in the dirt, folded arms resting on his knees, and watched the ants carrying bits of cut leaf down into their anthill. So rapt was he that he didn't even realize anyone was near until a shadow fell over him. Startled, he turned so fast that he lost his balance, falling over backwards, landing splayed out on the dusty ground.

A woman, tall and white-haired and human. Not dressed as poorly as a slave, nor as finely as a magister, yet her bearing was not that of a freeman or servant either.

"You are Leto?" she asked, voice cold and distant.

"Y-yes mistress," he stuttered, scrambling into the crouched bow that was appropriate to a woman of high status – far, far better to offer someone more respect than they were due, than to give less. A lesson learned at an early age.

"Stand up," she ordered him. "Let me see you."

He wondered who she was as he hurriedly rose to his feet. Someone looking to buy him from his master, perhaps? He adopted the suitable posture for a slave being examined – head lowered just slightly, eyes unfocused on the ground before him, feet a shoulder's width apart, hands clasped together behind his back.

The woman made a short, soft exhalation of breath through her nose, not quite a snort, and began to walk slowly around him. "How old are you, Leto?" she asked, as she moved out of sight to his left.

"Twelve, mistress."

"Well-grown for twelve," she said approvingly. He felt her fingers touch his hair, and shivered slightly. "So young. Tell me, Leto, do you know how to fight?"

"Fight, mistress? No... it is forbidden..."

"It won't be, for you," she said, as she came back around to the front. She stopped before him, and fingers touched his chin, lifted his face so that his eyes met hers. "You will learn to fight. You will learn to fight well. You will spend most of your life fighting for others, before you learn to fight for yourself."

"Mistress?" he said, uncertainly.

She smiled. "Or I might be wrong. Never mind... you won't remember this anyway. Neither now, nor afterwards."

He blinked, then looked down at the anthill near his feet. What had he...?

He thought of crouching back down, resuming watching the ants, then abruptly changed his mind. He'd go over to the guard barracks instead, he decided. There was a spot in the bushes where he could sit, hidden in the shade, and watch the men practising. A better way to spend his scant free time than watching the ants at their labour; he knew more than enough about hard work already.

Bethany/Anders, first child

Bethany swore, vile epithets such as he'd never heard from her lips before. Anders smiled slightly; he'd heard it all before, the things women would say during the pain of childbirth. Only rarely could any of them say something that actually shocked him, and knowing Bethany as well as he did, he doubted she'd be capable of it. Not when he'd survived her sister's markedly fouler mouth for so many years already.

"A pity he isn't here to hear you say that about him," he murmured, as he used a touch of healing energy to ease strained skin, preventing the tear that might otherwise occur. "It's crowning," he added, unnecessarily; she'd helped him in the clinic often enough to know what the different stages and states of delivery each involved. Doubtless she knew as well as he did just what was happening.

She swore again, at him this time, and he merely grinned and laughed softly, and then fell silent as he focused on the best part of being a healer, helping a new life slide out of the safety of its mother's body and out into the cold, cruel world.

"It's a boy," he told her, a few minutes later, looking over the baby after clearing its airway and wrapping it in a clean cloth. He cleaned its scrunched-up little face and set it on her chest, smiling at the look on Bethany's face. That never got old, either, that moment of wonder and joy. It lasted until after the afterbirth had been dealt with, the cord tied and cut.

She cried for a while, then, and he gave her what comfort he could.

"He looks nothing like his father," Bethany said, a while later, once her composure had returned, as she gave the boy his first feeding. Marian had joined them, and was watching closely, her expression almost envious.

"The eyes might, once the colour changes," Anders said, looking thoughtfully at the baby. "Half-elves generally take after their human parent in appearance, so he's more likely to look like you anyway."

"Are you going to name him after his father?" Marian asked suddenly, frowning.

Bethany wrinkled her nose. "I don't know. I'd have said yes, once, but..." she trailed off.

Marian nodded. No more needed to be said; not after the revelation of Orsino's involvement in their mother's death. Not after his final madness in the gallows.

"He's nothing like his father," Bethany said softly, and this time it sounded as much a wish as a statement.

Nathaniel/Anora

She stopped when she saw who was sitting in the window embrasure. For a moment, she considered turning and retreating back the way she'd come. But only for a very brief one. Then she raised her chin just slightly and continued forward, hands folded neatly in front of her. She didn't bother scuffing her slippers against the stone; he would hear her approach even if she tried walking silently, she knew.

"Anora," he said, calmly, not even turning away from studying the view outside the window to look at her.

"Nathaniel," she said, equally calmly. A silence fell. She waited; she had learned patience, in the long years since she had last seen him. And Nathaniel, it seemed, had learned to be more impetuous; it was he that broke the silence first.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking not at her, but down at his own hands, lying cupped in his lap. "I heard... the Warden-Commander told me..." he trailed off, and finally turned to look at her, his face stiff, his mouth a thin, unhappy line. "I would not have believed my father could be so foul," he said, very quietly.

"Nor I, of mine," she said, voice even, and snorted softly at the look of horrified surprise he gave her. "What, did you think my father had no idea of what yours was up to?" she asked, softly, and shook her head, then moved the two steps steps further to stand at the window, and looked out it. "He knew. He was willing to countenance almost anything, in the name of Ferelden's defence, no matter how foul."

"Even your... even my father abducting you...?"

She shrugged, shallowly, an almost imperceptible movement of her shoulders. "That I don't know. I think... I want to believe... that it was entirely your father's idea. That, perhaps, he believed he could do away with my father, and forcibly marry me, and thereby take the throne himself. But I do not know," she said.

Another silence fell. Again he was the first one to break it. "I am still sorry," he said. "For many things."

"As am I," she whispered, then turned and looked at him. "How long are you here for? Might you dine with me tonight?"

He looked surprised, at that. "Are you sure...?"

"Why not? We were friends, once," she said. "And there are few enough of our age-mates left alive, whole and healthy. I will not discard your friendship just because of what your father did, and hope you feel the same."

He smiled, just slightly. "In that case, this Grey Warden would be honoured to dine with the Teryna of Gwaren," he said, and dipped her a shallow bow, as politely as he could manage while still seated. "Assuming the Warden-Commander does not object," he added.

She smiled warmly at him, then. "He better not. If he does, I will be most put out with him. I shall look forward to seeing you later," she said, and dipped a shallow bow his direction, then resumed her interrupted walk along the hallway.