AN: Not written for any particular prompt, but rather in response to tagged hate in Varania's tag on Tumblr. She may be a prickly stubborn complicated elf, but I love her. So there.

Characters/Pairing: Hawke/Fenris
Rating: G
Word Count: 800
Notes: Set after the events of my fic Ascendi, in which (briefly) Varania's assistance becomes necessary to rescue Hawke from Danarius's last trap.

—

"Pass," said her brother, in quiet Arcanum, "to the left."

Varania paused, her fingers just brushing the platter of lamb. "What?"

"When you have taken what you wish, pass the dish to the left. Until everyone has been served."

Varania flicked her eyes from her brother to the woman across from her, a tall, sturdy Fereldan with orange hair and a square jaw and shoulders made for heavy steel. As she finished spooning the spiced, roasted potatoes to her own plate, her sideburned husband took the dish from her; even before it had left her hands she had already turned for the bowl of vegetables at her other side.

Varania speared a small piece of lamb, slid it awkwardly to her plate with the thin gold chasing around its rim. The gold flashed briefly in the bright sunlight streaming through the tall windows above the table; without smiling, her brother said, "You may take more."

The words slipped out without thought. "I do not like too much meat."

"As you like," he told her, inclining his head, and handed her the little tray of sweet tomatoes.

She ate silently, pleased despite herself at the meal. The slave who had prepared it served it also, a small thing with wide eyes who knew her place, who knew Varania's place at the mistress's table, even if the people in this room used other words for it. Orana, her brother had called her, when the Champion still had not arrived by lunch and he had taken her duties. Varania did not watch her leave.

She had enough to occupy her mind as it was. The guard-captain and her husband spoke easily, affectionately, as if they did not care who saw them—and her brother spoke easily to them, in a friendship she could not understand. No slave lived so close to the city's law by choice; no slave smiled at the guard-captain's embarrassment over her dropped fork and did not suffer. The implications unnerved her.

"Is it to your liking?" her brother asked. In the trade tongue—no hiding from that. The guard-captain and her husband looked up expectantly.

Their eyes were a heavy weight on her chest, crushing away her air. She licked her lips. "Yes. It is excellent."

"More wine?"

She could not read his face. A test? "No. Thank you."

A pause; then the guard-captain—Aveline, she reminded herself with effort—leaned forward. "So how have you found Kirkwall so far?"

"Very…" she hesitated. "Not as I expected."

"I understand. It was the same when I came. Have you settled in yet?"

Varania glanced sideways; her brother studiously avoided her eyes, though she could see amusement in his mouth. She did not know how much to say. "There was… ah—"

"There may," her brother said, reluctant rescue, "have been a mouse."

Her mouth twitched. "A rat!"

"Regardless. It is no more."

A boundless capacity for understatement. Varania laughed, startling herself, then hid it behind her fingers. Her brother smiled again. Embarrassed, she added, "Neither are your curtains."

The guardsman Donnic chuckled. "I'm amazed you only found the one, considering the state of that place."

"I am not so untidy as you think."

"Whatever you say, Fenris."

The name still struck her wrong—but before she could speak voices rose in the great hall, loud and cheerful and growing nearer. The familiar pull of magic prickled at the back of her neck and she fought the urge to stand, to lower her eyes; then the door burst open, and there was no time to do either.

"Hello!" cried Hawke, laughing, her eyes bright, her hair wind-tousled. The pirate strode in behind her, just as exuberant, and flung herself into the empty chair at the head of the table with a gusting sigh. "You started without us!"

"You were late," Aveline told her tartly, already handing the potatoes to Isabela. Hawke laughed again, approaching Fenris's chair; when he looked up and back she leant down, gripping his shoulders, and kissed him directly on the mouth.

"Raiders don't keep to a schedule. Besides," she added, straightening, no blush on her cheeks—or on her brother's, though he hid his smile as soon as it came, and something in her heart ached— "It's my house! Look! My table. My plates. My—lovely, beautiful Orana—"

"Don't!" Orana cried, twisting away from Hawke, barely keeping hold of the clean plates and glasses without disaster. The Champion relented, allowing her to lay the new places; then, sudden enough Varania blinked, she dropped her hand on Varania's shoulder in companionable greeting as she sank into the empty chair at her left.

"Flames, I'm starving. Who's got the lamb?"

Isabela gave the platter to Fenris, who handed it to Varania; she paused only a moment to take a second piece for herself, and then she passed the plate left to Hawke, who thanked her.