Characters/Pairing: Hawke/Fenris
Rating: K+
Word Count: 3300
Notes: for no reason other than it's been niggling at me lately, and i'm hoping this will be enough to get it out of my head for a while. planning on leaving this as a oneshot right now, though i have enough of this world fleshed out i may come back and poke at it again in future. who knows!

—

"This story begins, as all good stories do, with a stone."

"Mm."

"And not just any stone. Though its black and grimy exterior may point to a rock of woefully common origin, the wisest and most true of spirit may discern that beneath the dirt lies the rarest, most magical artifact of this age: a witch's heart."

"Bad luck for you, then."

"I haven't the faintest clue what you're implying."

Bethany laughs, and Hawke stirs herself just enough to kick a small spray of water towards her sister's face. There's a sputter and another laugh, and then a much larger wave splashes over the rock Hawke's sunning on. Including, as it happens, most of Hawke.

"Rude," she says to the brilliant blue sky, and pushes her soaking hair from her eyes. The stone still glimmers in her hand, a thumb-sized wedge of translucent black and red and oddly bright gold, and she lifts it straight up, stretching out her arm until the stone is directly between her and the sun. There's a moment of odd, filtered light as she closes her other eye and studies it, red and gold filling the entirety of her vision and turning the world to something strange and savage; then a fish surfaces nearby with a splash and the spell is broken.

Hawke blows out a breath, watching the stone transform in a moment to ordinary glass once more, and pushes up to a seated position. She tosses the stone to herself, glancing towards the ocean's glittering horizon, and when it fails to reveal its secrets, she slides off the boulder into the waist-deep shallows surrounding her.

Bethany doesn't even open her eyes from her own boulder, one leg still dangling shin-deep in the low-rolling waves. "Are you going in already?"

"No. I'm going to take this to the grotto."

"Again? One day you'll find the tide's come and taken every silly pebble you've hoarded back to the ocean, where they belong."

"And it'll be you I come crying to, dearest."

Bethany snorts, though Hawke can see the glimmer of her smile. "You'll have to look elsewhere. I don't mend broken hearts."

"Liar," Hawke says, and shakes her hair behind her stinging shoulders. She's burnt already, even so early in the summer, and she heaves a sigh as she tucks her sleeveless linen shirt into the snug knee-length trousers her mother had made months ago for the cooler water. Not quite so needed now, not with spring nearly gone, but this beach is not far enough from the village to guarantee privacy when swimming in their smalls, and if nothing else, they fit well enough to keep her gliding through the water without resistance.

She dips momentarily beneath the next gentle wave and emerges again, tasting salt. "I'll be back before dinner."

Bethany reaches down with a lazy hand as Hawke wades past her rock and tugs at a loose lock of hair. "Watch out for witches."

"Always," Hawke says, grinning, and dives forward into the waves.

―

The grotto had been an accidental discovery the first month her family had moved to this isolated, remote fishing village. She's never had the nature to brood; all the same, she hadn't particularly wished to leave Lothering, even with the plague that had decimated the village and the raiders that had burned the rest to the ground. Relocating somewhere so isolated the townsfolk had not heard of the Hawke witchcraft had been hard enough; finding themselves here, in this place that smelled of fish and cared nothing for the wider world beyond, had been…

Well. Not exactly what she'd hoped.

Still, exploration of the rocky beaches along their seaside home had led her to this secret grotto tucked into the shelter of a small bay. The cliffs rise around it to a height of thirty or forty feet, moss-choked rock overhanging the bay just enough to keep the whole thing from prying eyes, and the grotto's rounded entrance is tall enough to remain well open even at high tide.

As poor she is at secret-keeping, it's the best she's ever had.

Hawke swims inside without hesitating, the water ten or twelve feet deep all the way into the grotto itself. The sound changes immediately as she enters, the lap of the water echoing close and endless against the roof of the moderately sized cave. Ripples of reflected light play along the ceiling and the smooth stone walls, broken only where moss has fought its way over a ledge or along one of the rough outcroppings lining the cavern. The water doesn't reach all the way to the walls of the grotto; there's enough room along both sides to walk if she sidles, but the far edge of the pool shallows out before hitting the broader back floor, the lowest place there still about a foot above the tideline.

Hawke tosses the stone onto the back ledge, then curls both hands around the edge before dropping below the surface of the water. More than enough slope to the wall, here; she pulls her knees to her chest and flattens her bare feet against the stone, then leverages herself up and over the ledge onto flat rock. The rushing water echoes for a handful of seconds as she rolls to her back and stands, then bends to pluck her pilfered stone from the ground.

"Hello, beautiful," she says, and the cave echoes back hello beautiful hello hello.

"Well," she adds to the grotto in general, "thank you very much," and strolls to the back of the cave where her box is. It's a good size for what she needs, about two feet wide and fashioned with sturdy iron bands, and both latches click as she flips them open. Her soaked hair drips into the pile of stones and shells and bits of broken glass inside; she flips the knotted tail over her shoulder impatiently, and at last, after dislodging the green glass bottle with the coded letter inside, she finds the sea-worn wooden trinket box she'd fished out of the waves months ago.

The lid had been a puzzle in and of itself, but she knows it so well by now she can work it in her sleep. Inside are two more pieces of translucent stone, also black and streaked with red and gold, and with a bit of fiddling she arranges them so that her third piece fits into the last, missing place. A pretty thing all put together: a round, polished disc the size of her palm, and she allows herself a delighted smile as she turns with the box back to the pool.

With a bit of maneuvering, she manages to get herself seated on the edge of the pool without dropping either the box or herself into the water, and once she's settled, presses the pieces a little more firmly into place. They fit together well, no missing chunks or fragments, and if she presses hard enough the veins where it was broken nearly disappear. Not completely, though, no matter how hard she pushes, and just as she's wondering if it's worth it to beg a jar of paste from her mother's next market trip there's a bright flash of light through every gold vein in the disc.

Hawke goes very still. Ten seconds pass, thirty, and―nothing. Perhaps she's been too long in the sun after all―but the instant the thought crosses her mind, there's another flicker of light in her hands.

This time she realizes it's more than the disc. It's the cavern itself, the water's reflectance changing with some disturbance at the grotto's mouth, throwing broad strokes of light over the ceiling and across the disc in its stained wood box. The water's surface is―rippling, somehow, and moving with the motion of something beneath it, something long and sinuous and alive―

And swimming directly into her grotto.

It doesn't even occur to her to take her feet from the water. There's something wild here, something dangerous and terribly compelling, and she can't―move―

The rippling disturbance in the water arrows directly towards the back ledge, to a point not ten feet from where she sits, and when it reaches the stone lip the creature bursts from the water in a spray of surface froth.

White hair.

White hair, long and hanging loose over the shoulders, and deep olive-brown skin, and ears pulled to a tapering point. A bare back, lean with muscle, and one tense, very human arm hooked over the ledge for purchase. And from about the middle of its back, extending down to wrap around both hips and indeed everything else she can see above the rippling water, are what appear to be, most definitely, scales.

There's a deep, pained grunt as that arm slips and struggles again for grip, and when the creature shifts she catches a glimpse of a large metal barb embedded deep in the back of its left shoulder. And then, slowly, like a tree's shadow growing longer with dusk, a long, black, scaled tail with two elegant fins on either side slips to the surface of the water. It slaps once, a thing of fear and frustration that sends spray several feet into the air, then curls tightly to the left before sinking a few inches into the clear green pool.

There's a mer in her grotto.

"Flames," says Hawke, slightly giddy, and the creature's head whips in her direction fast enough to send drops flying from the ends of its hair. "Did you know you're real?"

―

He does not, as it turns out, kill her immediately.

And it's most certainly a he, as during the remarkably vicious hiss he gives her in answer he also turns to face her full-on, displaying the bare chest and stomach of a human man. It's heavily marked in a white, thin-lined pattern that extends in dots and curved, twisting barbs down the length of what tail she can see, although she can't tell if it's a natural pattern or something he's added as decoration. And―he has a tail. And black, glittering scales that appear to grow directly out of his skin, beginning a handspan south of his navel and covering every part of that long tail save the twin fins near his―well, hips, she supposes, and the broader, translucent fins that mark the end of his tail. And startlingly green eyes beneath heavy black brows, human for all the savagery in him.

And a very, very angry look on his face.

She should probably deal with that.

"So," she starts, abruptly aware she's clutching the wooden box so tightly her fingers ache. "Welcome to my…cave."

His eyes narrow. Nothing else.

She pauses, then tries again. "Right. Well. I'm sorry if I'm staring; it's just that I haven't met many gentlemen who are half-fish."

He pulls a few feet away, the water's reflection on the ceiling rippling with the movement, and grimaces at the pain. His canine teeth are extraordinarily long.

"Well, I'm not sure what you expected. Jerk around with something like that…" she gestures lamely at her own shoulder, "hook-thing in there, of course it's going to hurt."

Now he snarls, his lip curling, and Hawke hurriedly sets the box behind her, just in case. Still, he's not…eating her, or anything. That's probably a good sign.

"So," she tries again, drawing out the word. "Are you understanding anything I'm saying? Or do you have one of those―those tongue-click languages, or some speech that's only intelligible underwater?" She clicks her tongue twice to demonstrate, just in case she happens to stumble over the combination for a polite and deferent greeting, but if anything, he looks more irritated than before. "Look, serah, I'm trying to meet you halfway. I apologize for not knowing how to properly address a fictional creature from my mother's storybook. Satisfied?"

His jaw clenches, his eyes flicking from her to the grotto's entrance and back again.

"Oh, for the Maker's―" Hawke lets out an explosive sigh as she shoves to her feet, stalking wetly across the ledge to the back wall where she keeps the rest of her supplies. There's not much here in the way of medical equipment, but she has more than enough tools to remove an errant hook, and she moves back to the stone edge with her bag and a sound of no small annoyance. "Look. Do you want those barbs out of you or not?"

He doesn't answer, naturally, and Hawke yanks open the bag. Clippers, which she'd originally brought to break the locks on the little wood chest; bandages, which Bethany had insisted she take after the first time she'd come home with her palms skinned to the Void after a fall from a bluff; and a thick elfroot paste, meant to staunch bleeding and hurry healing. "Considering you're roaming around with sharks, anyway," she says into the cave, and the ceiling throws back sharks sharks sharks.

Tools arrayed beside her on the ledge, Hawke gives an exaggerated gesture of impatience. "Well? As riveting as this standoff is, you're bleeding all over my rocks."

His lips curl again, baring enough teeth her heart skips a beat or two, and then, slowly, he leans forward with predatory grace, that long tail uncoiling behind him, and the water sluices around either side of his chest in a narrow V as he begins to swim directly towards her.

She swallows, just in case she needs to scream later, and―Maker, his eyes are green. Greener than the grotto, and coming closer, and his good hand comes to brace on the stone not six inches from her knee. Hawke closes her eyes and takes a breath, then says, steady as an anchor and not at all like a quivering jellyfish, "You'll have to turn around for this."

He makes―well, it's a hiss, really, as much threat as answer, all his teeth showing, and then he turns just enough that she can see the barb dug into the back of his left shoulder. He keeps his face to her as best he can, unblinking eyes fixed on hers over his shoulder, and every now and then she can swear she sees them shimmer with an odd light.

As stares go, it's pointedly unnerving.

Still, the doubt is simple enough to put out of her mind once she's got a good look at the hook. It's easily the size of her fist and made of polished steel, four razor-tipped barbs curving outward from the base like the petals of a dangerous bloom. One of them has embedded itself deep in the mer's flesh just inside his shoulder blade, a full inch of the hooked tip protruding from his skin to keep it from sliding free again. The flesh itself is worried and ragged where the hook pierces, as if he has tried to yank the thing out by force more than once, and dark red blood seeps sluggishly from both broken places in his skin to be washed away by the grotto's pool.

"A right pickle and no mistake," Hawke offers, already picking up the clippers. She keeps her tone conversational as she pinches the barbed tip and pulls it a little further from his skin, ignoring the whip his tail gives under the water at the pain. "Hold tight, my piscatorial friend. This might sting."

His lip curls again, but he doesn't flinch when she brings the clippers to the base of the flared hook. It takes two tries, which is mildly embarrassing, but on the second burst of effort the barb snaps off, sailing through the air in a brief, glinting arc before disappearing with a small splash into the water.

"Halfway there," she says into the echo, and his tail thrashes again. "Now, now, none of that. I swear, you're worse than my little brother." The tip of his tail breaches the surface once, less violently than before, then goes still. Encouraged, Hawke continues the running monologue as she begins to work the now un-barbed pole of the hook backwards through the wound. "I mean, really. You'd think someone had cut your arm off instead of gotten one little hook stuck in you. Of course, the tragedy of this whole situation is that I'll never be able to tell him I met a worse patient than he is―the moment the tail comes in the whole story goes out the window, and instead of getting to hold it over his head they'll confine me to my room for a week while they inspect my head for injury. Aha!"

The shaft comes free at last. The man gives a terrible shudder as it pulls out, then makes a sharp movement as if he means to duck under the surface and vanish; Hawke clamps her hand around his good shoulder first before her survival instincts can take over, and dangles the hook by its broken line in front of them both. "Wait! Hold onto this for a moment, will you? Not just because you need a souvenir, but this really has begun to bleed, and somehow I feel like it might be in your best interest to not go splashing your trail about for whatever's chasing you to find."

He tosses his head in agitation but doesn't pull away, and after another moment he reaches up with his previously limp arm and accepts the hook. Strong fingers, short-trimmed nails―she's not sure why that surprises her so much―and rough skin on the heels of his hands, as if he's used to working with them. Not that she should be thinking about this right now anyway, and she gives herself a few good mental slaps as she wipes the blood clean with the gauze and begins to coat both wounds in the elfroot paste. It's quick enough work now that the thing's out, and soon the blood begins to slow, then stop altogether.

"There we go," she says, giving his shoulder two quick pats. "Now, just don't get that wet for another fifteen minutes, and you'll be right as rain."

There's a long pause. Then the mer swivels in the water, the hook disappearing beneath the surface without so much as a ripple, and he gives her the most withering look she's gotten in years.

"Setting all sorts of records today," Hawke mutters, and folds the jar of elfroot back into her sack with the clippers and unused gauze before rising to her feet and heading towards the back of the cave. "Now, friend," she says over her shoulder, "I'm sorry you're stuck here, but look on the bright side: I'm not trying to kill you, you're not trying to kill me, and you're no longer stuck on that hook like a bit of very handsome fishy bait. How is this not an improvement?"

The withering look vanishes, and in its place settles something between embarrassment and surprise and vague discomfort. He looks to the side, his hand coming up briefly to pass over his jaw―also very, very attractive, if she's honest with herself―and all at once the meaning of the gesture crashes down like a load of bricks.

Hawke knots the sack shut, sets it very deliberately on the ledge where it belongs, and turns to face him square-on before crossing her arms. "You can understand everything I'm saying."

He gives a small, awkward cough.

"Not just the gist. Every word."

He inclines his head. How odd, that apologetic should look the same in every language.

"Well, then." She walks back to the ledge, kneels gingerly on the stone, and sticks out her hand above the water. "I'm Hawke. Nice to meet you."

For one hideously humiliating moment, she thinks he'll ignore her altogether. Then the head comes forward and the tail ripples beneath the water, and the mer crosses what little distance remains between them to lift his arm from the pool. Water sluices from it in a clear sheet, and then his fingers wrap around hers, cool and just as strong as she'd imagined.

"My name is Fenris," he says, low and deep and delicious, and the cave echoes it back, the sound wrapping slowly around them both among the endless gleaming reflections of the pool.

―