She is obsessed. She brings this symbol of all that is deranged, obnoxious and revolting. She brings in me this liberation, this sense of absolute security while I am in her presence, drawing in me the most complete loyalty to her, that I simply cannot define. That I can trust her, perhaps? Wait… why I am telling you this? Perhaps because I am angry, so angry that I could build an orphanage for stray puppies and kittens and then smash it to the ground without a speck of mercy. That is so, how angry I am. Kaffas.

I suppose I could go on with my monologue, pretending your existence is ultimately void and in so, shall not affect my present view of things, nor the current mood I am in. It is already ruined. And after all, you might agree – it is rather pointless for me to suggest keeping your distance.

I am Fenris and I am angry.

Venhedis. Yes, why not even look at me too? Fasta vass, just bite me.

Swallow the image of my misery in full graphic richness like the sadistic painter that you are. I am disgusted by you. Alas, I presently do not give a damn.

I'm leaning with my arms against the window of my room in the palazzo or inn or whatever this ridiculous house is called, staring the city and the night with possibly nothing less than murder in my eyes. Yes, terrible murder. I wish I could murder somebody starting with Hawke and ending with bitch. No, not whore, not slut, not thundercunt, a word I learned from her actually, none of those. I would never call her that. Then again, I would never call her the original word either, even though she deserved it.

Behold, your shadow of a hero for the duration; wanting so viciously and desperately to rip these crimson red curtains off, throw the vase from the desk into the wall, punch the glass of the window in front of me. Because I don't know where she is.

Varric insisted she would come back, that we couldn't wonder for the whole of Antiva City in hopes we'd find her somewhere passed out in the gutter. It was dangerous enough as it is to even linger in this city after what he had done.

Don't even dare to look at me.

Do not dare.

I could kill you. You are well aware of this. Iam this close to crushing the veins of your heart in my hand until they burst with blood spilling like a fountain as your guts flush out and dare to stain my clothes. And because you dare, I will throw you to the nearest wall and as you fall down and bathe in your own filthy blood I will spit on you. I have no mercy at this moment. Opifex, creatores, caelestes et daemonia telluris sordidis. No, I will not tell you what all these words mean, you will just have to ever so nicely make the effort of getting your own damned dictionary.

Oh, you wonder what has happened? Well that's perhaps my role in this story – to fill in the gaps of this stupid woman who somehow always manages to give me a stroke.

I have been through so much in my technically short life – I'd been tortured, I'd been resisted pains so harsh you would melt into your own skin and bones and beg for death were you in my place, I'd starved for months and found myself on the brink of death so many times and never did any of those things manage to startle or unsettle me. But no, I, the king of all the mighty idiots and fools, I get unsettled by a clown mage who knows nothing but to keep making me feel perhaps too alive for my own health.

I'd hit myself if I wasn't certain the boiling fury channelling in my fist would be more than enough to punch me out unconscious. I had to stay up and eternally vigilant, feeling like I had needed three sets of eyes to properly oversee every corner of this damn street under my window in hopes I would spot a forsaken fucking red crown of long beautiful hair which unfortunately rested on top of a head so furiously empty. So, so scandalizingly empty.

No, it is quite clear why I am spitting words at you, betraying the very principles of my being that I would never give out a word, that I would not let anyone penetrate my thoughts in this manner. Oh, but Hawke managed to deflower me in this domain, why not let you all – yes, why not? Come and disturb my thoughts, revile me, strip my soul naked here and look at me while you ravish yourself in delight of my bestial anger. Yes, yes, laugh at me.

No, I do not mean to mock you. I do it unintentionally, it is simply so unnatural for me to take you seriously or show an ounce of respect at the moment. And if your keen intelligent mind hasn't figured me out by now, perhaps I have to spell it out for you now that I seem to be such a expert at something so cruelly mundane as writing.

Should I spell it with utmost patience, accentuating every little syllable perhaps?

No, I suppose I do not need to make such strong efforts. Because I am angry. This is why I am speaking now.

She barges in here spitting her venomous monologues because she is a witch and a drunk, while I come here because I am deeply and preposterously blind with fury, you cannot even begin to imagine.

Oh, behold. Joys of joys, I have found the word I was looking for in this ridiculously sounding common tongue. Preposterous.

Every time, kevesh, every time. Maker be damned, every time I come near to even the slightest chance of recognition, that she is not disturbed, she swoops in and does something terribly idiotic, shattering this general misconception of mine, outright damning it to the lowest depths of oblivion. Fasta vass. Oh, how the Heavens laugh at me. She manages to obliterate all my honest efforts, however foolish, to consider her sane. Damn you to eternity Hawke. You insane, impossible little woman that corrupts every bit of my being and makes me want to howl in desperation to give me back my brain.

Ah, but words fail.

Indeed, but I should correct myself. Common tongue words fail. There are enough in Tevinter, old Tevane and Arcanum to describe this damned demonic fiend of the black death. Femina stulta, damnataque, festev canavoras ce raptum me caput de ultima capitis.

I am shaking my head, biting at my lip. I feel the blood coming out. Nectar of the old gods, it is the blood, was it not… Kevesh. Why am I even thinking about such things now?

I've learnt lessons. Granted, not very well. I only hate to see her die.

And this damned overgrown hair itching my forehead and my nose like bloody spears, futueres in profundissimem carnem, vishante capillatura.

I should cut it. Cut it all out. At least it would strip me of taking much notice or remembering that the ritual from which my being was born, my miscreation and first memory, was so deeply agonizing that it shocked the very colour off the hair on top of my head. And other hair? It is gone. It never grows anywhere on my body. I feel like a damned woman. Kaffas.

I glanced rapidly in disgust at my reflection in the window; never did the moonlight flatter me so little as in this moment, if it ever did so, in my foolish misconceptions that I should believe Hawke and her very rare flatteries. I turned my head to my right and beheld Hawke's sword. Oh, you think she took it with her? That's how grand and frustrating the gravity of the situation is. She didn't even take her sword. I carried it here, even though in my anger I would have very much enjoyed to toss right it in the sewers.

I couldn't get over the sight of that sword. It was as unique as her, or lest I wouldn't exaggerate – rare. Basilisk skin steel, the spitting image of a kitchen knife magnified some thirty times larger, dark and maintained in the perfect condition. She would sharpen it on a regular basis with the same glorious mastery as her ruthless techniques and powerful strikes. She could teach the gods of war what fighting was. Of course, right now – in a fair fight, with my inhibitions so little in control, I could kill her, I swear I could.

To this very night of my life, some seven, maybe nine years of my life, I can't even tell – but for two and about a half now if I am correct in my frenzy, I still have a weakness for this very sword. Which makes me feel like some sort of freak, replacing her with an object to delight my fancy in her absence because that is all I can behold of her at the moment. Fasta vass. I was troubled, panic-stricken.

The blood red band wrapped around its pummel, to be more precise, made it so special. It reminded me of her hair and of fire, a symbol of her resistance and liberation. Ah, why does it haunt me?

I went over and grabbed the sword leaning against the wall next to my own. Mine was quite fitting of my despicable self. She had quite the keen eye in choosing it for me. Yes, it was a gift from her, one of many that I had come to accept with gratitude. The last gift from her was a journal. I thought it was a joke, I became angry, then finally swallowed my foolish drive to protest and thanked her properly. She always managed to make me shut up and accept. Because she knew that Idid not desire sympathy. I desired understanding and that is all she did allow herself to give me. She said she might not have been able to return my memories, but this could help me make new ones. And oh, how many memories I had already had and cherished and all were of her. How many I had wished and still wish to create if she would but allow me to.

But I don't know if I could be the naive one for long. I was ecstatic, of course. For the journal, for the sword. I had not merely a sword, but one specially made for me, as I understand. And it was not a waste of money, I dare say.

It was much different than the usual Tevinter form of swords. Tevinters made their swords in a narrow V shape, a testament to sharpness and symmetry, and ultimately, the inevitable symbol of perfection.

But this sword was much perfection in itself. Clean silver steel, rectangular, only at the very tip ending in small and sharp, and it bore many long and beautiful engravings. It shimmered in the light, which I enjoyed. And the pummel as straight, neat and black. Perfect.

Ah, but of course, that one separating detail did prevail – I was not perfect like this sword was. Memory would jolt me only to release me. Wasn't there a code to which I should remain faithful that somehow dictated these were artful lies? What I held so dearly, her memory, all of them. Holding onto them like a child. I couldn't get it clear in my head, and all around me was such happiness, yes, happiness. It seemed impossible that these simple acts of effortless communication between us could mask such absence, that it was ultimately not enough for her to just listen to me, the lack thereof. I am terrible. I didn't believe it.

Yet all pleasure to me was suspect. I was dazzled when I could not give in, and overcome when I did surrender, and as the days followed I surrendered with ever greater ease all the time, as you can see.

Such trust. Of course, I was wolfish to the others, and pretty much wolf to myself. But how she could turn me into a little lamb. I did not hate it – she did not make me feel like her slave. By far, on the contrary. She always pressed without a word, through all her bone-hard actions, just how free I was.

Well, no more. No more, no more, no more. Fear and worry, terrible anguish had swallowed me whole and thrown me forth here, holding Hawke's sword, and after examining the simplicity of the basilisk skin, I untangled the red band from its pummel.

I held it in my hand, shimmering blood red in the light of the brass lamp. I probably looked perplexed. But I rolled my eyes, almost hissing at myself – Fool. Just do it.

Not only did I like it, but it was the only thing to help me at the moment. I took a hold of the little overgrown hair and brought it whole at the back of my head, wrapping the red band around it to hold it in place. Well now, with this thick band, there was almost no hair to be held by it, but fastened it harder and it the material narrowed and finally, ignoring the many threads of hair that quickly got out of the small tail and again, back in my face, I took a seat at the desk and opened the journal.

I did not get to write a lot. Apart from her only sentence on the first page

Moving on a simple thing – what it leaves behind is hard.

You know the sleeping feel no more pain, and the living, they are scarred.

But take a breath, look around. Start anew, start about.

Get to work, go to bed. Get a life, get a grip.

It's the time of your life, yours alone and only yours

In the garden of your heart, where the tree of life grows.

So, please smile when you think about me. I try, I try. I know. Let it be.

These are the last words

I'll ever speak

And the first words I had written, the only sentence I dared to write and in so, ruin the page with my hideous penmanship : And they'll set me free.

I started to write.

"So long as one does not feel that one is in some way dependent, one considers himself independent –a false conclusion that shows how proud a man can be, how eager for dominion. For he hereby assumes he would always be sure to observe and recognize dependence so soon as he suffered it, the preliminary hypothesis being that he generally lives in independence, and that, should he lose that independence for once in a way, he would immediately detect a contrary sensation. That is I and that is Hawke. Or at least I brought myself to think so about the nature of her fear, because just as I, she was so fiercely independent.

Suppose however, the reverse to be true – that he is always living in a complex state of dependence, but thinks himself free where, through long habit, he no longer feels the weight of the chain? He only suffers from new chains, and 'free will' really means nothing more than an absence of feeling of new chains. Was that also true for me?"

I struggled and as soon as I finished the paragraph, I realized that my writing started calm and careful and ended aggressive and scribbled, just like hers. And now I understand why.

Because we two are such cerebral beings that we simply have no hope for possessing even the slightest bit of emotional intelligence. And that is very dangerous. I wrote this and continued. Why dangerous, you may ask? The answer is that I was now more than ever susceptible to love, and when seen with loving eyes I knew it somehow and at this moment, in not knowing where she was, it was killing me and I had to slow the very beats of my heart which was pumping in my chest like a Chantry bell.

Words started coming to me, memories, lines of old. I wanted to write them down, lest I ever forget, lest I become even more of an idiot than my present excelling at being one.

For reddish locks such as these, for eyes of the deepest brown and most understanding green. For skin like the fresh cream of the milk in the morning; for lips indistinguishable from the petals of a rose.

A memory. "How long do you think I've wandered this Earth?" she asked angrily. "Do you know how many times it had crossed my mind in carelessness and wanton temper to seek somebody that could even for a second, even for just one sodding second, understand me? And get closer to that being? But did not find one and did not do it just for sake of it either, Fenris. Not until my eyes fell upon you."

I wrote in my own words now – "I was hardly immune to her appeal. At times, I found it downright difficult to be in her presence, so fresh and lovely and inviting did she seem. She had a way of looking luscious in austere garments, her breasts large and high, her legs rounded and tapered exquisitely beneath her modest hem. There were times in which I became miserable in my desire for her. I cursed the fact that fear had not yet delivered me from such torment and boyish desire, and did all that I could so that she might never guess. I think she knew it, however, and in her own way, she was merciless."

Another memory. I was in awe of her and I needed her. But in our verbal combat, I had always, no matter how emotional, played the role of the superior mind who was in no need of her seemingly irrational discourse, which I made it to appear so as if I was talking to a child, only to be overthrown with the same logic, with my own weapon. And always with evident affection. I remember the very day she gave me her strength. How she argued with me. She said, "Don't make a religion of reason and logic. Because in the passage of time reason may fail you and when it does, you may find yourself taking refuge in madness." I was so offended by these words coming from the mouth of this beautiful woman whose eyes so entranced me that I could scarce follow her thoughts.

Another. "Your eyes are green when the fire catches them," I wanted to say once to you. "Oh, but they are lustrous and dark, two glossy mirrors in which I see myself even as they keep their secrets, these dark portals of a rich soul."

Perhaps. Don't expect wisdom from me as it might come from you, or the Father you quote on so many occasions with perfect memory.

"You draw me to you, to make you write," you said.

"Why?" I asked in confusion, because your remark was abruptly said and without much further ado, even if it bore necessity for it.

You smiled patiently, your voice was not commanding. "Because you do have a story inside you; it lies articulate and waiting to be written—behind your silence and your suffering."

"You are too romantic, friend," I said, almost regretting how defensive I was.

You waited patiently. I think you could feel the tumult in me, the shivering of my soul in the face of so much new emotion.

"It's such a small story," I said. I saw images, memories, moments, the stuff that can incite or kill souls to inaction as well as creation. But then I saw the very faintest possibility of faith.

I think you already knew the answer. You knew what I would do when I did not.

You smiled discreetly, but you were eager and waiting. I looked at you and thought of trying to write it, write it all out . . .

"You want me to leave now, don't you?" you said. You rose, collected your rain-spattered coat and bent over gracefully kiss my forehead.

My hands were clutching, one at the journal and one at your hand.

"No," I said without further ado, "I can't let you."

Why do I have to remember these things? Shove them on a piece of paper as if I am writing the chronicles of my life?

When she painted me, towards the end, I went to her because I couldn't control myself anymore. I was full of impatience, my face I kept impassive.

"You barely looked at me. You capture my likeness so keenly from memory," I said as I went to bend towards her sitting on the chair. I saw no reason to talk endlessly. I wanted to give up on my reserve of aloofness, I was tired of planting kisses on her cheek that conveyed only softness and control, I was tired of trying to hold her with a cold embrace, only because the real touch of me would have her destroyed. Thank the gods we were interrupted.

She had never even once touched my markings. I found it a bit too poetic, but I was far from ungrateful. It was even miraculous for me that I allowed anyone to touch me, but even so, her touch. Her touch was either soft or a bit of aggressive, but it conveyed goodness to me. It was as if dexterously avoiding the lyrium markings, she touched only what was good of me. But even if she did touch those too, it would have been simple – because everything she touched turned into something good.

Oh, she's not a saint, and I am not a romantic. Understand, I am only speaking facts.

Her magic? Well, I still stumble with my conceptions. It is not as if I am a hypocrite, excusing her and judging everyone else. I always made it clear to her and to our companions that I was not throwing blind accusations on innocents. I was being cautious, because any mage one should fear. Until he proved himself not to be a weak, there was no point in presuming innocence. But even without presumption of such innocence, I did not attack. None of them attacked. That was testament that I was not driven to be blinded by fallacies and generalizations.

Now, for the subject of my fancy – I do not know what to say. I see her as a being, not even a human, let alone a mage. She proved herself, until now, that she was not weak. Although, in my secretiveness, I was concerned. Why? Because although I admired her predicament of rejecting the use of magic, it proved at times that this was dangerous. She only came to me some nights, frustrated and panic-stricken, because she hated training. She had to be honest, she had to train, for the sake of everyone's safety. But I saw how much torment burned in her soul because of it and I didn't know what to do. She, a struggling abstinent mage, came to me, the last person who in the larger scheme of things would not welcome understanding.

But in a way, I did understand. Even more, at times I felt ridiculous, because it seemed as though I was the one bringing sanity to the equation. Sanity, understand, towards the subject of magic. She would become so angry at times as to revolt against it entirely, she would tell me it was a curse and sometimes she wanted to die, but that was no privilege she could allow herself.

And I felt ridiculous and touched by the grandest form of irony – I, Fenris, felt like slapping her across the face to wake her up from this overreaction, this insane protest. Not because I did not want her gone, but because she put so much needless pressure on herself. If she ranted about being fearful of getting possessed, using blood magic, things of this sort, it would have been only sane. But her dejecting reaction and the sum of her contempt was placed upon all magic.

And yet, she was good. She was patient. She took care of me more than she took care of herself, as foolish as it may appear. I couldn't be more grateful.

I remember a conversation of ours on my roof, lying next to each other without any other moves. This was about a year or more ago. I was the shadow and she was the light.

I put my hands nonchalantly under my head and said, "Oh, but I am but a shadow of a man."

She smirked, "And what? Am I supposed to be, the light?"

"Well, not that I put such stock in names, but," I said with a smirk, being for once relaxed. "You could live up to your name, Bianca. It certainly wouldn't be a terrible thing."

Hawke lifted her hand up to the sky, gesturing dramatically, but telling the truth, "And you're the great shadow, lying in a prison, only dreaming to unchain yourself from the brooding, self-loathing, self-destructive man that possesses the shadow, right?"

I hesitated, feeling penetrated, but I couldn't contradict her, "Thus it seems I am terrible at being myself."

"To lie still and think little is the cheapest medicine for all diseases of the soul, and, with the aid of good-will, becomes pleasanter every hour that it is used," Hawke said to me.

My eyebrow arched into surprise, "Another one of your Father's sayings?"

"Actually no. The Hero of Ferelden said it. Or so Anders led me to believe, one very tumultuous night when I sunk in deep brooding."

"You really fancy this woman, do you not?" I asked perceptively.

"I admire the Warden, don't look too much into it," Hawke said confidently.

"There is danger in admiration," I said calmly. "From excessive admiration for the virtues of others one can lose the sense of one's own, and finally, through lack of practice, being too busy in admiring others, lose these virtues themselves."

Hawke grimaced at me, to which I could only smirk and continue my explanation, "The admiration of a quality may be so strong as to deter you from aspiring to possess that quality."

"Then maybe you should admire me," she said and winked playfully. "So you would never wake up crazy or reckless."

I laughed shortly. "In the way you put it, yes, I should admire you."

"There's another way?" she asked.

I coughed defensively, "In the sense that I do, admire you, for other reasons, that are not so pitiable."

She shook her head and grinned. "You're not gonna tell me what those reasons are, will you?"

I turned my head to the night sky and shrugged, "I will let it be a mystery."

She pressed, oh she loved to press only rarely, but effectively, "Well, it certainly doesn't include my magic."

"You are terrible," I rolled my eyes, "you have more disregard for your magic than I generally do. You shed so much irony on me, it's deeply embarrassing."

"Wha?"

"That I…"

"That you?"

I cleared my throat awkwardly. "That a mage saved me, that I enjoy her company. And now, this – that the manner in which this mage rejects her nature stretches to the extent of utter contempt, whereas I only mildly despise it out of mere cautiousness."

She raised an eyebrow. I could feel a psychological analysis coming about. "I could say the same thing about you. Also, I could say the reverse about what you just said."

I lifted my eyebrows. "What?"

"That I am more understanding and merciful of other mages even if I am not so to myself, whereas you are almost in complete lack of it, no? And that you are too hard on yourself."

"My vision may be flawed, I will not deny that," I said calmly.

"It's a defect of standpoint, not of vision," Hawke said.

I blinked a few times. "What do you mean?"

"We always stand a few paces too close to ourselves and few paces too far from others. Hence we judge others too much in the lump, and ourselves too much by individual, occasional, insignificant features and circumstances. You understand?"

I smirked and said calmly, "It appears we are at the drinking-table of experience."

"Yes it appears so. Rather funny."

I corrected, "Ironic."

"Such a victim of irony, Fenris is," Hawke said sarcastically.

I laughed softly. "I enjoy comedy from time to time. I overly make use of sarcasm, if you haven't noticed. Maybe that's why this keeps happening to me."

She rolled her eyes. "And I was being sarcastic too. You have the great simplicity and the proper past to be a sort of dark comedian."

"Pardon?"

She gestured while she explained, "We slough past actions like the snake sloughs his skin. We are hereby easily seduced into becoming the comedians of our own past, and into throwing the old skin once more about our shoulders. It's not really vanity, as much as it is good-will and understanding towards our older stupid selves."

I turned my head up to the night sky again. "That is… one way of putting it."

Silence.

"Say something," Hawke demanded.

I didn't turn to look at her. "What do you wish me to say?"

"Something."

I smirked. "Something."

"No, not like that," she said and rolled her eyes. "But it's one way to break the ice."

It was then I felt this was amicable silence. "It is all better if we are both equally… forbearing towards each other when for once our reason is silent."

She didn't say anything for a good five seconds. "Huh?"

"Thus we shall avoid losing our tempers in conversation," I said with a playful smirk. "All in good memory of those 'stupid' selves from the past, which were easily 'seduced' into argument and torment. We shall not apply… " I looked at her and gestured, "….mutual stingy thumbscrews in the event of any word sounding unintelligible or revolting from the other. If one does not know exactly how to answer, it is enough to say something. Do you not agree?"

"I do. Those are the reasonable terms on which I hold conversation with any person. It's better than stretching out something past its limits," she said, finishing with a tone that conveyed annoyance.

I agreed, "Yes, during a long talk, the wisest of men becomes a fool once and a simpleton thrice."

"Your moderation is not flattering to those to whom you confess it," Hawke said a bit sarcastically.

I turned my head to my left to look at her, with a nonchalant voice, "Am I, then, to flatter?"

Hawke smiled only faintly. "I thought a man's shadow was his vanity. Surely vanity would never say 'Am I, then, to flatter?' "

I smiled too, "Nor does vanity so far as I am acquainted with it."

Hawke looked at me in awe. "You know, now I see for the first time very clearly how rude I am to you, my dear shadow," she said, but her tone was vague in its intent for mockery, "I have not said a word of my supreme delight in hearing and not merely… seeing you."

"Oh?" I asked, the corner of my lips slightly drawing a smirk.

She explained subtly in a bold tone,"If you must know, I love shadows, even as I love light. For the existence of beauty of face, clearness of speech, kindliness and firmness in character, the shadow is as necessary as the light."

I rolled my eyes. "Are we to be rivals then?"

Hawke shook her head, "They are not opponents – rather do they hold each other's hands like good friends; and when the light vanishes, the shadow glides after it."

I smirked and deflected, because I would have taken her hand. "Is this a pompous way of saying you enjoy the sound of my voice?"

She also deflected, "Pretty much."

I tried to press on it though, "I think I understand you, although you sometimes express yourself in somewhat shadowy terms."

Hawke rolled her eyes, "We two give to each other here and there, both mean and peaceful remarks, as a sign of mutual understanding, don't you agree? Obscure phrases which to any third party is meant to be a riddle. And we are good friends, you and I. So enough preambles!"

She rose from her back and got a hold of her notebook and pen.

"Do you wish something of me, then?" I asked subtly with a smirk.

"Some few hundred questions answered, that so annoyingly oppress my little soul," Hawke said confidently, "And the time for you to answer them is perchance but short. Let's see how we may come to an understanding as quickly and peaceably as possible."

I smiled innocently, "But shadows are shier than men. You will not reveal to anyone the manner of our conversation?"

"The manner of our conversation? Maker preserve me from wire-down, literary dialogues! It's not like I'm going to write this down ad litteram. Real dialogue put to parcel is nothing but a sum of false perspectives. Everything is either too long or too short. Yet perhaps, I may reveal the point on which we have come to an understanding?"

I nodded amicably. "With that I am content. For everyone will only recognize your views once more, and no one will think of the shadow."

Hawke's eyes went in different directions and tilted her head. "Perhaps you are wrong. If they do read it, they would observe in my views more of the shadow than of me."

I grimaced, unimpressed. "More of the shadow than of the light? Is that possible?"

She almost wanted to hit me and I was prepared to defend myself. "Be serious, dear fool! My very first question demands seriousness."

"Ask away," I said nonchalantly.

"You despise the Alienage, and rightfully so; it reminds you of the cruelty elves face every day. But you are not one of them and you act as if they brought it to themselves – it's like you despise them and not the place they reside in – do you think they will look at you as a hypocrite for living in a mansion?"

"Those are a lot of questions," I said in amusement.

"Answer whichever one then," Hawke said nonchalantly.

I sighed and tried to be truthful. "I don't despise them, but I do despise being in that place. They can't help it, but, I don't see them making much effort to stand up for themselves. It's like these elves want to be seen as pitiable low-lives. As for the hypocrisy, no. I think humans are the ones who would be envious of me."

She frowned in curiosity. "Oh?"

I gestured and explained. "Well this 'envy of the gods' as we call it in Tevinter, about elves that become Liberati and get a few privileges for themselves, get by rather well, as it were," I gestured grumpily, "This envy arises when a despised person sets himself on an equality with his superior. In my case now, it is the human nobles in Hightown, and in Tevinter, it is the human magisters or patrons. I am made equal with humans by the favour of fortune. In the Imperial social class system, but just as well in Kirkwall, this envy demands that no one shall have merits above station, where I, an elf, should be thus a low-life, and that his prosperity shall be on a level with his position, more so especially that his self-consciousness shall not outgrow the limits of his rank."

"Oh, you're admitting that you enjoy it, finally?" Hawke asked with a smile.

"I don't enjoy it, not in the strongest sense of the word. But I do have to take pleasure in the small things," I said modestly, looking down. "However, these borrowed privileges can also arise in many the feeling of 'meritocrasy',horrendously privileged, and I don't dwell in that. I still prefer to lay low."

"Lay so low that your mansion outright falls, no?" Hawke asked in amusement.

"It is my way," I said firmly with a smirk.

"Fenris is unpardonable," Hawke said in amusement.

Ismirked and looked at her with the back of my eye, "You gave him an opportunity of displaying the greatness of his character, and the shadow thus made use of that opportunity," I said with a hint of deliberate arrogance, then my smile bore gratitude, "He will always thank you for that."

"You know you and my Father would have got along so well," Hawke said.

"So you keep subtly pointing," I said in entertainment.

Hawke shook her head and laughed, "Well, I can't help it. You remind me of him. Not for a general stoic attitude, but more of his views and his jokes. Well, you would have probably been annoyed with him for being a mage, but just like with me, you would have come around. I don't know… if not for that, at least for how strongly he felt for elves and slaves in particular."

I frowned, my curiosity risen. "Oh?"

Hawke cleared her throat, and exorted with affection in her eyes, remembering, "Kindly remember that he whom you call your slave sprang from the same stock, is smiled upon by the same skies, and on equal terms with yourself breathes, lives, and dies."

I looked at her curiously, she continued, "Father. Lothering was the proud town of some three or four elven families because of him, in a way. Two of them were former slaves, if you must know. I didn't know them very well, but I worked for them for a time."

"You worked for them?"

"Yes, I… well. One of the families had five children, only two of them of age at the time. They would leave Lothering once in a while to work as carriers, messengers or cooks for the army, and I would basically come by every day at their house and make sure they ate and drank and didn't set fire to the house. Well, yeah, basically I made sure they were alive and well."

"So you were a babysitter," I smirked with a mocking tone.

"Not much has changed," Hawke stung back with a smirk.

"The other elf I worked for was a master vanguard. At the time, I lacked considerably in control. I would strike with might and not much else and I wasn't quick. He took me in under his wing and developed in me these skills. 'Leviathan', people called him. But he was retired and he didn't receive students either. I was a special case."

"As always," I said coldly.

"What's that supposed to mean? No, you know what? Doesn't matter," Hawke said. "I'm proud of catching his interest. He used to be deeply unimpressed. A vanguard believes that a good offense is the best defence. Ah, his strikes was so powerful, matched with ruthless technique. I was in awe of him."

I pressed to return. "You said you worked for him."

"Yes. Under his training, I would help him around the house, make deliveries, read him books because he was becoming long-sighted, stuff like that. The dirty work. Oh, but it was all worth it, even doing his laundry."

I raised an eyebrow, imagining it.

"Oh, boohoo. I used to look at the laundry and say 'Don't be sad laundry, nobody's doing me either'."

"Not much has changed," I said calmly.

"I won't lie, 'tis true. I am loner," Hawke said.

I pressed. "What does that have to do with satisfying your needs?"

"I'm too proud to pay for it and much too, hm, what's the nice word for it? Difficult – for a man to lay an eye on me. What, you don't agree?"

"Perhaps," I said flatly.

"And besides, I know how to take care of myself much better than anyone could attempt to."

"So you remain alone," I concluded out loud.

She shrugged and smiled. "And why not? Good things come to those who wait."

I looked at her in curiosity. "You are waiting?"

Hawke shook her head and explained, "No, it's just an expression. I don't hope for such things. If they are to come, let them come."

"I agree. Lying in wait is a waste of energy," I said firmly, looking away.

But I turned my head quickly to her when she started saying, "Until some brat prince comes to sweep me off my feet – and please let it be that way, because I don't want to do the sweeping – I can always just," Hawke said and smirked subtly, "shower my eyes with something I enjoy looking at, then think about it later when I'm alone."

I frowned, because I did not understand, although I had an idea. "Pardon?"

She grimaced in annoyance. "You're deliberately playing dumb."

"I am not."

"Fine."

But I pressed and smirked, feeling boyish and arrogant. "So you think of me?"

"Oh, now you're not playing dumb anymore."

"I was testing something."

"And are you happy with the result?"

"It remains to be seen."

"After I answer your question?"

"Precisely."

Hawke laughed and eyed me confidently. "Ah, but such requests are futile. What good would it do you, if I tell you that?"

"That also remains to be seen."

"You're purposely vague, are you not?"

Ah the smirk on my face. "I find it useful. It pushes you to rush up with the truth and past your deflections."

"Psht. Coward."

"I am not a coward."

"Pansy."

"Incorrect."

She narrowed her eyes. "Prude."

I hesitated and stuttered. "Alright … fair enough."

She smirked confidently and pointed at me. "First step is admitting it."

I was about to poke her. "Then be fair and take that step too."

She shoved her hand in the air as if she yielded. "Very well. I admit I think of you when I'm alone."

The delight in my bones I had to fight so strongly to keep hidden. "See? It wasn't so hard, was it?"

"I beg to differ."

"What?"

She shook her head and smiled. "Never mind."

At that moment, I felt such a grand regret if the subject was changed, and as if I was driven mechanically by nature, I strove to press. "Do you wish to know if the feeling is mutual?" Where did I find the courage, I do not know.

She shook her head and grinned. "No, what good would that do me?"

I answered without thinking. "There are pleasures certainly greater than merely speaking about it, it is true."

She examined me for two seconds in silence and asked, "Are you implying something by that?"

"No, I… " I paused and cleared my throat, "I am simply stating the obvious."

"Which is?"

"That… there are certain pleasures greater than speaking about it?" Perhaps my courage, however miraculous, was simply short-lived.

"Thanks for the repetition."

"You are welcome."

Terrible.

I tried to remember. Isabela pressed one night, that I am a fool for being so childish, that she can see from miles away how much I wanted Hawke. I told her to keep to her business, but she insisted that she would help. I felt like walking into a trap, but she simply advised me to 'flirt'.

Making advances to Hawke… was like trying to poke a sleeping dragon. I had no idea how.

Now come to think of it, perhaps I was worse. The pirate certainly painted a good picture. "Flirting with Fenris is like flirting with a tree."

Hawke only made a remark faintly when everyone was at the table, "Like the business end of a porcupine."

Should I even dare to remember the nature of such attempts? I'd rather not, but some few scenes come to mind from years ago.

At Sundermount…

"Come on Fenris, cheer up, it could be worse."

"What, if I start skipping around the countryside with rainbows and woodland creatures following me will you leave me alone for a minute?"

Or… on the Wounded Coast.

Hawke once boldly saying, "Meet you at my place later. Ga-row."

"What are you talking about?"

"It looked like you were giving me the saucy eyebrow just there. The one that totally means you want to do the mattress dance?"

"I was in pain."

"…"

"…"

Hawke coughed and stepped back. "This is awkward. I'll just stand over there."

"Yes. You do that."

Or…

Hawke winked.

I frowned, "Wh… What?"

"I winked back at you. Didn't you wink?"

"… That was a flinch."

Or perhaps… in the Bone Pit..

"Maker's saggy testicles, it's so dark in here," Hawke growled in annoyance.

"You should really invest in fire," I said grumpily.

"Or you could just turn your glow on."

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"Oh come on, do you want me to stumble over you in here?"

"…Fine."

She laughed in delight. "Be grateful I didn't also hop on your back and said 'Giddy-up my powerful glowing steed! Go into the light!'"

Or later when Varric and the mage went too far ahead.

She leaned closer to me in the dark, damp cave.

"What are you doing?"

It was too dark to see her face. "Well… it's cold."

"We are in a cave."

"I was thinking, you emit light, so I thought you might also… you know. Emit heat?"

"Please go away."

Or when we got out of the Bone Pit…

Hawke said, "Drat… The sun is down. And we are still so far away from Kirkwall."

Varric came next to her and shouted, "I know! This is suuuch an issue. What we to do? Walk around blindly into a trap?"

Hawke lifted her eyebrows innocently, "I haven't the faintest clue! What shall we do?"

Then they both eyed me fiendishly. I would have killed them.

"… Of for the love of…" I rolled my eyes and undid the front of my vest, leading the path in utter annoyance. And I could feel Hawke and Varric behind fist-bumping.

Or in the Deep Roads…

"Stop trying to hit me," I growled at her in annoyance.

"No," Hawke said childishly.

"Oh, now that I let you touch me it should become a tradition to poke the angry dragon?"

"What can I say, I can't keep my hands off of you," Hawke said sarcastically.

"Why is it such a point of fascination to you? Do you think you can draw energy for yourself from my markings, witch?"

Hawke masked her annoyance and stung back nonchalantly, "No, but you're kind of like a caffeine substitute."

Or at The Hanged Man…

"Flip the coin already," Hawke said in annoyance at my drunken slowness.

"If I flip the coin, what are my chances of getting head?"

She laughed for half an hour. To this day I did not get it.

No, it got worse when I was drunk and vaguely sarcastic…

"I think I know how to please a woman."

"Then please leave me alone."

"I think I can make you very happy."

"Why? Are you leaving?"

"Come on, Hawke. We're both at The Hanged Man when Varric is not even here for a reason."

"Yeah! Let's pick up some girls."

"Come on, Hawke, don't be shy. Ask me out."

"Alright. Get out."

"I can tell that you want me."

"Yes, I want you to leave."

"Fine. I'm going home. If you wish to come, you are welcome."

"Oh, Fenris, you strike me as a man who comes all by himself."

I… need to be alone. Forgive me a moment.