Late Morning of Varric's Name Day, Fenris's Mansion
When Hawke knocked ineptly with her elbow on his door holding two glasses of wine, she was greeted with a most disquieting, inconceivable, derailing, mind-blowing … absolutely incredible sight. The door was opened rapidly and powerfully and it felt like a whole wave of heat or rather a piercing shot of blizzard came out and blew in her face as she saw Fenris clutching onto it with a most irritated scowl that could have doomed the whole vault of heaven and made it crumble and collapse to the deepest pit of the Void if he ever looked up. Beside this powerful canvas of irritation and crossness that fearsomely shaped, or better yet twisted the faint traceries of Fenris's generally cold expression, his face, his hair and his unarmoured dark vest were all covered in flour or powder. Either that or his cold blood finally decided to freeze the hell out of him from the inside out.
Faced with this incredible oddity Hawke remained entirely speechless for a second before her mind began twisting and turning in a fine abundance of writhing aberrations.
"Well now," she started, biting at her lip in terrible urgency to laugh, "Powdering your nose so early in the morning? … And missing the nose entirely from the equation?"
Fenris glared at her in silence, not one chance to wipe that fear-provoking monumental scowl off his face. Another harrowing second passed with that indomitable expression when, undaunted, Fenris blew air up his face and the flour came off his hair and flew into empty space.
Hawke tried with all her power not to laugh and with raising the two glasses of wine, she said, "I come in peace and bearing gifts."
"That's the same thing the Teofits said before they conquered and burned Vol Dorma to the ground," Fenris said flatly.
"The who on what?" she asked in confusion.
Fenris inhaled deeply and muttered, "They were a migratory tribe of –"
"Sorry," Hawke snorted, "I just can't take you seriously or even pay attention to one word you say while looking like that."
"My, what a blessing," Fenris muttered grumpily, "That you come to know how it is to be in my shoes every day I am in your company."
"You don't wear shoes," Hawke said with a smile.
"How keen of you to notice," Fenris replied coldly.
"So what's on the menu?" she asked in amusement. "Elf pie with a side of grump?"
"Apple pie," Fenris said flatly, clutching at the door angrily. "As you can see it comes with a promise of war and havoc across the land."
"Stick a hand... or a head in the flame for that?" Hawke asked while snorting.
Fenris rolled his eyes and asked, "Is there a point to this early visit?"
She raised the glasses with an elusive smile, "Wine?"
"No thank you," he muttered.
"Alright," she said nonchalantly and poured the whole liquid from the second glass into the first. "I'll need all of it anyway."
"How shocking," Fenris uttered and beckoned for her to come in.
She walked in and said, "Well you're not very unpredictable either, Grouchy Lord of Apples."
Fenris turned around and started to walk. He muttered, "It's the only one I know how to make." Then he turned his head half-way and smirked as he said, "Which is one more than you can say for yourself."
"Well…" she muttered, sizing him up from behind and taking a good sip. "I certainly don't want a slice of that sourcake."
"I am not in the finest mood, it's true," Fenris said as he walked into a room. There lay numerous batches of dough, powder, flour, jars of something golden, steeped and sliced apples on the table and the smell of despair everywhere around it. He leaned with his arm against the edge of the table and contained his smile as he said, "Suffice is to say, I'm two burnt batches away from only slightly pulling my hair out."
"That's why I only cook drunk," Hawke said positively and hit him on the arm with the glass of wine. She winked and commenced a silent toast for the fallen.
"I should say I'm relieved," Fenris muttered, then he shot her a little smirk again. "But that is not the only reason your culinary skills are detestable beyond hope."
"Well now, mighty God of Pastries, I see no practical reason for developing such a useless skill," she protested confidently. "The only thing I need to know is how to spot the best piece of food to use as a projectile in the highly imaginary scenery where I find myself in complete lack of real weapons."
"Not to put ideas in that disturbed little head of yours but," he said flatly and searched her gaze. "Are you planning on finding such a use for the sprouts this evening?"
"Not unless I'm provoked," Hawke replied confidently. "Which is highly unlikely, considering my nerves of steel."
"I see you've already begun early on baptizing those nerves of steel," Fenris said flatly.
"I see you've already begun early with depressing the hell out of this," she paused and looked around, "kitchen/dungeon/cellar/good place to dump a body in."
"Your Mother gave me a duty," Fenris said while shrugging nonchalantly. "I am not taking it lightly."
"You don't have to try so hard though," Hawke said and started to grin. "She won't judge your baking as much as she'll be busy judging you."
Fenris swallowed heavily and upped his gaze with questioning. Silence.
Hawke shrugged and tried not to let her evil grin out as she said, "It hasn't crossed your mind that there's an ulterior motive for the pie duty?"
"I am not as paranoid as you are," Fenris said in a false mask of calmness.
"Oh, but I do hope you're as perceptive as I am," Hawke replied with an all-knowing grin. She took a sip of pride and malevolence. "More importantly, as perceptive as Mother is."
Again, silence. His hands were stunned and almost crushing the dough, about to explode of fear.
Hawke let him be dismayed for a few more harrowing seconds before she broke into chuckles and said, "I'm kidding." He finally let the dough breathe again.
"So you're the only one going judgemental on me then?" Fenris asked and gave her a smirk.
"Nah, I tired out of it," Hawke said nonchalantly, leaning against the edge of the table and shot him an evil smile. "Now I'm only mercilessly observant."
"You're such a pie," Fenris said calmly, moulding the dough. She took an apple and attempted to take a bite out of it, but he snatched it out of her hands in a second.
"Oh and how I worship my creator," Hawke commented sarcastically.
"I am indeed kind of like a god," Fenris said with smile, scrutinizing the green apple with red spots. "All with creating something out of nothing." He paused a second, put the apple down and reshaped a piece of flattened dough. Shortly thereafter a ghostly smirk came upon his face as he said, "Or better yet, something beautiful out of something originally tedious."
"I hope you're only pertaining to the dough," Hawke said while narrowing her eyes.
"Of course," Fenris said calmly, containing his smile.
"Well then, I humbly appoint you Fenris, as the Mighty God of Pastries," Hawke said in amusement and commenced another one-man toast.
"That sounds quite appropriate," Fenris said flatly.
"So she taught you how to bake?" she pressed softly. "While I was gone?"
Fenris pressed his lips and hesitated for a second. The involuntary feeling of shame came upon his face but he contained it tactfully and said, "How to cook, more likely. The baking came long after that."
"Well, I'll be damned," she said while smiling and shaking her head in amazement. "Way to go, Mother."
"I owe her a great deal," he said flatly, working on the dough more quickly now.
"So tell me," she said with an evil grin. "Did she also teach you how to make flower arrangements? Knit? Saw buttons? Wax hair off your legs maybe?"
"Those are not skills that I need," Fenris said calmly. "Neither do you."
"As if you didn't know how to roast a rabbit or a chicken on the run," Hawke said assertively. "And even so, cooking is one thing. Baking is completely different."
"Consider it a small thing I decided to enjoy once in a while," he said all unperturbed. Hawke was about to say something, but quickly remained speechless as Fenris took a slice of an apple dipped in something golden and reached with it to her mouth. He looked at her nonchalantly and waited for her to open it. "I promise this one is not poisoned."
She narrowed her eyes and frowned, but not because she was distrustful perchance Fenris magically poisoned the apple. Several moments too many passed and his cold green eyes remained undeterred by her contained hesitation. A spark went through them, as if to tell her, "Wipe off that dumb look on your face and take it." And so she did, without using her hand, and for some reason he had to watch her with that dark look of his as though to make sure she didn't spit it out or something. Then he resumed on his work. The slice tasted just fine, perfect blend of sour and sweet.
"What was that?" she asked.
"Honey and cinnamon," he said, while crushing an apple.
"Cinnamon?" she asked in confusion.
"It's some kind of Antivan spice."
"Alright, I'm calling it," she said confidently and brought out her pocket watch. "Time of Gay – 10:47."
Fenris raised an eyebrow and contained his smirk. He resumed his work calmly and said, "My, what a nice moustache you have."
"I'm sorry my friend, but you can't get out of this one with sarcasm," she said all smiling.
"It was not sarcasm," he said and finally showed his smirk without looking at her. "You really do have one."
"I do not!" she said in outrage, but little did she notice she did have one made out of the honey from that apple slice. She wiped it off grumpily while he kept smirking to eternity.
After a while, she took a moment to roam about the hallway and leave him alone in his concentration. It had been a long time since she inspected all these dark passages made out of fine ancient stone, the roaring fire torches amongst them and at last, the grand hallway full of crumbling paintings and dark heathen statues. The bed chambers were all neat and simple, but seemed as though they had never been touched at all, apart from his own study and place of rest both-in-one. Up above, the roof had been repaired and down below, there were no more stubborn lonely mushrooms growing out of the floor. In one far corner he installed a table with an oil lamp and a few old books scattered across.
Up the stairs and into his room, he put up a weaponry stand on the left, all full of valuable two-handed swords and old daggers they'd found in their journeys but didn't want to sell and which Hawke didn't wish to take for herself. He kept the ghost blade from Antiva. On the right, the rectangular dark fireplace pleaded to be lighted near another great table of books and scattered glasses, teacups and red candles. In front of the fireplace there stood the two lonely burgundy armchairs which bore the memory of so many deep conversations they used to share in the intimacy of this dark room with only the roaring flames as their witness.
On the left, he moved the bed so the board with correctly stand up against the wall and the once hideous golden sheets had been replaced with silken red and teal patterned ones he bought from the city market all on his own – to her and Varric's genuine surprise. All portraits of Tevinter origin had been taken down. The one great closet by his bed was moved on the other side and day by day, it grew heavier with new belongings. Not very much to hope for, but while not being just a poor elf in a borrowed mansion anymore –the poor part at least had died out– it had been a year or so since Fenris started buying himself clothes and some several items of armory. Understand, not some extravagant or vast change, but there were times in her visits when she'd find him wearing simple dark linen shirts, once or twice even a shirt of somewhat azure color which, she couldn't deny, highlighted his handsome eyes and ivory hair. And of course, he liked to sleep with nothing more than an ugly pair of black shorts that Hawke resolved to remark upon they should need some red girdle around to slap away the hideousness. Fenris of course, resolved to ignore her remark. Until one early morning of a great hangover when she disturbed his sleep thinking he was already up and noticed he didn't ignore it quite so much anymore. And the cold stone floor was now partly covered by a crimson rug of somewhat Antivan appearance. Oh, what a snake. He didn't only buy those vertical-lined pants it seems.
Yes, Fenris made a few simple but quite arguably good changes to his home, perhaps more so to his own being. They were few and small, but they were noticeable simply because other than those, he had always appeared to be utterly divorced from change.
She remembered a little quarrel they had a while ago in this room in of those long nights when they would read together from the Book of Shartan. He would always start reading in fascination at his words, but close to the end his face would always change into a very miserable expression. He was in pain. He tried to hide it. Or perhaps he was trying to make the pain go away. Perhaps in doing so, that was the reason he would become a bit irascible in his mutterings and deject almost all of Hawke's opinions even if in truth he had agreed completely. In a way, he was simply tied to the conclusion that it didn't ultimately matter. Shartan was dead. Thousands of tormented souls before him died and thousands more did after him, and the cycle of terror would never truly end. And his own discontent remained almost purely inflexible much the same; it would not end while this reality remained so harshly true of the world they lived in. Perhaps what bothered him was all the other people that weren't as lucky. But he wouldn't show it.
"It doesn't matter any longer," Fenris said to her in a fit of rancor one night. Rather bitterness was reserved in his tone than anger.
"And how did you feel," she asked cruelly, once having lost her temper, "now that it seems you have chosen to make up a free living, but you still barely exist deliberately shut up in the oak, never to be of the world, but delve in it just the same all with the taste of misery and plaintiveness even in places where there is no room for such?"
Fenris looked straight ahead as if he couldn't give her a decent answer to this. Then his eyes fixed on her and he replied with sudden composure, "You have corrupted me as I told you."
"Ah," she muttered, "so you are afraid." Her eyes tightened, but her voice remained calm. "The promise of a safer home in this very house couldn't comfort you. An honest living through work of your own choice couldn't comfort you. The promise of unconditional companionship even so couldn't comfort you. The existing or invented gods couldn't begin comfort you." She flung out her arms and calmly finished, "And I was to blame."
"Not afraid," Fenris said furiously, clenching his teeth. "Corrupted, as I said." He flashed his sharp green eyes on her.
"Your vision is corrupted, might I correct you," she protested. "You're lying to yourself so you cannot allow yourself to enjoy the things you've already begun to show you do." She shook her head. "Would that I could get you rid of this mask." She shook her head again and her eyes tightened. She brought her hands together in front of her face and stared away in black. "I ran and ran, I had no home for a good half of all my life and I'd been banished from the only one I knew just the same. But the skies are my witness that I didn't flinch for a second and thought it was meaningless. Even if it was, I got back up on my feet each time without questioning."
"You did," Fenris said flatly, perhaps not wishing to continue because he wasn't ready to get surpassed by her statement. Or perhaps because there lay in him a wish for her to share that story. She didn't. In turn, she exhaled bitterly, reminding herself of those awful memories and trying to push them back.
"Perhaps it doesn't matter," Hawke said finally. "But in one respect it very much does. That you've always had the will to go on, no matter the circumstances. It matters little of your reasons behind this strength. You wished to survive for yourself, I wished to survive in that I could ensure others did with me." She gestured towards him and leaned back in the chair. "Now, you say I'd corrupted you."
"I did," Fenris said in such annoyingly elusive manner, she felt as if she was talking to her father when she demanded truths of him he didn't want to share.
Furious and bitter, she didn't even know what point she was striving to make. She let herself enveloped in memories she resolved to banish quickly, but the feeling remained. With that she let herself mutter quietly, "Do you know what it means to believe absolutely nothing, even so, to have no god, no truth?" He knew it was rhetorical, but he still replied.
"Yes, of course I know," Fenris answered calmly and leaned back in his chair. "I believe nothing. I consider it wise. I believed nothing when I was a slave. I believe nothing now."
He was right to say this, but not entirely. For the slave part, making it appear as if he was still devoid of willingness and desire, it struck in her a fierce sentiment of wanting to slap him, even if this was not what he had meant by it. She might have said more brutal things, but she saw him mean to go on. Staring forward in the same ghostly manner with his hands entangled in front of his face, he said, "We don't know how to live as anything else. We've never tried. We shy away from the heavy world, except when we fight. There we think most clearly and our power is obvious." He let his hands fall. He fixed his eyes on her and his eyes became alight with something. "We fear discovery." It had calmed her down, suffice it to say, for he was pertaining to both their predicaments and he had put it very well.
Staring at this room now, she was struck by a curious sentiment. She felt good to see a little change, but she felt exasperated all of a sudden, that he might never truly change. Even if it felt like she was in the heartland of fairies and woodland mythical creatures when she saw Fenris deliberately partaking into a social gathering with making pie.
She found herself coming back to the room on the first floor where he was struggling in his contained irritation to make that pie. Clutching to the door opening, she said, "Mother's asking for you. I think you should go. I don't meant to doubt your incredible baking skills, but it's Varric's name day. Would that it was mine, I'd probably not mind to be a little poisoned, but-"
She saw a short air of contained relief across his face, so she paused and smiled. He nodded briefly and gathered all his things in silence. When they came out of the house, she took the wrong way.
"Are you going to pray that I won't poison you this evening?" Fenris asked while frowning at her for going in the direction of the Chantry courtyard.
"Maybe I'm going for a confession that I've already poisoned your wine in return," Hawke said with a playful grin.
Fenris chuckled briefly and took off for her house as he let slip, "I'll be drinking cider, thank you."
"And I'm still eating your pie," Hawke muttered to herself.
He heard from a distance and heightened his voice as he said, "I am content that you trust me."
"I know you have my best interest at heart," Hawke shouted back and took off for Lowtown. She muttered to herself, "Damn it, Hawke, you signed your funeral."
Half an hour later, Fenris's Mansion
"Are you sure he lives here?" Anders asked with a not very contained expression of discomfort as he looked around. "I think I just saw two cockroaches throwing up."
"Yeah, from the acid in their stomachs, having nothing to eat since this place is all clean and empty," Hawke retorted, shooting Anders a sharp look.
"It doesn't work that way," Anders replied.
"Have any more knowledge to share on that, Witch Doctor of the Cockroaches?" Hawke asked in irritation.
"Why me?" Anders asked and crossed his arms. "Let me guess. Because no one else was free this morning."
Hawke sighed and pressed her lips. "Varric can't know, I can't find Isabela, Aveline refused me."
"And you think Merrill is going to turn this into Dalish Wonderland?" Anders asked in amusement.
"You're the lesser of two evils," Hawke said with a shrug. "Plus, you've got some taste."
"And how do you know that?" Anders asked with a risen eyebrow.
"You dressed up nicely for Satinalia," Hawke said flatly, then shook her hand towards him. "Plus, you've got that whole thing going on with your hair."
"I have a lousy ponytail…" Anders muttered.
"My mistake, I meant your whole persona," Hawke said in amusement. "And you owe me, Winifred. This is justice for, well… going Justice on me."
"Again, I'm sorry for the outburst," Anders said with a sigh and quite an edge to his tone. "I'm trying you know, to keep him settled."
"Oh, this is you trying?" Hawke asked and crossed her arms. "I'd call it defensive ignorance with a just a hint of trying when it's already almost too late."
"Are we talking about Justice or your magic now?" Anders asked with an evil smirk. "Oh, don't look at me like that. You know I'm right on that one."
"That seems fairly just," Hawke said calmly.
"Stop it with the puns," Anders retorted in annoyance.
"Well that's seems unfair," she said nonchalantly.
A little scowl came upon his face as he directed his Pointy Finger of Redundant Judgement at her. "If you don't cease with the puns, I'll start being genuinely mean and you really don't want that."
Hawke snorted and remained calm as she said, "Well to me that seems like quite the righteous retribution."
"You're on then," Anders muttered back.
Hawke laughed. "Justice is blind after all."
"Sadly, he's not deaf," he said grumpily.
"Well that's a fair and balanced way to right the wrongs and honourably compensate," she said in-between despicable smiles.
Anders rolled his eyes at her. "Andraste's whiskerdoodles."
"Yeah, I don't have anything on that," Hawke said innocently.
Anders flung an arm out to the sky. "Thank the Maker."
"Now that's unfair. Who says he's to thank for? Where's that written?" Hawke asked in pretend-outrage.
"I agree," Anders said. "Now either shut up or tell me what it is you want me to do."
"Well that seems within reas- …alright, alright, I'll stop… more because I'm in a dark lonely mansion and very close to a cellar I don't want to get locked in if your spirit friend loses his temper again on me."
"I'm happy to see you be so reasonable for once," Anders said. "Mind telling me what your crazy mind is up to now?"
Hawke grinned evilly. "Well… it can't be called a progressive dinner without having the actual progressive in it now, can it?"
Anders frowned and appeared to have only partly got what she meant. He didn't get time to decipher her plan, because Hawke stepped towards him with a fiercely resolute face that made him pace back a few steps as she said, "And I hope this goes without saying and if it's not clear then may the Maker have mercy upon both of you because I sure will not –you, dear Witch Doctor, were never here." She waved in a dismissive gesture. "Whatever. Neither of you."
Soon to be Evening, Hawke's Estate
When Hawke arrived in the hallway, she could see Leandra arranging the silver plates on the table now adorned with a fine dark red silken cover and little candles around small ornamental flowers of white, blue and violet. Isabela and Merrill had already been seated at the table exchanging glances because Isabela was trying not to play with the cutlery in front of her mother. Merrill had apparently been corrupted, because she ditched the dark green robes for a still green, but never the less, normal shirt with black buttons and what could Hawke guess where black pants under the table. Isabela in turn ditched the old dress and all the studs for a white blouse with little white lace embroderies on the longsleeves, not very indescent at all actually, and dark red pants. Goodie.. Leandra was already wearing a light blue silk shirt and matching long skirt with white pearls around her neck. Anders had gone back to change. If he came back in yellow they wouldn't be far from making up all the colors of the rainbow.
"There you are," came Aveline's voice from behind her. She had just come in after her.
"Hey, oh… well hello Guard Captain," Hawke said in an alluring voice as she sized her up.
But whatever little compliment that was about to escape her lips was cut off by Aveline becoming pale and her expression quickly shifting to the historical designs of a particular scorn. "You've got to be kidding me," Aveline said angrily while appearing to look past her.
As Hawke turned around, the object of Aveline's particular scorn had become clear. And why the scorn seemed to be tripled up in a flash of a second. Isabela was standing in the hallway with the same despicable look. She and Aveline… somehow had the same white blouse – a blouse which seemed much too decent for Isabela and in turn, way too fancy for Aveline's arguably non-existing closet. As the women kept shooting murderous glances at each other through Hawke –and she could swear she felt the sharp blades darting through her as they did – she smiled very crookedly and said, "You… both look…"
"Of all the blouses in the world, how in the Void did you manage to get the same one I did? Wait, what am I saying? How did you even get to wear something that doesn't have metal or dull in it?" Isabela asked while crossing her arms.
"How did you manage to wear something that doesn't cleave all the way down to your bellybutton?" Aveline asked sharply.
"Well, seems to me we both enjoy wearing something fancy when we're off work," Isabela said.
"Well you do work on commission," Aveline said subtly. "Good to see you stepping up the ladder from Lowtown to Hightown tramp."
"Poor blouse," Isabela said nonchalantly. "All suffocating from your man arms."
"At least my muscles stay up in place," Aveline stung back calmly.
"Alright ladies, enough friendly fire," Hawke intervened with palms raised towards each of them. "Well, more friendly, less fire anyway. Go on, off you go."
This was going to be a nightmare without her even causing it this time. She was comforted by the thought that at least she wasn't going to be alone in the poorly dressed for the occasion domain as long as Fenris was around. And where in blazes was he anyway?
But that question became evermore powered by the "blazes" in it. And she who had been advancing towards the upper floor saw him suddenly and came to a halt. She looked at him only for a second and resumed to her walking, but then her eyes widened and she looked again –stared more like it –when the whole image came alarming and blazing in the sanctum of her reason. She stopped and checked her eyes twice as he came to her, because she could swear he was wearing a white shirt with the collars out, with some leaf necklace around his neck and a black girdle tied neatly by a belt. H wore a deep black frock coat over it, not at all flamboyant, rather just simple and elegant. And shoes, he was wearing shoes.
"Fenris..." she drawled. She forgot where she was. Did she forget to do the napkins? Where was that vintage bottle of Perrier-Jouët-something? … Where did – Maker, he was stunning. Not in an extravagant or garish way, but it caught the eye either way. The simple fact of it was utterly arresting. He looked like a comely, patient creature and his green eyes and white hair seemed even brighter now together with the simplicity of the black frock and white shirt. And just to make the idea cease in anyone's head that this was some perfectly elegant attire, there came the dark leaf chain to take it away. He was never one to dress up, and he was never one to look like some young lord. Fenris was comely and somewhat in a way elegant by nature, and he appeared so from the way he spoke, well-mannered and tactful, and from his calm, peaceful demeanour either when fighting or simply walking about. But nothing of what he wore ever screamed these things, in fact they did quite the opposite. He was to be feared and to be avoided, his clothes said. The fact that he didn't cover his markings rested the case even more. And it did him good, to appear so dark and unconquerable, cold and downright dangerous-looking. But in his new attire that invincible mask of warfare was almost completely struck away. It coated him in simple handsomeness. It gave him the air of fine, somewhat baffling masculinity he inevitably had, but was too hazed out by all his other attributes that attuned to his dominance. The only thing to give him away was the faint traces of his markings on his hands. But never mind those. They were hardly noticeable considering everything else.
His face was as seemingly inanimate as a statue next to the flames, except for two brilliant green eyes that now seemed very much alight. You could say they burned with incandescence like glass in the flicker of the lights. Perhaps it was because of the raw black and white on him, as opposed to his quickly withering, ever greying armour that gave the impression that he was covered in the dust of his own melancholy. Only a slight wrinkling of the tender flesh around his eyes betrayed his age. He was fine of build and proportion and that clear-cut slimness of the coat gave him a sharp, sensual angularity. There was something indeed elegant about him, distinguished by his grace and the imperturbable calm of his face. Never mind the attire. But he did what any arguably self-respecting man that spent hours covered in flour and the smell of utter exasperation could do – he yielded at her mother's expectable insistency to dress up. But he didn't seem to feel vexed with his current state. No, he was displaying choice. Instead of concealed irritation, she spotted a tracery of a contained little pride. But there was no kind of relentless vanity across the lids of his eyes, the smooth rise of his forehead, no. Those green eyes burned with a silent tranquillity that seemed devoid of any self-importance. Rather an awful humbleness, entirely barren – however ironically in his attire – of some vanity that said, "See what I am!"
And there seemed nothing despondent about him; even his handsome features and white hair became the attributes of some kind of terrible angel who shared with the rest of the world only a superficial resemblance. The coat was a mirage. And though she felt drawn to him in this perplexing outfit, it succeeded to shatter away any conception that she liked him for his looks, be them elfish, warrior-like, handsome or at present, also elegant. She was simply drawn to the earnestness and power of will that his soul exuded in the outer world for her to catch, more than any other creature. And even more, she saw beyond this very effigy of composure. She saw him smile, she saw him laugh, once almost to tears although it was at her and not with her, and she felt his warmth and his remarkable passion. She witnessed moments when he seemed perfectly happy. This was the man who broke into laughter at her joke about wondering how giraffes threw up when everyone else just looked at her strangely. And remembering all of that, it suddenly felt like the most eloquent of gestures to wrap herself around him and tell him he was handsome. It felt natural that she should do this. She tried to hold that thought for later and regain her wits for now.
But she felt her spirit contract in shock and question, and in longing. She saw him, saw his extraordinary aura and yet again she was reminded that Fenris was a creature more different than anyone she'd ever known. And yet again she was reduced to nothing. That ego of the warrior which could not accept the presence of a powerful and entrancing being in its midst was crushed. All her conceptions, even the guilt in her stomach and the faces that haunted her from the past, seemed utterly unimportant. She completely forgot herself!
And somewhere down that chain of thought, it occurred to her that maybe this was a good time to stop staring at him.
"Hawke," he said flatly, his green eyes sharp and focused, his mouth lengthening in a faint cunning smile.
"Holy Hell…" she said out loud without intention.
His eyes fixed on her for a second, then he shrugged in nonchalance and coldly said, "More or less."
"I…"
"You…?"
"I… seem… seem to have lost my train of thought," she said and quickly pointed behind him. "Oh there it is, upstairs, yes. I should go catch it… right… right now."
As soon as she walked past him with a powerful urgency, his voice stopped her in place. Bah, his stupid deep enchanting voice. "Hawke," he said.
"I'll be down in a … in a minute, don't wait on me!" she drawled cheerfully and took off again.
"Haven't you… forgotten something?" Fenris asked calmly.
She turned around and almost stumbled on her feet. He came closer and it finally dawned on her that everyone else was gone in some other room, damn him to hell. She rubbed the back of her arms and asked, "What would that be?"
"Nothing comes to mind, Hawke?" Fenris asked while containing his smile.
"Nothing is my mi- … I mean," she drawled and pressed her eyes to concentrate, then regained her wits. "No, nothing comes to mind." Alright, it could be argued what it meant for her to regain one's wits at the moment.
"Are you certain?" he asked. A most alluring grin came upon his face as he finally stopped in front of her. What was he doing? Her eyes simply remained fixed on him for a few seconds too many and she still couldn't find one lonely thought wandering ineptly in the ancient and forgotten sanctuary that was now her mind. His voice came back to snap her into reality, "Nothing… seems unordinary to you?"
"No, nothing, nothing at all," Hawke said quickly and she glanced over the room. "The table is done, dinner is almost ready, I made sure we have all variety of liquor and the napkins are fine. Well, if half-dying swans with their necks snapped counts as fine, that is."
"And there's nothing missing?" Fenris asked calmly. He mused, his right fingers slightly curled beneath his chin, the first finger appearing to lightly stroke it. "No one…?"
"No, everybody's… oh…oh...OH," she said. Her eyes widened and she felt like a thunder rolled up above her head and right into that ancient catacomb filled with dusty cobwebs that was her mind. She put her hands in her head. "I FORGOT VARRIC!"
After she got Varric, Back at Hawke's Estate
"Holy Mother of F- Fabulous Cheeses," Varric exclaimed as he saw the room and everyone in it, including Leandra and her cunning smile that said there was no need to refrain from his general cursing.
"Smooth," Hawke whispered down to him. "I thought I'd blind fold you and make you think you were kidnapped by the Coterie to take my revenge on your own big idea for my name day but," she paused and grinned proudly, "how fortunate that I am not aswicked and immoral."
"Which is cocky talk for 'I wanted to but they didn't let me'," Varric said confidently while winking at her.
"Yep," Hawke said and pressed her lips childishly.
Varric came amused and smiling at everyone. He wore a red shirt with a black coat and dark gloves. Only a bigass ring and a cigar was missing. "Look at you all, you're… Andraste's ass- astonishing effigy…" He looked at Fenris and snorted. "Or should I say astonishing elfigy?"
Fenris rolled his eyes and shook his head. "That is the poorest pun you've ever made, Varric."
"Interesting," Varric said sweetly. "You sound just as arrogant and grouchy in pretentious clothes as you do in your old ugly armour." He grinned widely. "I wonder what that tells us."
Fenris smirked shortly and crossed his arms as he mused back, "That I certainly look good in everything."
"T-yeah you-" Hawke muttered but paused quickly as everyone was looking at her. "Wow is that a swallow nest on the ceiling?" She took off to the upper level as she shouted a bit too loudly, "Told you I'd find a use for those projectile sprouts!"
The others sat down and dived right into the orange duck thing with rosemary sauce. Leandra suggested women sat down on one side of the table and men on the other, with Varric at the head of the table of course. It wasn't long before Anders showed up too and yet again, another fancy freakshow of nature was born. He wore a dark blue cravat shirt and he kept his hair up more neatly like a genuine aristocrat. No one would have guessed he was the poor apostate from Darktown running the shady clinic with the lit lantern.
"What the…" Varric exclaimed. "Where'd you get that kind of money, Blondie?"
"I'm not entirely poor, Varric," Anders said.
"Well, you're not entirely loaded for that shirt either, Monserre Beaufort," Varric said in amusement. He looked at Leandra and asked innocently, "Did I get that right?"
"That would be Monsieur, but it sounded more charming the way you said it," Leandra said between chuckles. "Please Anders, take a seat."
He took a seat. Oh yes, he did. The only one left on the men's side. The last seat next to the last person he would have wanted to be near. From the cold glances and awkward coughing masking away the heavy vault of loathing, the feeling was entirely mutual.
"So…" Varric started all-grinning. "Did the Senechal pay you another one of those private visits by any chance?" Anders frowned. Fenris snorted. Anders redirected his frown. Varric was most amused. "Emphasis on the pay?"
This was the most difficult setting for everyone to expressly state their irritated opinions to one another, which for Varric was a great chance to see how tactful they could be at converting all the mean or graphic words –that usually escaped their lips with the vastest most uncensored urgency – into courteous passive aggressive lines of nonchalance. Oh, is this what Orlais was like, Varric wondered. If it was, he would like it. For a day or two. Not with Hawke around. She'd set the royal palace on fire if she could. He sighed within and wondered what was taking her so long.
"Anders, I have to ask," Leandra started suddenly. "How is the training going? I couldn't get a word out of her."
"That seems strongly open for interpretation," Varric said in amusement. "Is the student giving the teacher a hard time or is it the other way around?"
Anders shook his head and sighed. That was hardly open for interpretation. "It's going rather well," he said vaguely.
"Whatever she says or shows, don't buy it," Leandra said in amusement. "She is excellent, even if a battalion of angry berserkers wouldn't bring her to show it."
"Oh she is, and yes, she worked hard on not showing it," Anders said with a bit of edge to his tone. "Maker knows she can turn any great master into looking like a fool to get her way."
"She had a good teacher," Leandra said with a smile. "Like father, like daughter."
"There are some branches even I don't master quite as well," Anders said. "Maker knows I su- sulk at the thought that I'm rather bad in entropy."
"How come?" Merrill asked in confusion. "It's not some ancient sorcery. I mean, it is, but," she drawled. "There's not much to it short of directing a spell towards the other's brain."
"I'm not very good with manipulation of the nervous system," Anders said. "I'm more of a –"
Fenris snorted quietly. Anders gave him a grouchy look and asked, "Is there something you want to share, Fenris?"
He tried not to laugh, so he coughed shortly and resumed with a contained smile as he took his glass up, "Oh no, pay me no need." He took a sip and added, "I wouldn't want to upset your nervous system."
Anders's eyes tightened towards him as he said, "Can you spell it out for me then?"
"I can," Fenris said flatly and took another sip. "But I do not wish to."
"So… back to Hawke," Varric intervened. "By the way, where is she?"
"I made her change out of those awful town clothes," Leandra said happily.
"Good call, Mrs Hawke," Isabela said all-smiling. "I had to kick her bag in the bath tub to put on a dress."
"How very predictably controlling of you," Aveline said grumpily while eating. What she meant was evil and conniving, but of course, this was converted inside language.
"Well, you know it can get rather boringsometimes, no matter if it's Antiva or Kirkwall," Isabela said nonchalantly. Of course that was code for Aveline being boring.
"Please, call me Leandra," she said. "Mrs Hawke makes me sound old, even if it's undeniably true."
"For shame that you would say that, my lady!" Varric exclaimed charmingly. He raised his glass of pretentious Orlesian wine. "And even if you think so," he paused and gestured at the glass, "I always say women age like fine wine, just as much in wisdom as they do in beauty."
"Do you say that to all the ancient broads you haggle with, Varric?" Leandra asked in amusement. He was about to quickly save it, but she never ceased to surprise everybody with her open-mindedness. "Because if you do, keep it going. You're doing excellent at flattering."
"That's because I never say anything if I don't mean it," Varric said proudly and raised his glass again. "To you, Leandra! The most beautiful noble woman in Kirkwall by far!"
"Oh, well I won't argue with that," Leandra said in pretend-arrogance and drank away as everyone did. Or perhaps she agreed that at least in Kirkwall, this could easily be so. Fenris was always amused when she did that. Despite the colossal differences that separated her and Hawke, there was so much of her mother in her if one looked and listened closely. They were both strong of will and modest at heart, and in so they would always look charming when they joked around in pretended self-importance, the kind that they would never truly allow themselves to have. And no matter how much subtle importance they gave to Malcolm Hawke for the upkeep and protection of their family, Hawke and her mother had probably both done their share of good work in the same domain. As she said, battalions of angry berserkers could never take them down when they set a goal in mind.
"Speaking of, have you heard one of the Countess's daughters was thrown in prison the other night?" Varric asked Leandra.
"Babette… yes," Leandra said with a sigh. "I saw her going at her hearing when I went by the Keep to drop off the second petition my darling daughter issued against the Viscount."
"What did she do? Babette I mean?" Varric asked eagerly. "Did she, pardon my Orlesian, take a leak on the Keep's walls while drunk aga-"
"Second petition?" Fenris quickly interrupted with an edge to his voice.
"Yes," Leandra said with a sigh, then looked at Fenris, "And yes."
"May I ask in regards to what?" Fenris pressed calmly.
Leandra rolled her eyes and smiled. "To take down the iron spikes in Lowtown. She had signatures and all, spent two days going from door to door to get them." She chuckled and shook her head and fixed her eyes on Varric and Fenris next to him at the edge of the table. "Remember that little Ferelden boy who used to work for that evil smuggler? The one she and you two chipped in to send him back home all those years ago?"
"Of course," Varric said confidently. "Best five sovereigns I've ever given while I was already tight on money."
"He sent her a letter telling her he was taken in by a nice noble lady to work the farm and fields," Leandra said. "She had the nice lady edit his written testimony that he and his little sister fell on those spikes and were almost injured to death."
"Holy sh-enanigans, is that even admissible?" Varric asked with a raised eyebrow.
"In front of the court? Yes," Aveline intervened. "Getting it there through a magistrate that actually cares is the tricky part. Having noble roots… does help."
"And saving the Viscount's son," Varric added proudly. Fenris gave him a sharp look. He didn't get it.
"Isn't it dangerous to get involved in human politics though?" Merrill asked in alarm. "I mean considering –"
"Not if she keeps an impeccable image," Anders said. "Which is… arguably not that impeccable, right?"
"For shame," Varric intervened confidently. "She's helped the city more than –" He stopped because he was looking at Aveline and she gave him a murderous look that warned him to watch what he was going to say next. "… ahem, the other nobles ever have."
"Regardless, all it takes is one slip," Fenris said sharply and looked at Varric again with insistence. "Of the tongue that is."
"That grumpy old magistrate has no idea, elf," Varric said with an edge to his tone.
"Magistrate?" Leandra asked in alarm. She sighed and asked, "What did she do this time?"
"Oh nothing…" Varric said while awkwardly scratching the back of his head. "Suffice is to say she did Kirkwall a huge favor."
"We killed his possessed…psychotic… mage son," Fenris cut him a bit angrily. Anders snorted mockingly, but Fenris completely ignored him and continued, "In good reason of course, he was a fugitive prisoner and a rapist." He looked back sharply at Varric. "But that's enough for his father to oppose any of Hawke's noble attempts to battle the system."
"Have a little faith, Fenris," Anders intervened with an all-knowing grin. "Hawke does and she seems to be alive and well. But I'm sure her strong compassion is something rather difficult for you to understand."
"I understand compassion just fine, ma- Anders," Fenris said while tightening his eyes on him. "But open assaults however compassionate go hand in hand with drawing needless attention and inevitable danger."
"And when she's Viscount you'll be taking that statement and shove it up your… arsenal of futile reasons to lay low and look the other way, like most of the world does," Anders said confidently and took a sip of pride. Of course that was code for being remarkably inconsiderate given his predicament.
But Fenris didn't even care to get his subtleties. He was too busy yielding at his resistance to contain his awful scowl at Anders's latest overly absurd statement. He remained speechless for a second with his angry glance. Then he looked away and said, "Preposterous."
"A mage on the throne?" Anders said nonchalantly and drank away. "You'd be surprised how many got away with it. She wouldn't be the first and she certainly won't be the last."
"No," Fenris said sharply and put his glass down on the table.
"No?" Anders asked all-grinning.
"No as in it's preposterous to think Hawke would ever strive for such things," Fenris replied decisively. He didn't even think it in the way of Tevinter ruling.
"Seconded," Aveline said calmly.
"Third…-ed," Varric added just as calmly.
Leandra had already excused herself in the meantime to check on the lamb shanks, so Isabela intervened, "Really?" She shook her head grinning to no end. "You think she wouldn't take the chance if there was no other way to save all the," she paused and turned her tone to mockery while gesturing to the sky, "all the poor, all the oppressed and all the utterly damned?"
"And in what fantastical world would it be that there was no chance to save the needy other than Hawke becoming some kind of political ruler?" Fenris asked with an edge.
"The world is full of wonders, Fenris," Anders said in calm mockery. "I know I'd certainly take it if it meant saving innocents."
"Oh, shut up, mage," Fenris said cuttingly. "The only reason you would do it is to save your precious oppressed mages from the Circle. Your reasons are not noble."
"And aren't those people innocent too?" Anders asked, taking sips of happy nonchalance.
"How remarkably logical of you to point out," Fenris said sarcastically and took a sip of wine. "Sadly, they're the only ones who are innocent in your eyes." He put the glass down decisively and fixed his eyes on him. "Which makes your reasons in fact selfish –precisely because you put such stock in the selection of those you want to save." Then he paused to raise a mocking eyebrow. "Justice is not so blind with you, is it?"
"Justice may not be, but you two are," Varric said grumpily and looked straight up ahead. "I bet 'Hawke to the rescue' is awfully redundant at this point."
Fenris shook his head and drank away again. "I don't know about redundant, but it is certainly annoying."
"It really is, isn't it?" came a voice from behind.
"It really is," Fenris said nonchalantly and resolved to take another sip, without realizing whose voice that was. It took another moment to find that one lost thought and he finally looked behind his shoulder, only to end up choking on his wine.
She was dark and bright at the same time. Standing proud with an elusive smile and looking up at her, she seemed majestically tall and all but enshrined by a voluminous mane of bloody red hair. She wore a black coat with numerous silver buttons that somehow went tighter around the waist and wider down below. It went longer at the back and she wore it open, over a very deep and dark purple satin shirt enclosing at the neck with no collars. It was the first time that he saw Hawke wear a shirt stuffed in her pants. And the dark pants were distinctly tight, revealing the true shape of her strong thighs. Her hips were not visible, but the waist-tight coat going wider thereafter gave her a very attractive angularity. She seemed lost, divorced from reality in all her content. Or maybe that was him. But nothing seemed to have touched her perfect face, which gazed into the light now, as beautiful and finely chiselled as the face of some marble virgin, that hair her haloed veil and those red lips as tempting as ever, but not really polished in some vulgar manner. "Holy Hell," as she said earlier that evening, seemed to make all the sense in the world now. And even so, the most apparently important part for his extremely disobedient brain and wayward eyes turned out to be the flawless outlined the shirt made of her very big and honest soul, as she once said. The deep and eye-catching color of her shirt didn't make it any less arresting, nor did the flashy contrast that it made with her red hair that she wore loose and was cascading down that big and round chest of hers. No, they arrested him alright. Yes, the objects of his attention were enthralling and wicked and to the limit of his understanding, they were cruelly and mercilessly staring at him.
This was worse than a pretty dress.
"If you're going to die in my house, could you at least wait until desert so we could clean all the mess at once?" Hawke asked in amusement at his sudden choking. Sadly, it didn't quite snap him out of his trance until Varric's voice came loud, "He-he-hey, look at the money maker on you, Chuckles." However ironically that the dwarf spoke arguably the same thoughts he tried to keep as hidden as possible, he finally woke up, standing. For no reason. He sat down again quickly and remained calm; at least that's what he was telling himself.
"Oh great, here come the boob jokes," Hawke said and rolled her eyes. "What's next?" She flung her arms forward as she mused, "I must be hunting for treasure, 'cause I'm diggin' your chest?"
Varric snorted and remained all smiles. "I suppose it's a little inappropriate to make the redhead boob joke."
"They're divided by hair color too?" Hawke asked in pretend-amazement. "My, let's hear it."
"There are at least three people in this room who will probably frown big time," Varric said again, all smiles. They all looked at him in silence. He sighed and leaned back in the chair. "Well if you insist… What do you call a redhead with big breasts?"
She lifted her eyebrows and crossed her arms, everyone else waited for his answer. Varric was apparently trying not to snort awkwardly as he said, "An abomination."
To Varric's surprise, Hawke broke into laughter. "I thought you were going to say it was that drunken dwarf, Oghren, but that one's good too."
"Wow, I didn't even think of that," Varric said while staring blankly. "Good thinking, Chuckles, I'll remember that."
"So… Mother thought it would be fun to divide us by gender," Hawke said and took the empty seat Varric saved for her. "How incredibly sexist of her."
"If that were true, then Aveline would be sitting there and Anders would be sitting here," Isabela mused stingingly.
"And if we were divided by the predictability of cheap shots, you'd be sitting all alone on one side," Anders fired back.
"Oh you don't even have to go there. Cheap in itself is just as perfect for a criteria," Aveline said sharply.
"Quick, tell another boob joke before this duck catches on fire from all the tension," Hawke said to Varric.
"Oh, uh… well… Andraste's tits, nothing comes to mind," Varric said sweetly.
"Your puns may sound funny in your head, Varric, but once they escape your mouth, it's just sad," Fenris uttered crossly.
"Shut it, Ser Pretentious Van Der Arrogantus The Third," Varric said confidently. "It's my day and I decide what's funny."
"Hey, I just thought of one," Hawke intervened happily. "The elephant asks the camel one day –"
"How can an elephant hailing from Seheron be put together with a camel that could only reside way farther in the Anderfels?" Fenris cut her.
Hawke pressed her lips in annoyance and looked at Varric. "You forgot to add his middle name, Wiseassus."
"Sorry, I'm still wondering how that was his first question instead of 'How can an elephant even talk?'" Varric said while grinning.
"Touché," Fenris muttered coldly, then gestured to Hawke. "Continue."
"So the elephant asks the camel – 'Why are your breasts on your back?'" Hawke started eagerly and gestured everything. "And the camel says –'Well… I think that's a strange question from somebody whose wiener is on his face.'"
Fenris was the first to break into laughter, because he enjoyed her childish animal jokes by far; and he suspected she already knew that. That train of hidden mutual thoughts did not however help the others in questioning either why Fenris of all people found it funny or how he was even able to laugh.
"Just to make Broody or well, now Lord Broodsworthy even grumpier," Varric started after he finished laughing. "Hawke," he said all-grinning and raised his glass. "To my breast friend in the world."
"Oh, I love you with all my boobs, Varric," Hawke said to join the annoying battalion of puns against Fenris. "I'd have said with all my heart, but my boobs are bigger."
"How charming," Fenris commented calmly with his hand under his chin. "You two are like the plover bird and the crocodile, forming the most disturbing pair of symbiotic friends in all the animal kingdom."
"Now that's an interesting image," Hawke said. "Wait… who's the bird and who's the crocodile?"
Fenris smirked all-knowingly with his eyes fixed on her. "Well… who has the bigger mouth from the two of you?"
"That's easy, it's…wait…" Hawke said and looked at Varric. "That's actually hard to say."
"Plus I'm shorter and therefore smaller than you, Missy," Varric said with a cunning grin. "And thusly whatever sound escapes my mouth is doth much quieter than yours."
Hawke snorted and remained calm. "You know it's the real deal when he starts using 'thusly'."
"Yep, as the Maker is my witness," Varric said in amusement.
"Leave the Maker alone, I'm doing quite the thorough witnessing right here," Isabela mused playfully while looking down at Hawke.
"I think I can hear them crying all the way from here," Anders said while chuckling.
"Avert your eyes … and ears," Hawke protested calmly. "They're kind of like the sun. Alright to look at, dangerous to stare."
"Yeah, imagination is much better in this case," Varric said all-smiling.
"And your imagination," Hawke pressed all-smiling at him too. "All means either physical, mental, magical, spiritual – well, you get it. Now let's drink."
"As you wish," Varric said with a shrug. He then lowered his gaze and became serious for a moment. "I know this day is about me, but," he tried to say, then quickly paused and went pale. "Oh, Leandra! Good that you came back, your timing was perfect." Considering I was about to use that classic flattery of mine for yet another punchline about your daughter's chest and not quite so classily now that I think about it, Varric thought. He raised his glass again and made everyone mirror his gesture. "As I was saying, I know this day is about me, but the fact that you were so thoughtful as to throw me a dinner party obliges me to thank you to eternity. I really feel special now," he said sweetly and pointed at Leandra and Hawke. "Thank you both for taking the time –"
"Yeah, yeah, less thanking, more drinking," Hawke cut him childishly and rushed them all to bump their glasses together.