A/N: Well ello there! So, yeah, I just wanted to say that I went through hell and back for this entry. Haha, not really of course, But it did take FOREVER to finish and to post. Half because I just wasn't feeling out the story well, and the other half because, apparently, fanfiction dot net and my computer weren't seeing eye to eye. So it, like, 2am here on the east coast, and I'm just posting this thing now.

The word this movement was beauty, and I took an interesting path with this, because my brain goes to weird places, and this time it went to: "I wonder if F!Hawke thought she was too much of a tomboy?" Then WHAM-this thing! This entry should be classified as F!RogueHawke/Fenris fluff. I'm kinda a closet Billy Joel fan (not so much now XD), which means I knew immediately what song I wanted to use.

I made Fenris kinda pervy in this (because I personally think he is perverted, judging from all his flirting in the game, he just does it when he and Hawke are alone), so I hope no one minds me winding in that direction. I think I stayed true to the character Fenris speaks only one word of Arcanum/Tevinter in this (several times, though), and I used Latin instead of the real language. There's not much to go on for the language (even after reading up on it on the DA wiki) and I don't understand linguistic jargon, so I figured I'd try something Google Translate could help me with. XP

Also, there is a scene where Hawke and Fenris get a lil' frisky, but it's NOT A LEMON. I don't write graphic sex, I'm not comfortable with it, and this is the closest I've ever gotten to anything like it. It's just a little snippet of sensuality, nothing more.

Please, please, PLEASE review! I do want to know if I'm just not getting it, and any help would be appreciated!

Enjoy! ;)

Third Movement: Beauty

"I'll take you just the way you are.
Don't go trying some new fashion.
Don't change the color of your hair.
You always have my unspoken passion.
Although, I might not seem to care."

- Billy Joel, "Just The Way You Are"

Hawke raked her fingers through the snarls in her hair that morning instead of taking a brush to them. Trifling wish such niceties when she had been unsuccessful waking up on time to drop by the Comte and Comtesse to find that blasted mage boy of theirs for the Knight-Commander was squandering time that couldn't afford to be squandered. As a replacement for of bathing, Hawke hurriedly splashed some of the expensive lilac-scented perfume that her mother had given her for her birthday during the year she had reclaimed the Amell mansion on her neck, arms and even some just between her cleavage, but that was mostly to help the armor, which she had forgotten to clean, smell less like sweat and more like flowers.

It failed miserably. But Hawke couldn't dawdle.

As soon as she was fully dressed and armed, Hawke dashed towards the stairs, sliding down the banister (a cute trick Isabela had taught her), for she had no patience to use the steps. Late didn't even begin to describe how badly she had missed her appointment with the de Launcets, and she was certain that the Orlesian nobles would rather slam the door in her face than talk to her, let alone confess any information about their newly appointed apostate son Emile. But she couldn't forgo trying. She didn't like Meredith as much as the next person, by the tyrant of a Templar leader had been right that these mages could be dangerous, and she, if not killing them, had to distinguish whether or not they were as daring as the Knight-Commander claimed.

And she knew nothing of any of them, her punctuality threatening to cement her cluelessness about Emile de Launcet.

Bodahn, her kindly, self-appointed dwarven manservant, was standing by the fireplace that he loved ever so much with a glinting silver tray garnished with an array of foodstuffs. He was standing straighter than an arrow, a jolly sparkle in both of his grey eyes.

"I'm sorry, Bodahn, but I'm afraid—"

"Oh, I'm quite aware, Messare," Bodahn chuckled in a way that reminded Hawke of a grandfather; it melted her heart. "You slept like a rock last night! I imagine you were exhausted dealing with those Antivan assassins yesterday."

Irritation nipped zealously at her. If he had known she was sleeping in, why in the name of Andraste had he not wondered or checked to see if she had any engagements to keep? Taking a profound breath, Hawke tried to dispel her ire. It was her robust ignominy and nothing else. Pointing the blame on Bodahn wasn't fair to him. She was an adult; she'd been on her own for three years now. It was her job to wake herself up, to remember her appointments, to keep herself punctual, not Bodahn's.

"I'm afraid I did," Hawke grabbed at the cold piece of toast on the plate in Bodahn's grasp. "Too much, in fact, and now I'm running very late."

"Yes, Messare Fenris seemed to be in a hurry when he arrived here this morning."

Hawke arrested mid-bite. "Fenris is here? In the mansion? Right now?"

Bodahn smiled impishly. "He was very insistent that he see you, Serah, but I persuaded him to let you sleep. He's quite taken with you, isn't he?"

Hawke couldn't help but blush at that. "It would seem so. Thank you for the breakfast, Bodahn, I'm so sorry I couldn't enjoy it. I promise that I will repay you by cooking for you tomorrow. I can't promise that it won't be partially burnt, however."

Bodahn's eyes widened, as though Hawke had told him nugs could fly. "Oh, no, Messare, there's no need for that. I'm happy to be of service to you and your fine home. And Sandal as well, isn't that right, m'boy?"

Sandal, who had previously had his finger shoved far up his nose, regarded his father, and, without removing it, said: "I like Hawke."

"Just so." Bodahn nodded encouragingly at his son.

Hawke let a grin shape her face. Bodahn taking care of her, Fenris waiting in the other room, Sandal…being Sandal. It almost made her forget that she was in huge trouble and that suspected blood mages were wreaking havoc in Kirkwall.

Almost.

Hawke took one bite out of the cold bread, chewing emphatically. It actually didn't taste as bad as she thought it would. With benevolence, she gave one last wave to her dwarven companions before heading out into the main hall that led to her front door. As soon as she had crossed the archway, the sight of Fenris, her handsome elven lover and dearest friend, filled her vision and sharpened her breathing. He was always such a wonderful sight to behold, especially after a night when he declined to stay. Lissome with a chiseled jaw, smoldering eyes, a voice like alabaster and a kiss sweeter than cream. He was sitting immobile and straight, his head resting against the wall and his eyes were shut tight. That made Hawke's lips purse. Was he tired? Or meditating? Fenris didn't meditate…did he?

'Only one way to find out.'

"Hello, stranger," she said seductively, after she had swallowed her mouthful of crispy bread.

At the sound of her words, the former slave's eyes burst open like moonflowers at midnight, and he flew right out of his seat to stand at her side. Fenris was smiling now, adoration spilling out of him like mana from a casting mage. A hand reached out to cup her face, and she permitted it, his touch sending a remedial energy into her, coursing through her blood, waylaying the trepidation she had felt mere seconds earlier. With all the care in the world, he pressed his soft lips to the corner of her mouth; a kiss feather light, but it was enough to send chills to the tips of every strand of her white-gold hair.

"You are behind schedule, carissimi. And you smell delightful; like flowers…"

"I better," she winked. "I put on a tincture of lilac; a gift from my mother."

Fenris head tilted; he was so cute when he looked curious.

"Why? Is there some special occasion?"

"Well, if you consider not wanting to smell like dirt special, then yes."

Fenris sniffed once, then twice.

"The Hanged Man smells of dirt. You do not, Hawke."

Hawke waved off his comment. "I appreciate the sentiment. This armor needs a washing, but, as you so cleverly pointed out, I couldn't be later for our chat with the de Launcets. So I suppose this will have to do."

Fenris snorted, allowing his smirk to restore. "Insist what you will, carissimi, but I smell nothing but your skin and your lilacs."

"By the way," Hawke pointed at him with her toast-hand. "What are you calling me?"

"You are speaking of the name?" Fenris said matter-of-factly, his arms stiff at his sides. "Carissimi. It is Arcanum for 'beloved'."

"How sweet," Hawke tried to appear lighthearted, but the butterflies in her stomach fluttered with an increased speed at the knowledge of her new pet name. "And here I thought you were calling me lazy."

"Ah," Fenris chuckled darkly, "Shall I then? But, I must warn you, if names are fair game, then I will have to call you variants of snide, overly-trusting and easily-distracted as well."

Try as she might to make a witty counter, the sound of his voice coupled with the devil-may-care stare he gave her made her legs feel like jelly. How in Thedas had she sanctioned him to seize this much control over her? She must have done it without realizing it. Mother mentioned something similar about love once when she was in Lothering; when Kirkwall was not home. How it sneaks up on you when you least expect it, and that once you had been caught in its snare, you would never be able to free yourself. Yes, this must be what she had implied.

"Oh, you wound me," Hawke placed a gentle hand over her heart, endeavoring to retort. "Now you must teach me Arcanum for stoic and moody."

"If you see me as stoic and moody, it has not stopped you from running into my arms." Fenris began to make his way towards the exit of her home, grin flaring.

At least he was attempting to keep her on track.

Hawke followed suit, opening the door for the both of them as they shuffled out into the busy streets of Kirkwall. Bloated, clumpy clouds hovered high in the blue sky, moving at a snail's pace to try and block the sun. They were not torrential in nature; none of them had any traces of darkness. A thin breeze drifted through the masses of people and thick stone, giving the normally fetid air a comforting freshness. It was strong enough to tousle Fenris' glowing tresses, causing them to flop in a very attractive manner around his head and face. It made Hawke want to curl her toes in her boots.

"You didn't seem to mind my crawling back," Hawke whispered when she closed the gap between them, taking his arm and decided that he would escort her to the rest of their gang of rebels.

He leaned into her as they walked, lips grazing her ear and sending shivers to the top and bottom of her spine.

"There is no place I'd rather have you."

Hawke bit her lip to keep from giggling like a silly girl. For her to be this capricious was completely out of character. Even in Lothering during the height of her youth, she could never recall a stint where a boy had made her want to giggle, or even blush for that matter. But, then again, there had not been any boy or man she had ever met that could hold a candle to Fenris. He was reserved, yet passionate. Patient, yet excitable. Harsh, yet understanding. Perfection, she decided. It was perfection, if the word ever had merit.

Hawke looked up from gazing at their feet stepping in synchronization to see where he had taken her. To her relief, they had not gone too far. Fenris hadn't been wrong, she was a bit too easily distracted, and they only way to remedy that was to force herself to focus, though it was much more difficult to do so when Fenris was in such a close proximity. All she really wanted to do right now was to talk to him. Kiss him, if he would let her. Beyond that, if she could convince him to abscond to one of their mansions with her. How she craved to run her hands through the soft mound of his hair, take in the wild aroma of his skin…

Focus was slipping from her nevertheless.

Hawke gave her head a light shake and assessed her surroundings. They were already in front of the cold, hard steps that lead to the de Launcet's Kirkwall estate. Her eyes meandered up them, and found Isabela and Anders, both standing at the top of the broad staircase, and they didn't notice Hawke and Fenris approaching. Anders was waist deep in a story from his days as a Warden in Amaranthine, though only a few words were able to make it to her ears, none of which made any sense. Isabela, in spite of this, was quite enamored with the story, as she would interrupt the blond apostate every sentence or so to make a pensive inquiry.

It didn't take her long to catch a glimpse of them approaching however. Isabela greeted the both of them with a warped wave, but her mouth twisted into a rascally bow at the sight of them together, though Hawke was confused as to why.

"Well, now," She leaned towards Anders, who had no emotion on his face. "Don't they adorable arm in arm?"

Hawke and Fenris stiffened. They glanced downward, saw both Hawke's arms wrapped caringly about his left, let their eyes dart to each other's faces, blushed profusely and skittered about half a foot apart from each other. Hawke rubbed the flipside of her head in a sheepish fashion, while Fenris kept his eyes away from Isabela and Anders.

Isabela giggled at their discomposure; Anders rolled his eyes, though, like Hawke and Fenris, there was a red color dusting his cheeks, albeit faintly.

"So, now that were all feeling awkward, what do you say we barge in there? They are Orlesian, you know. If we're lucky, we'll get really exotic food and maybe get to romp with some of them."

"Is that always the first thought that comes to your mind when we meet new people?" Hawke asked with an ambiguous layer of seriousness. "'Maybe if they like us enough we can bed some of them?' "

"Not every time!" Isabela defended herself, an amused smile on her face. "Just the majority of it."

Hawke laughed. Fenris grunted in disapproval. Anders pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Let's just hurry this up," Anders sighed, eyeing the blue and white sky wistfully. "Today would have been a good day to just take a walk along the coast."

"I would not oppose that idea," Hawke held her hands up. "I'm late enough as it is. If my guess about how this will go is correct, we'll be here for five minutes and then we can all go. Maybe even have a picnic!"

"I'd rather not sit through you and Fenris making puppy eyes at each other while you feed him grapes with his head in your lap." Isabela taunted, examining her nails.

"I second that," Anders folded his arms.

Fenris placed a thumb and forefinger on his chin. "I am suddenly famished. And tired. Hawke, I agree to this picnic. I will go and buy grapes from the grocers in Kirkwall."

Fenris' tongue-in-cheek approach elated her. She wanted to get this mess with the Comte and Comtesse out of her hair, however, so she took charge of the group by walking up the stairs to the home of the de Launcets, knocking with speed and power on the door to their Kirkwall manor.

"Won't that be a little expensive, Fenris? There goes all your coin on grapes."

"If you feed them to me as Isabela suggests, then it will be worth it."

Her teeth clamped on her bottom lip for a second time. Could he even fathom the way his words affected her? How they made her drunk on his love, so much so that it would almost make her lose her control in front of so many just so that she could express it to him fully? She established that half the reason why he even agreed to such a ludicrous proposal was to rile up Anders, but she couldn't ignore the sliver of truth concealed in the raillery. It wasn't that he wanted her to feed him or be his servant, it was that he wanted her to treat him like a lover, not a friend. A request that she was willing to comply with, no if's and's or but's about it.

Before she could respond to his statement, a lanky man answered the door. He was human, and Hawke remarked right away that his muddy brown eyes were very close together on his face. It made him seem as though he were flat, making Hawke want to ask him to turn to the side to see if he would vanish. It was definitely a man, but he was not old; Hawke would have bet on age thirty-three. His lips were rather red for a male, and he had a mustache almost as reedy and short as sewing needles. Something about his strange look set her off kilter.

"I-I am the Champion of Kirkwall. I'm here to speak to the Comte or Comtesse. I on official business from the Knight Commander in regards to one Emile de Launcet." Hawke said in her professional voice.

The doorman blinked, and Hawke swore one eye closed faster than the other. "Ah, Messare Hawke. I did hear the Comte mention your name in passing. I'm afraid that he has left for the day, but the Comtesse and her children have not left. Please enter."

Moving as though his knees could not bend, the eccentric servant dragged the door open so that the mansion was completely visible. The four of them shuffled through the threshold, and Hawke let her eyes roam over the abode. It was grandiose; unlike any home she had ever lived in, including the Amell estate; the ceilings were higher, wider, and, at least in the foyer, there were at least three paintings on each wall. Some of landscapes, some of men and women wearing gaudy hats and jewelry, and some of vibrant, abstract shapes. Flowers were set on the tables by the paintings, the color matching their canvas partners. It stank of daisies, cinnamon and strawberries, which was, unexpectedly, repulsive to her.

"I will go speak to the Comtesse. Please remain here, Champion of Kirkwall."

In the same manner, he scurried off into the cavernous recesses of the mansion, but not before being stopped in his tracks by a thin, dark haired woman whose skin appeared as though it hadn't seen the sun in months. There was liveliness in her eyes, but frown lines strewn on her forehead. She was skinny, nowhere near as shapely as herself, but Hawke would be lying if she stated the girl wasn't pretty. She was prim and graceful, and Hawke was a bit envious of that.

"Gerard," the tenor in her voice, added with her accent, was pleasing to the ear. "Who was there at the door?"

Gerard, the odd doorman, motioned to Hawke with a flick of his wrists.

"The Champion of Kirkwall, my lady."

The girl's face fell. "Oh. I see. Well, I suppose I can entertain her until you return. But, please, do hurry Gerard."

Hawke, as quietly as she could, grated her teeth from frustration.

What Hawke assumed to be one of the de Launcet children descended the stairs to meet her at a pace between fast and slow, implicating with a nod to come into the main room of the de Launcet estate. Hawke held one hand up to her companions, expecting they would understand her implications to wait in the vestibule. It must have worked, since not one of them followed. She didn't want them too near, but she did want them in hearing distance.

Hawke, when she was close enough to the girl, bowed courteously.

"You are charming, my lady,"

"Yes," The woman gave her a nod, letting the politeness die.

Hawke compelled a tiny simper.

"Thank you for being kind enough to entertain a guest such as I, Serah…?"

She let the question hang. The pretty girl scrutinized her, and Hawke felt small beneath her gaze. Though Hawke herself was aristocracy, she could not shake the peasant life she had become accustomed to in Lothering. In her youth, she had longed to be a princess or a lady, but, as she aged, she was grateful to her mother for keeping her away from glamor that came with nobility. It gave her character, made her care for fellow men, and it kept her from turning into someone like this pompous Orlesian daughter.

Completely disregarding the inquisition for names, the girl took one step back from Hawke, clasping her own hand and holding them up to her bosom.

"You look positively disheveled."

Hawke clenched her jaw. Of course she had to perceive her bedraggled attire.

"Forgive me, my lady, I—"

"And you smell of chaos."

Hawke blinked at that.

"I-excuse me, I didn't quite catch that, my lady; I smell of what?"

"Cha-os," the de Launcet spoke as if Hawke had asked the question in a different language.

"I wasn't aware chaos had a fragrance," Hawke let her facetiousness get the best of her.

Which was not good.

"Well, you embody it, Andraste as my witness!" the de Launcet huffed. "Are you not an Amell? Nobility?"

"I—"

"And yet you carry yourself as though you were a poor beggar. Do you even know what a mirror is? Your hair is a mess, your clothes are stained with sweat and grime, and you reek of rotten fruit."

Mortification froze Hawke in place.

"You act like a man! You are a woman, and women do not let themselves flounder in filth, Serah. You are the Champion of Kirkwall, and you represent this city in such a slovenly fashion? I'm surprised they haven't implore you to groom yourself hourly, if this is an example of the way you carry yourself!"

Hawke could only gawp at her, eyes the size of dinner plates, each word out of her like a stinging slap to her pride and a cruel cut to her femininity. And her dear friends were hearing every word of it. Hawke dare not steal a peek at them, if she did, she could be impelled to strike this bitch, scream until her lungs deflated, or worse, burst into tears. She wanted to do all of that now, though, if she did, she was certain that it would not be in that order. But it would cause too many problems; not only for her, but for the rest of the de Launcet family and Kirkwall. Standing motionless and absolutely flabbergasted seemed like the safest option.

"It is no wondered you aren't married. No man would find such a brutish woman attractive. I pity you."

Fenris burst into the front of her mind, and Hawke had to plant her feet firmly on the ground to keep from dashing. In her shock, she had forgotten his presence entirely. The one person who she had sought after for so long finally accepted her affections, and now, she was involuntarily driven into this unwarranted reprimand by a girl she could tell was a fair amount of years younger than she, and he wasn't even a yard away. He could hear every venomous word. What was he thinking? Did he agree with this wench? Did he see the slob that the lady saw?

And the next thing she said made Hawke's hard stop.

Under her breath, the de Launcet chided, "Your poor mother must be ashamed."

"You little—!" Isabela snarled from behind her.

If Isabela had heard the girl's ruthless remark, it must not have been as hushed as Hawke originally thought.

But before Isabela could finish her sentence, the servant Gerard reappeared at the top of the stairs, clearing his throat to dismiss the conversation.

"I am sorry, Champion, for the delay. It seems the Comtesse also has business with one of her daughters in an hour, and she cannot see you. She has instructed me to inform you that you should revisit here tomorrow night, and asked that I remind you to be prompt for this appointment, if you would."

The de Launcet daughter snickered. More fodder for her invectives.

"Shall I show our guests out, my lady?"

The girl thrust her chin up at Hawke, regarding Gerard without even looking him in the eye.

"The sooner the better, Gerard, and, please, when she is gone, go find some fresh flowers. This house has a terrible stench."

"As you wish, my lady,"

The de Launcet daughter turned on her heel and disappeared into her domicile, and Hawke bolted when the chance made itself known. She refused Gerard and showed herself to the door. As quickly as her feet could carry her, she flew from the mansion and bounded the stairs in one leap, brushing past her mates, including Fenris, to get back out to the busy Kirkwall street. She could hear Isabela and Anders calling for her to stop fleeing from them, but she only quickened her pace, determined to get home and into a washtub.

And she couldn't bring herself to look at Fenris, not after the humiliation she had just suffered through at the hands of a woman whose name she did not even know. The thought of him looking at her now made Hawke want to crawl into a hole in the ground and under no circumstances resurface, save for food and drink.

As soon as Hawke came to her door, she threw it open with all her strength and practically ran to her bedroom. Bodahn, bright eyed, opened his mouth to say something, but she paid him no heed, hoping that her hair was lengthy enough to hide the furious red on her face. She could intuit that the disturbed was dwarf trying to follow, but she didn't want a soul near her; to see her so disgusting and embarrassed. Powered by such negative emotions, she flung her bedroom door in his face, though her intention was not to, content when it closed with a loud boom. Regret swelled her chest, and she almost reopened it, but there was a commotion on the other side, and she knew that it meant Isabela, Anders and Fenris had caught up with her.

She couldn't even bear to be in the same building as them right now.

Wasting no time, Hawke stripped to her smallclothes, throwing her armor in a pile on the floor by her wardrobe. Her hands were poised to eliminate the rest when she heard voices, somewhat muffled, from behind the door. She listened.

"What a bitch!" Isabela.

"What happened?" Bodahn, and he sounded nervous.

"This Orlesian shrew ripped Hawke to pieces! Said she was dirty, and not the good kind of dirty, either." Isabela explained. Hawke could hear her rage.

"Poor Hawke," Anders, who sounded truly saddened. "She looked horrified. And I don't blame her. I've seen mages treated better than that. Only a few, but I've seen it."

"She had no right to talk like that," Isabela hissed. "She doesn't know half the shit Hawke went through for her. Hawke is the reason why she sleeps safely at night."

"The poor madam," Bodahn wimpered. "It is probably best we leave her be. She seemed angry, not embarrassed, messares. I'm sure she'll come around."

If Fenris was there, he made no sound to prove it, and Hawke was through eavesdropping on their pity. She walked over to her left wall, and opened the door to her washroom. There, using a pump, she filled a wooden washtub of pure, cold water. Gripping a bucket from the corner of the room, she dumped each of the soaps that she owned into the tub and stirred the water around so as to mix the bath concoction. The water was so frigid that it had her shivering, but Hawke didn't care. In fact, she trusted that her sizzling indignity and fury would heat it up better than flint and tinder.

Without a second thought, Hawke discarded the last of her clothes and climbed into the icy water. As steadily as she could, Hawke used a clothed and brusquely washed her whole body with it, leaving red marks all over her pale skin. Once she was satisfied with the cleanliness of her body, worked on her hair, scrubbing it in the water with her hands until she thought her scalp had started to bleed. She spent the next phase of her bath sluicing the inconspicuous parts of her body, like the areas behind her ears and between her toes.

The rest of her time was spent just sitting in the freezing, bubbly water, hoping that just by contact alone, it would scour beneath her skin. As minutes ticked by, the water did not gain any balminess, but lost it, and Hawke began to tremble violently from the absence of heat. That should have been her cue to dry off, but Hawke lacked the spirit to move. She could only think about the events that had played out; that had destroyed her buoyant morning.

Her quivering finger toyed with the mound of soap on the water's surface. Hawke had changed in her life, yes, but it was usually preceded by a major event, unfortunate or the opposite; unfortunate just happened to be the majority. Her behaviors were no pretenses. In Lothering, she had continuously been the type of girl who played with boys in the mud and rain. Hawke had never been afraid of muck and earth like Bethany. Bethany was delicate, apart from her ability to cast magic. Hawke believed it had something to do with her fearlessness, and not once did it ever cross her mind that she would be seen as unfeminine because if it.

Femininity was something that Hawke assumed came naturally to women, but, if that Orlesian girl had any merit to her words, Hawke had been deceived. Was girlishness something to unearth, or was it something to be taught? Wasn't that something she should know, considering her sex? There was no doubt she was a woman, but did she recognize what it meant—could she get her hand around—the concept of womanhood?

Part of being a woman was being attracted to men, and, Fenris as her witness, she knew that she had that. But, no, that didn't sit right with her. A woman could be womanly if they didn't prefer men, she had seen that countless times. Loving and wanting Fenris just meant she found men appealing. Sexual orientation shouldn't have been a piece to the puzzle. But it had pieces. She just couldn't tell where or what they were.

When Hawke saw the skin on her fingertips had been successfully pruned, she gradually lugged herself from the washtub, droplets that hung on her form slithering down to reach the stone under her feat. Carefully, to avoid tripping over the slickness, Hawke tiptoed to pick up a sheet of linen in the corner adjacent to the water pump and wrapped it around her body like a cloak. Leaving the room, Hawke took her hand mirror and a new hairbrush that Merrill had given her, sat in front of her bed, propped the mirror against the end of a bedpost so that she could see her face, and roughly tore through the blond tendrils, wincing when it snagged on a tangle.

She kept on combing the whole lot of painful knots, remembering her mother saying that one hundred strokes a day was the best way to take care of longer hair. Mother. How she missed her. How awful it was that she couldn't identify whether that bitter girl was right or wrong about the way Leandra would view her eldest child now. Many had offered their own thoughts, claiming that she would be the apple of her eye, but there was no way anyone could be sure. Hawke had to go with her gut, and her gut told her that, while her mother would not sojourn her love, she might have mentioned her gnarled hair or her putrid clothing when she walked out the door that day.

And would she rightly be abashed because of that? It was one thing to disenchant Bethany and Carver, but Mother…?

The door opening behind her stole Hawke's interest.

"Am I going to have to teach you how to knock again, Isabela?"

"That is something I've been taught, Hawke," Fenris said resolutely.

Today was just not her day.

Drawing the sheet closer, Hawke asked evenly, "What do you need, Fenris?"

Fenris' eyes avidly roamed over her.

"You look ravishing."

Hawke grimaced and blushed in unison. She turned from her lover to her looking glass, praying he could not see the chill bumps on her skin or the hitching of her breath and resumed to her task.

The soft padding of his feat filled her ears, and she could detect his whereabouts; he was sitting behind her. In one swift movement, he snatched the brush from her hand and placed somewhere out of her reach. His strong arms hauled her onto his lap, sheet and all, and he held her with a kind of tenderness only he seemed to possess.

Fenris offered a genial whisper. "Are you feeling better? You are shaking."

Hawke caught the sight of a hand unsheathed by the white cloth. Sure enough, she couldn't keep it stationary. But it could have been from either the cold or the yearnings clamping potent hands on her vitals.

"Of course." She slightly barked.

"It doesn't sound so, Hawke. Why did you leave like that?"

"You were there, weren't you?" Hawke snapped a tad. "If I stayed there any longer, I was going to eat her in one bite!"

'…Or die of shame…'

Fenris chortled in a low, seductive way.

"I, myself, still hunger. You promised to feed me grapes, no? But I'd much rather you feed them to me like this. It is an acceptable alternative to the Wounded Coast."

"What, with me in your lap?"

"No," he whispered, and she could all but see the smirk playing on his mouth.

He trailed ardent kisses from the rear of her damp ear to her shoulder, pulling back the linen when he ran out of uncovered skin. When he retraced his steps, this time she could feel the invigorating scrape of his teeth on her flesh, every hair on her body standing upright. Desire made her body throb, her vision blur and her thoughts opaque.

"You're warm," Hawke cooed.

"And you are not?" His voice was gruff. Vague. Sexy.

"I bathed in cold water. I can't feel my toes. In fact, I can't feel anything past my knees."

"What possessed you to do that?"

Hawke found the words just flowing. "I thought that girl was right. I thought I was sickening. I was so upset…that I didn't even consider heating the water..."

Fenris was abruptly halted. It reminded Hawke of someone who had slammed into a wall without even seeing it was there.

"What she said truly affected you?"

"You say that as though you're surprised." Hawke twisted her body around to face him.

Fenris' face pinched. "I am."

"I do have feelings, Fenris. I'm not made of stone or rock."

"That I understand. What I do not understand is that you allowed yourself to be influenced by someone whose words mean nothing."

"Fenris," Hawke said puckishly. "You know better than anyone that, while I may look tough on the outside, inside there is a scared, crying little girl trying to get out."

The elf grumbled at that "Sarcasm is not foreign to me, Hawke. You are much more capable then you give yourself credit for."

"Well that bitch did wound my pride, calling me such filthy…" Hawke trailed off, yanking her face away from his. She couldn't lock eyes with him while recalling today's previous events. The ugly mass of suspicion and apprehension would distend in her throat and choke her like a cat that could not expel a fur ball.

Fenris took her by the chin and reversed his love's attention to him. The pale jade in his eyes had darkened to a rich emerald, a color that was reminiscent of the grass that Lothering had when spring would just start to overtake winter. His eyes held springtime, which meant they held blooming flowers and sweet dew; a slim wisp of daybreak fog to give them mystery.

She couldn't resist the hypnotic season in his eyes.

"Why would you believe such slander, carissimi?" Fenris expression softened a fraction. "What could make such false words seem true?"

Hawke hesitated. Honesty would garner one of two possible reactions. Fenris would laugh at her irrationality and discard her petty fears, or he would scoff and convey disappointment in her lack of assurance in her own womanliness. Or she could be wrong, and Fenris would not care a fig for what she felt. Or he could react in a way she hadn't seen at all. He could dumbfound her. Nonetheless, it wasn't something Hawke could avoid answering. She would have to, or he would use his own wily ways to weasel what he wanted out of her. And they were a pair now. If she couldn't have him as her confidant, who would she?

Hawke inhaled.

"…Am I a woman, Fenris?"

Fenris didn't move an inch. Didn't even blink.

A pregnant silence went by. Hawke tried once more.

"Do you think I'm a woman?"

"…Is there a reason why I should not?"

Hawke then realized the impression her questions might have given, so she hastily recanted.

"Do I act womanly?"

"What would your definition of 'womanly' be, Hawke?"

"Being…like an average woman." She authorized the sheet covering her to slip a bit from her shoulders.

"You are certainly lovely," he murmured, one gauntleted finger tracing her shoulder with a feather-light touch.

"Yes, I look like a woman. I have everything a woman's body should have."

One corner of Fenris' mouth twitched up. Hawke's heart spun.

She didn't need to tell him that. He knew. He knew very well.

"I suppose the meaning behind this is to ask you whether or not I act feminine. To me, feminine is…my mother. Bethany. Isabela."

At the sound of Isabela's name, Fenris glowered.

"Isabela is in your list of examples?"

"She's just another woman I know!"

Fenris disregarded her defensive statement. "It appears to me as though you see womanly as being delicate or wearing skin tight clothing. If that is what you mean, Hawke, then, no, you are not womanly."

Hawke's optimism flattened. "Wow. You don't hold back, Fenris."

"Hear me out, Hawke," Fenris held up his hands. "I want to ask you something."

Hawke nodded, hoping this was going in a direction where he would tell her that he loved her even if she was manlike.

"What makes you feel womanly? What makes you glad to be female?"

The steady cogs of Hawke's working mind dallied. That hadn't been something she'd mulled over yet. It was reasonable though. In order to know what it meant to be ladylike, she had to differentiate between what did and did not give her femininity and if she found it pleasing or not. Hawke racked her memory. She felt somewhat womanly at the noble parties she attended once she had earned the title Champion, but that could have been from the decorative, flowing gowns she wore. Girlishness expanded her when she imagined being a mother like her own, but women were given the job to birth a child, that wasn't necessarily a glad sensation. Feminine pride did come when the topic of marriage came up, but somehow it would end with an uneasy rocking in her gut.

And there was Fenris, who…

'…Wait.'

Hawke bit her tongue. How could she be so asinine?

"You," she breathed a faded laughter.

Fenris' brows peaked.

"The womanly feeling that I'm talking about is something you bring out in me. When you say such plucky words. When your eyes pin me with a smolder. When you laugh in that smug way when you beat Varric at cards. When we…"

Hawke's eyes shifted sideways, but backpedaled.

"When we make love. I've never felt more like a woman, more pleased to be a woman then when I'm in your arms. Loving you gives me a rush of euphoria. That feeling must be womanly. That's what I think."

Love poured out from him like twilight through her window. He placed a hard, sleek hand on the side of her head, squashing her wet hair to her skull.

"You honor me," his tone rumbled with amorousness, and he spoke the rest of the sentence in his native vernacular.

"I do think it's rather attractive when you speak in Tevinter, but it would be nice if you could subsequently say it in common."

"I said that you are a star in a dark night. A goddess deigned to walk amongst mortals, and that I am privileged to have earned the devotion of such a being."

Hawke melodramatically fanned herself, yet she could not hide the heat creeping up her neck.

"My goodness, Fenris! Coming on a bit strong there, aren't we?"

"You jest" –Fenris gently pushed her head to the side, displaying the red skin—"but your body does not lie."

The red weaved its way to her ears.

"You have answered your own question, then. In order to be feminine, you must feel as such. And you do. Has your mood changed?"

Hawke gulped. She should feel better, so why the prolonged vexation?

The other misgiving had not been discussed thus far, that's why.

"Do you…"

Fenris waited. "Do I…?"

Hawke skimmed her puckered lips to the side. "This is a very silly question."

"No matter what it is, Hawke, I will answer it."

"Really? Even if it was something as ridiculous as adding two and two?"

"Four." Fenris puffed out his chest proudly, winking.

"Fenris knows basic arithmetic? Check. Now, on to our final question."

"Tell me, and it is done." Fenris held Hawke by her arms.

"Do you think I should…" –Hawke shut her eyes tight—"that I should change? Be more polite, or tidier; wear nicer clothes? Maybe more placid, concerned with my appearances; my hair or my face, for example, or—"

Curtly, Fenris yanked his beloved foreword, almost ripping her out of the flimsy sheet that she wore to cover her nakedness and kissed her, his mouth fitting so flawlessly over her plump red ones. The kiss was deep, pure and superb, and Hawke felt the waves of passion coursing through her muscles with every new oscillation of their lips. The flavor of his mouth was cool and tangy, like lemon and mint; a scrumptious and irresistible combination. Losing herself to the taste, she threw her arms about him, the sheet slumping and exposing her top half. Fenris noticed immediately, and wrapped his arms around her middle, using the free space behind her to take off his protective gauntlets.

Once discarded, he splayed his hands along her bare back, sighing at the splendidness of his skin meeting hers. Hawke shivered upon contact, the lyrium on his palms and fingers vibrating and bringing pleasurable pluses through her entire body. Inch by inch one lyrium lined hand made its way up to her head, and he twined his fingers through the moist, silky strands of her curls. They took no other steps to further the encounter, but they made no endeavors to end it, he lost in her softness while she was lost in his warmth.

Once he parted them, he half muttered, half growled, "Just the way you are, that is what you should be. I yearn to kiss you, to have and hold you because of who you are. You should not change from the Hawke I met many years ago, for that is the Hawke I could not bear to live without."

Hawke's eyes became misty, from adoration and keenness. "Fenris."

"If you were to change, to be someone that you are not, it would break my heart as surely as your death. Though I might not always be forthright with you, you must have some notion that I adore you, do you not?"

Hawke exhaled. "If you didn't, I'd be bothered."

Fenris bobbed his head. "So believe me, then, carissimi. Be true to yourself, and I will adore you forever."

Hawke beamed shyly. Partly due to his candid declarations, and partly because she discovered she had fallen out of the sheet in their lusty crusade. But, above anything, she appreciated Fenris' admirable words. She put her faith in him more than most, so she took his statements seriously and openly. And if he was willing to admit that he had fallen for her and continued to love her because of her authentic personality, then changing would only hinder them both.

She couldn't resist a little teasing, though.

"So that must mean you'll always think I'm the most beautiful girl in the world, hmm?"

Fenris pecked her throat.

"You will always be beautiful, Hawke. Your beauty is not only in flesh, but in spirit."

"You like me on the outside and the inside?"

"To put it simply, yes. I am smitten with your inside and" –Fenris gave her a brief once over—"I'm indeed smitten with your outside."

Hawke, in one swift movement, drew her coverlet up and shielded her chest, her heart thumping so hard in her chest that she swore Fenris could hear it.

"Now then," Fenris removed Hawke from his lap, putting her back to her original spot on the floor. "I will return momentarily."

"Are you going to go get Anders and Isabela?"

"No. They left long ago."

"Oh, no." Hawke frowned. "I'll have to apologize...wait, then where are you going?"

Fenris grinned wickedly.

"For the grapes! How many times must I tell you this?"

Hawke laughed with such gusto that her ribs began to ache.

And, for the first time, she felt she knew what true beauty really was.