The mage had been a part of their household staff for over a week when she stumbled across her mother arguing with the head housekeeper. "No," the elderly woman said. "I don't care. We will not break bread with one of… them! I will leave first! I could find a position with any family in Hightown!"

"Catherine," her mother said, tone soothing, "you've been with us for more than twenty years. You don't mean that!"

"I most certainly do," she said. "It's unnatural and I want no part of it!"

"Fine," Lady Amell sighed. "He can take his meals with us if you find the lad's presence so horrifying. Maker's breath, he's barely more than a boy."

"I don't care," she said. "A mage is a mage, it doesn't matter if they're young or old."

Ah, Leandra thought. She should have expected that would be the reason. Glancing over, she saw a flash of red as someone darted around a corner at the entrance to the servant quarters. Her mother walked over as the housekeeper flounced away. "You heard that, then?"

"I wasn't the only one," she said quietly, inclining her head towards the door.

She sighed. "It is difficult," Elizabeth said, voice barely above a whisper. "I know what the Chantry says, but all I can think of is Revka's girl. I can't blame Catherine, though. I know it's my own sentimentality that keeps me from seeing them for what they are." She shook her head. "They may look like us, but in truth, mages aren't like you or me. We can't forget that." Leandra thought it sounded like her mother was just trying to convince herself. "But… I see no need to shame the boy, it isn't his fault." Raising her voice back to a conversational level, she immediately adopted a more cheerful demeanor. "No matter. He can take his meals with us. I see no reason to have an educated man eat with the maids and stable boys."

And with that it was decided. When the family gathered for meals the mage would join them, sitting at their long table. He rarely spoke, only watching everyone with a slight smile on his face. Leandra was surprised to see, on the rare occasion she caught him looking in her direction, that his eyes were a vibrant blue. She thought that, between those eyes and his shockingly red hair, he would have been the most colorful person in Kirkwall even if he hadn't been wearing bright blue and green robes trimmed with fur.

Perhaps mages had a different standard of attractiveness. Not that he wasn't an attractive man. Leandra actually found herself glancing at him out of the corner of her eye far more than was proper. However, her attempts at enjoying the sight of his eyes, or the way his long hair fell over his collar, were repeatedly thwarted when the garish robes distracted her. Looking over at him once more, she noticed they even had gold embroidery.

Maybe they thought the robes were nice. After all, they only ever saw other mages and templars. He could be looking around wondering why they were all so drab.

She felt something poke her in the arm and looked over just in time to see a long-fingered hand retreating. "The answer is yes," he whispered, not looking up from his plate.

"Pardon?"

"You were wondering if all mages dress like this, or if mages like dressing like this. Something along those lines, right? Probably combined with a few thoughts about how horrible the robes are? Well, the answer is yes." He had, it turned out, a very slight accent. Almost imperceptible, it turned up as only a strange stressing of letters now and again.

"How do you know?"

"I did the same thing when they brought me to the Circle," he said, still not facing her. "Until I got used to them."

"They look… warm?" she offered, not sure how to reply.

"It's the fur," he said. "Perfect for these horrid winters." He sighed. "Maker, I hate winter. Warmer here than the Gallows, at least." She glanced down the table. Her parents were deep in conversation, and Gamlen had already excused himself. No one was paying the least bit of attention to them.

As she looked away from her mother and father Leandra wondered why she was suddenly so worried. After all, no one had told her not to speak with him. Granted, she was quite sure the sort of thoughts she had been entertaining featuring brilliant red hair and slender fingers would have been frowned upon, but no one had to know that. "What's your name?" she whispered. It had occurred to her that since he arrived he had been referred to as 'the mage,' 'serah mage,' or even simply him, but never by name.

"Malcolm," he whispered back. "Well, Malcolm Vanedrin Hawke if you want to be formal."

"Vanedrin?" she dared to glance over, raising her eyebrow slightly.

"I suppose it was someone's idea of a small rebellion," he said. "He was the last king of Ferelden, and I was born during the occupation. Well, the last until…" He smiled then, looking pleased. Leandra found herself returning the expression before she realized it, despite knowing the smile wasn't for her. She knew the current king of Ferelden was named Maric, she knew because it had shocked people across Thedas when he took the throne only a few years earlier. No one had expected the barbarians to actually oust the great Orlesian empire, after all. Apparently bits of current events did reach the mages in the Gallows.

"So that's the accent," she said.

"That's the accent," he agreed. "Feel free to use your favorite dog-related joke whenever you're ready. My personal favorite is the one about every man in Ferelden not being able to sleep without a dog in his bed, since they're less hairy than the women."

She laughed, covering her mouth and coughing when her father glanced over. He looked away after a moment. "My name's Leandra," she whispered.

"I know," he said. When she gave him a confused look Malcolm blushed slightly. "I asked around."

For months they continued in the same way, whispering together at meals. It became a given that he would take the empty seat next to her, not the one next to Gamlen, and if anyone noticed, they didn't care enough to comment. To her surprise, Malcolm never deferred to her because of their difference in status, or spoke down to her because she was a woman. Speaking with someone who thought she was a true equal, or made a good show of it, was refreshing. Even if she did suspect it was mostly due to his complete ignorance of social formalities. The finer points of Kirkwall's social hierarchy were not, she had learned, something the Circle bothered teaching mages.

Despite all this, Leandra had yet to work up the nerve to speak to him at any other time, or seek him out. She knew Malcolm wasn't busy, they had no actual need for a mage beyond status, but part of her wondered if he might feel obligated to be nice to her simply because she was the noble daughter while he was little more than a high ranked servant. However, for that same reason she knew he wouldn't look for her, either. Leandra had to content herself with their daily chats during meals while she worked out a way around that dilemma, with Malcolm occupying more and more of her thoughts as time went on.

"Do you miss Ferelden?" she asked him one evening at dinner. Gamlen was out, as were her parents. It was just the two of them. Leandra preferred it to all the nights she had eaten alone.

Malcolm looked thoughtful. "In a way," he said quietly. "I was born there. If given the choice, I'd die there. I'm a Fereldan, and always will be. Some of the templars would call me 'dog lord,' but I don't care. I'm proud of who I am. Ferelden is the birthplace of Andraste, and the defeater of the Orlesian empire. Why would any sane person be ashamed to call it home?" He sounded defensive, as though waiting for an argument.

"I'm not saying you shouldn't be," she said holding up a hand. "Don't get all worked up over it. I was only asking." Too curious to resist, Leandra couldn't stop herself from saying "I didn't expect you to be religious."

"Religious?"

"Well… the Andraste thing…."

Malcolm made a face. "That a woman named Andraste led a slave rebellion and defeated the Imperium is a matter of historical record. As to anything else… I really don't care. The Chantry and I aren't exactly friends." He dropped his voice leaning closer. "Personally, I sometimes wonder if Andraste herself wasn't an extremely powerful mage. Don't tell anyone I said that, though. I suspect the laws about burning people alive for claiming that are still on the books." When she laughed he relaxed. "And worked up? This isn't even close to worked up," he said, laughing. "Nothing's on fire, after all." When Leandra gave him a surprised glance he only shrugged. "Fire's my default."

"Your default?"

Malcolm chuckled. "Sorry. It's a mage thing. We've all got that one spell we fall back on. It's the spell that might… sneak past you when you're distracted. Or that you call on if you're in danger and can't think of anything else. Your default spell. Mine's fire. Lucky me." He rolled his eyes. "Wish it could be ice. Ice is much safer. Or healing! But no, I have to go and set things on fire."

Leandra was horrified. "You get distracted and set things on fire?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Of course not. I have phenomenal control. Probably for the best. It would have utterly destroyed my reputation if I'd managed to set every woman I was involved with on fire at one point or another."

"Involved with… oh!" she turned red, imagining Malcolm with some faceless mage. When her mind gave that mage the same face she saw in her own looking glass every morning Leandra wondered if it was physically possible to die from embarrassment.

"I… probably should remember you're not a mage," he said, noticing her embarrassment. "Sorry."

"Are things that different in the Circle?" she asked.

Malcolm looked to be considering his words carefully. "Mages are more… forward. Open. We don't get married so we don't have to bother with all those social… formalities." He smiled at her. "I sometimes forget we're different."

"Not so different," she said.

"Oh?" he grinned. "Can you light the fireplace without getting up, too?"

"Sure," she said. "I'd just ask you."

"Touché."

She blushed, looking at the table. "I know it's silly, and one of those things people always say in bad books, but sometimes I do feel like I've known you for years." Leandra paused, glancing up at him shyly. "Does… does that sound stupid?"

"No," he said quickly, lip twitching. "Well… a bit," Malcolm admitted after a moment. "But I do know what you mean."

Leandra changed the topic, suddenly nervous. "Have you had to do much work since you got here?"

Malcolm shrugged, swallowing the bread he had been eating. "Only on Gamlen."

"Gamlen?"

"He is apparently a regular someplace called the Blooming Rose," Malcolm said with a suggestive wag of his eyebrows.

"Oh, Maker," Leandra burst into laughter.

"Yep," Malcolm leaned back. "Apparently your father has hired the best healer in Kirkwall to work, full time, on nothing more than Gamlen's reoccurring case of Orlesian Pox." He paused, gesturing at her. "But don't tell him I said that. For some bizarre reason people think healers are supposed to keep quiet about their patients."

"You're not?"

"As though I know," he laughed. "This is my first job!"

Leandra decided she now preferred the nights her parents went out, leaving her alone.

"So, was it true?" Leandra finally gathered the nerve to ask Malcolm one morning at breakfast. "What you said, that day you arrived?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Really? You think I'd invent something like that? Of course it was true."

She gasped. "That's… horrifying. Do you think the Grand Cleric knows?"

"I'm sure she does," he said. "Who do you think conducts all the funerals? Not that she cares, mind you, but then… we're mages, not people."

Making a face, Leandra shook her head. "You shouldn't talk about yourself like that. That isn't true."

Malcolm clucked his tongue. "My, my, Leandra Amell, you ought to be ashamed. Isn't it a bit early in the day for such wild blasphemies? What's next? Questioning the divinity of Andraste? Slandering the viscount?" He gave her a look of shock. "They warned me all you nobles were libertines, but I had no idea!"

They both began to laugh. Hearing them, Elizabeth Amell glanced over at her daughter before looking pointedly at her husband. Neither Leandra nor Malcolm seemed to notice.

The next afternoon she decided to try and water the plants in the study. "So…" Leandra looked up, hearing a familiar voice speaking in an unfamiliar volume. Seeing Malcolm watching her from across the room she suddenly realized they had never spoken in tones above a whisper, this was the first time she'd heard his actual voice since the day he arrived. "You're the one who's been killing all the plants?"

Looking down at the pot on the table she blushed. "I… well, I've been trying not to. But every time I water them it's too much… or not enough…" sighing, Leandra pushed the plant away. "I suppose I should give up."

"Let me see," he said, walking closer. Sitting across from her Malcolm examined the plant, laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing, really," he said, still smirking.

"Clearly it isn't nothing," she replied, smiling.

Malcolm looked up, meeting her eyes. Leandra felt heat rise in her face and glanced away. "I planned to come in and find a book. I certainly didn't expect to come in and see the young Lady Amell fretting over a whore's blush."

"Maker, don't call me that," Leandra said. "First off, my mother is the Lady Amell. If you were going to call me anything it would be Lady Leandra. But don't, since I can't stand it. I have a name, I'd prefer you use it."

"All right," he said. "Only fair since I've never had to hear you call me 'Serah Mage.' I hate that."

She smiled. "Good. And a what?"

"Whore's blush," he repeated, still smirking. "That's the name of the plant."

She looked up then and, seeing his expression, burst into laughter. "You're serious?"

"Absolutely," he said, examining the plant again. "I think this one might be salvageable, though. The pot's too small. Nothing more than that."

"Really?" she said, looking pleased. Leandra stood, picking up the plant, and turned to leave. Freezing at the door, she smiled to herself before turning, glancing over her shoulder. "Well? Aren't you coming?"

It was Malcolm's turn to look away. "Um… sure," he said. "Where are we going?"

"To the garden," she replied. He froze. "What? You don't like gardens?"

Malcolm pushed his hair back from his face nervously. "I can't really say, having never been in one," he said. "But, um… I'm not supposed to."

"Not supposed to what?" she asked.

"Go outside," he replied.

"Why not?"

He tensed, drawing in on himself. "So I can't escape."

Leandra froze, almost dropping the plant. "They… they're forcing you to be here?" She had thought he enjoyed her company. Now she felt slightly ill realizing he was a slave humoring the master's daughter.

Malcolm seemed to realize the misunderstanding immediately. "What? No not like that. I wanted to come here. It was a reward. And I like being here. It's warm, I don't get punched in the face nearly as often, no one's threatened to kill me or rip away my emotions in months… the whole thing is very relaxing. Plus, I get to talk to you." He grinned at her nervous giggle. "I just mean escape completely."

"From the Circle?"

"Well, yeah," he said. "Wouldn't you want to?"

"Probably," Leandra admitted. "Where would you go?"

He shrugged. "Not sure. I know should say Tevinter since I wouldn't have to worry about templars there, but the slavery really turns my stomach. You know, what with being one myself and all. It's kind of a sore spot."

"So you do consider yourself a slave?"

"Consider myself?" he raised an eyebrow. "Last I checked I've got no say in where I go or what I do, and I've never held a coin in my life. Doesn't seem to leave much room for debate. Not your slave or your family or anything, mind you. Don't worry, all my hate is squarely focused on two places." When she looked confused he shook his head. "Here's a hint. Both begin with the letter C."

"Ohh…" Leandra said, understanding dawning.

"Yep," he replied. "But, to get off this miserable subject, I'd say if given the chance, I would really just like to go home some day."

"To Ferelden?"

"Maybe start a farm…" he looked pleased at the idea. "I'm good with plants."

Relaxing, Leandra smiled at him. "You want to start a farm," she said incredulously, "and you've never even been in a garden?"

"The Gallows has a greenhouse. I've barely even been outside since I was eight," he said, hopping up to sit on the table. "Went from the Gallows to the boat, the boat to a coach at the docks, and the coach to your front door. That's pretty much the limit of my open-air exposure since the day I accidentally set the neighborhood bully on fire. I know, I know, the tan fools everyone." He made a face. "Templars are allowed wherever they want, of course. And Enchanters can go into the courtyard. I'm not an enchanter, though. Just a lowly mage." Malcolm pulled his feet up, sitting cross legged on the table. "Just as well, something tells me I'd be prone to sunburns. Usually goes along with the hair."

"Time to change that," she announced, walking closer.

He backed up, a look of horror on his face. "Change my hair? I like my hair! You don't like my hair?"

Leandra flushed. "No, I like your hair, too," she said before giggling nervously once more. "Just come with me." She reached out, drawing her hand back quickly. After a brief moment of hesitation she reached forward once more and grabbed Malcolm's wrist, too unsure to actually take his hand. "Come on."

"You're trying to get me in trouble, aren't you?" he said. She released her grip as soon as he was back on his feet. "You know the templars won't just send me to bed without supper; it's a bit more serious with them. I've grown quite fond of my head in our twenty two years together, I'd rather not have it forcibly removed from my shoulders. And you have no idea how badly blood clashes with red hair. It would look just awful."

"Well, I won't tell if you won't tell," she replied, unable to stop herself from smiling when he stepped closer to her.

Malcolm grinned. "In that case, lead on. Just wanted to make sure it was willful rebellion and not simply ignorance of the rules. Breaking the rules isn't much fun when you don't know you're doing it, after all."

"This way," she said, leading him through the house. When Leandra pushed open a heavy door and stepped out, Malcolm paused. Glancing out cautiously, he took a deep breath before following her.

The ground was uneven. He followed her unsteadily, feeling the occasional rock dig into his feet. Circle boots were not made for walking outside.

"You look like you're going to be sick," she said, glancing back at him. "Healer, heal thyself."

"It's…. bright," he said, glancing up briefly.

She grabbed him by the wrist again, tugging Malcolm along. The gardener glanced over at them, eyes widening. "Shhh!" Leandra said, holding a finger to her lip as she looked at the elderly elven man. He only shook his head.

"You'll get me in trouble, Lady Leandra," he called.

"How could I get you in trouble?" she called back. "I was never here!" Ignoring him, she glanced around. "Here?"

"What?" Malcolm tore his eyes from the sky to glance at the spot she indicated.

"Here?" she repeated. "I think here will work."

"Uh, sure," he said before she left, disappearing to borrow a shovel from the gardener. "Wait, no!" he called at her. "It needs some shade."
Shaking his head, Malcolm forced his feet to move. It was plants and dirt, he knew plants and dirt, even if there weren't walls and a ceiling of glass surrounding them.

"Which way is east?" he called.

She glanced around helplessly. "Um, there?"

The gardener cleared his throat. "My lady? That's south." He walked over, large brown eyes taking in the plant. "Whore's blush?" he asked Malcolm with a laugh. "I think along that fence will be best. You're looking for a place to catch morning sun and afternoon shade, right?"

"Yep," he said. The gardener nodded before retreating into the house, clearly wanting nothing to do with either of them.

Leandra walked over, picking up the pot and upending it. Malcolm winced, but held his tongue. "Oh, it's all… roots," she said.

"Exactly," he said. "So, we need to break the roots up and replant it."

"All right," she said, picking up the small trowel and began hacking away at the plant.

"Maker!" he gasped, pushing her hands away. "Not like that!"

"What?"

Malcolm laughed at her confusion. "Fold your hands together," he said, demonstrating by folding his fingers together. She mimicked him. "Now, if I want to break your hands apart I can do this," he reached over, gently unfolding her fingers and separating her hands, his fingers circling her slim wrists, "or I can start hacking away at you with a trowel. Which would be better?"

"Oh, the trowel, absolutely," she said.

"I'd say the same. But plants have no sense of fun, so we need to be gentle with them. Otherwise they do things like, well, die."

He began to gently break apart the roots, long fingers working through the dirt. "What should I do?" Leandra asked after a moment.

Pausing, he glanced over, passing her the shovel. "You seem to be the trowel expert. Dig a hole."

"Dig a hole?"

"What, you think I can create one with magic?" came the response. "Well… I could. But making you do it is easier. And less messy."

She began working, laughing after a moment at the mud caked under her nails. "I think I saw a worm," she said, "and I'm filthy. How is this less messy?"

Malcolm grinned, still looking at the plant. "I'm sorry. I meant less messy for me. Not you." He stopped her. "I think that's fine, we're planting flowers, not committing someone's ashes to rest."

He set the plant into the hole. "And there we go." Leandra reached over to help him pack the earth back into place. Accidentally brushing her fingertips with his own, Malcolm froze. Glancing over at him, Leandra saw his skin flush. "Sorry," he whispered, pulling his hand back.

Swallowing, Leandra gave him a small smile, looking into his nervous blue eyes. "Don't be," she said.

Malcolm leaned over, pulling her closer with one hand as their mouths met. Leandra's lips parted, as their tongues met she reached up, twining fingers through his hair, the palm of her hand resting on his skin. So warm, she thought briefly. His skin all but burned under her fingers. Torn between throwing herself into the kiss and wondering if the heat was a spell, or some side effect of being a mage, Leandra didn't notice him tensing. Seconds later Malcolm jerked back violently, moving several feet away from her. "Oh Maker, I'm sorry." He covered his face with his hands for a moment. "I… I'm so so sorry. That was completely out of line. I just… it won't happen again."

"No," she said quickly, wondering just what she had been thinking a moment earlier. "That was my fault."

"Either way, it can't happen again," he said quietly.

"No, it can't," she agreed. "We should go back inside."

Art! http:/ nirrum. deviantart. com/ art /Not-So-Different-Piece -2- 243837362