Hawke was late.
With every minute that passed, every minute she did not show herself, Fenris' grip on the stairway balustrade grew more unforgiving. He did not give in to the urge to pace, though he dearly wanted to; he needed to move, needed to do something other than hold onto the heavy wooden railing and grind his teeth. Pacing, however, doubtless would have attracted Varric's attention, to say nothing of Isabela's, and the longer Hawke's appearance was delayed, the greater the chance of them noticing such inconvenient details. Instead, he watched the people below mill about in the hotel lobby, dressed in all manner of finery in varying shades of blue and silver. Ladies' laughter tinkled like so many bells as they twirled in their gowns, showing off for each other before either vanishing into the dining room or through the front doors to rejoin Highever's revelry.
Isabela heaved a great sigh and leaned over the railing, looking down at the collection of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen below. "What a waste."
"How so?" Fenris asked.
From his other side, Varric chuckled. "It's a waste because it's not her arms dripping with pretty, pretty gems."
"That I can't steal."
"Group rule is not to make trouble—too much trouble, anyway—the night before we're… about to make trouble," Varric explained.
"Hmph," Isabela sniffed, sending a final glare down below before turning her back against the railing. "It's probably all paste down there."
"Probably not even decent fakes," Varric offered, clearly attempting to cheer her up.
"And the day is nearly over," Fenris pointed out.
"See, Rivaini? We're in the home stretch." Though, by Isabela's answering expression, that was hardly any consolation.
The festivities had started early—Fenris and Hawke had watched the parade from his room, standing shoulder to shoulder in companionable silence, and though he hadn't planned on watching it (even if outright ignoring the parade wasn't an option, given the volume of the band), the company had made the event… enjoyable. They'd later ventured out to explore the carnival games and food vendors, and though Fenris had not been terribly enamored of the crowds, Hawke's hand, so firmly in his, had made the press of people very nearly bearable.
But it was the evening's revelry that had all of Highever's attention. There was to be food, drink, and dancing well into the night and, ostensibly, fireworks, provided by the mage Warden. Even Hawke had wanted to return to her room early to prepare. Was, evidently, still preparing.
Fenris breathed in and let it out again, but that did nothing to quell the nerves determined to skitter and twitch beneath his skin. He tried again, closing his eyes and counting as he drew air into his lungs and pushed it out again. He was being foolish; that much was not a mystery to him. And yet he could not help but wonder—
The pliancy of Hawke's mouth, the warmth of her hands, her arms all lived vibrantly in his memory. Clearly things between them were changing, but he could not begin to guess the ways in which such a change might manifest itself—or if it would at all. They had kissed, yes—and with intent, yes—but it was not such an easy thing for Fenris to throw caution to the four winds. Questions that hadn't existed before now formed out of the ether, and though those questions did not require an immediate answer, they still lurked just beyond reach.
As these unknowable variables swirled through his head, Fenris exhaled, his fingers drifting to the waistcoat he wore—and for not the first time since he'd put it on. The moment the tissue had fallen away to reveal such finery, he'd not known what to say. The garment fit perfectly, possibly better than any other he owned, and the silk was rich and soft beneath his fingertips. What did one say to a gift such as that?
A gift. A gift. One without conditions, without rules, strings, requirements.
You're important to me.
It was folly for him to pretend Hawke hadn't also become more important to him, foolish to pretend he didn't worry for her, absurd to act as if she did not matter to him any more than anyone else. And so, he'd decided to stop pretending—and such a decision had terrified him at the time, for there was so much—too much—that could not be known in the wake of such an act. Particularly an act that was tantamount to a confession.
The leap had been one of faith—faith Fenris had long believed lost, if it had ever existed to begin with; he didn't know—but the landing, the landing had been soft caresses and warm arms followed by a warmer mouth. The landing had been acceptance.
Perhaps it was a mistake to assume things would begin to change now; they'd been slowly changing for quite some time already.
Isabela's voice cut through the gathering din, startling Fenris out of his thoughts. "Oh, Andraste's saggy tits, it's about time."
Varric let out a low whistle and said, "Whoa, you clean up pretty well there, Hawke."
Fenris whirled, a remark directed towards Hawke's tardiness sitting perched on his tongue. But when he saw her, those words—and any others he might have thought to speak afterward—vanished.
He'd seen Hawke in gowns before; indeed, she tended to favor them unless practicality stated otherwise. But he'd never imagined her in a gown so very fine. Perhaps surprisingly, Hawke did not favor blue like so many other of the ladies he'd seen so far. But, in the candlelight, the swaths of green and gold satin made her skin look as if it were glowing. Flecks of gold thread flashed with every movement, even while the satin rippled like water. Along the neckline, some manner of gauzy material floated, baring her shoulders, the gentle swell of her breasts, and the slim column of her neck, around which she wore a length of gold ribbon.
She would not be lost in an ocean of blue, no. Not in jewel-toned and sun-kissed satin.
"You can thank me any time for talking you into that dress, Hawke," Isabela remarked smugly. "Any time."
"I believe," Hawke said, a blush already blooming along her neckline, "I thanked you already."
"Did you?" Isabela asked, tapping her chin in a poor charade of thoughtfulness. "I've forgotten. Thank me again anyway."
"Come on, Rivaini," Varric said, taking Isabela's arm and steering her away. "Maybe if we're lucky you'll forget you want to rob half of Highever blind before the night's over." With that, they started down the stairwell, leaving Fenris and Hawke a modicum of privacy, however temporary.
He was immensely thankful for it.
"You…" he began.
"Yes?" Hawke prompted. It was then he lifted her eyes to her face and saw—not only hopefulness in her smile, but color in her cheeks, rather than the paleness he had been expecting. When he held out his hand to her, that color in her cheeks only turned warmer.
All too aware of their audience, he murmured quietly, "I fear there is nothing I could say that would not be dismissed out of hand for being hopelessly trite."
She gave his hand a squeeze. "I don't mind trite."
"Then," he said, his low words for her alone as he met her eyes, "allow me to say I have never seen you lovelier."
Hawke blinked; the blush that had only begun to fade returned with a vengeance and she looked down, adjusting her wrap—which didn't need it—and fidgeting with the tiny satin purse that dangled from her wrist. "O-oh. That's—that's—"
"It is the truth." He canted his head closer and lowered his voice. "I also notice you have gone without your tincture."
She smiled then, her blushing discomfiture ebbing somewhat. "I confess I forgot it this morning, but it seems rather pointless to take it now, not when I need to be a mage tomorrow."
More than just a mage, he knew; she would have to be a magister, and a convincing one. The idea of it was so far from her blushes, from the warmth in her smile that Fenris pushed the image of it from his mind. It did not bear imagining just yet.
With a shrug, she went on, "Probably better not to keep too tight a lid on my mana just before a point I'll need it." She paused as he offered her his arm. "Does it trouble you?" she asked, sliding her arm into his, her hand resting gently at the crook of his elbow as they took the stairs, catching up with Isabela and Varric midway.
"No," he admitted, with no little surprise, "it does not."
"Not that I'm one to discourage you from mooning at each other," Isabela said, pausing upon a step and jutting her hip so a curtain of garnet satin swept out and back again, "but there's a party going on, and where there's drink is where I want to be."
"Ah, Rivaini." Varric shook his head—yes, fondly; Fenris saw it now. "Where would we be without your tact?"
Isabela snorted, lips curving to a grin. "Tact is what people use when they don't want to be truthful. Tact wastes precious time, Fuzzy."
"Thanks for reminding us you can be a paragon of honesty when you want to be," Hawke remarked as they continued their way down the stairwell.
"Sweet thing," she tossed back, "I can be anything when I want to be."
They dined at the hotel—its fare even richer and more impressive than it had been the previous night—before making their way outside. The streets were every bit as crowded as they had been earlier as they navigated the throng, Hawke's hand warm and sure at his elbow.
"So," Hawke began, "where shall we wander?" Set up near the square were long, covered tables bearing intricately decorated fairy cakes and punch, to say nothing of more adult refreshment, served by uniformed men and women—the Cousland family's staff, if Fenris were to guess. Neighbors and friends greeted each other, talking and laughing and calling out over the crowds, while some people tucked themselves in clusters, enjoying glasses of sparkling Orlesian wine as they observed the mirth around them.
Varric glanced around at the masses surrounding them. "I think Rivaini and I might—"
Hawke dimpled at him. "Take in a card game?"
"No," he replied with a shake of his head. "We figured be better off doing a little… active listening."
"Possibly," Isabela chimed in, "sitting down somewhere, with a glass of something a little stronger than Orlesian bubbly."
"I thought we were taking the night off," Hawke said, though she didn't seem terribly concerned; in fact, her tone was gently chiding, as if she weren't surprised in the least.
Varric waved one broad hand. "Anything I do tonight isn't going to be work, Hawke. A tankard of ale, with the Rivaini for company, while we keep our ears open for loose lips? That is a day off for me."
After a moment, Hawke nodded. "All right. It may be someone's noticed our contact, if he's even in town yet."
"Our thoughts exactly," Isabela agreed.
"I heard the fireworks were supposed to start at midnight," Varric said. "Let's meet up by the gazebo in town for the show." With that, he and Isabela turned in the direction of one of Highever's taverns, moving until the crowd swallowed them both.
"Do you believe them?" Fenris asked, once they were alone.
"Not in the slightest," Hawke returned with a particularly smile that sent something warm and pleasant chase across his skin. "Either they wanted privacy—relatively speaking—" she amended, waving a hand at the people surrounding them, "or wanted to give us some. But I'm not about to complain either way."
Neither was Fenris.
Highever truly was transformed this evening. The gas-lit street lamps flickered merrily as families and couples and tightly-knit clusters of visitors all made their slow way up and down the street where vendors sold little banners, flags, and even ladies' handkerchiefs and men's cravats embroidered with the Cousland crest. As they walked, Hawke settled more comfortably against his arm, and the way she fit so naturally there left Fenris very nearly unnerved. He had never thought—never dared think something as natural as walking along a crowded street with an attractive woman on his arm would ever be allowed someone like him. And yet, here he was. Here they were. Granted, the reality of Danarius eventually sending more hunters out to recover him—or making the journey himself—was never terribly far from his mind, because it couldn't be. But for now, for this moment, Fenris decided to allow himself to find pleasure in the warmth pressed against his side.
The warmth of a woman who simply wished to be there, not because of how much he was worth or what he could do. And he, in turn, wanted her to be there.
Fenris could not help but marvel at it.
"You're thinking," Hawke murmured, looking up at him. Fenris shrugged a shoulder in reply.
"Perhaps a little."
"Copper for your thoughts?"
He shook his head. "They are inconsequential, and hardly worth a copper at all. Only that I have never experienced anything quite like this before now."
Hawke nodded, but whatever words she might have spoken disappeared in a scowl as a woman with skirts far more voluminous than practicality dictated swept by, jostling her against him. Steading her by the elbow, he lowered his head to hers and said, "We are reaching the outer edges of the crowd. If you like, we could find somewhere to sit."
"I'd settle for somewhere I could breathe," she replied, but the scowl had ebbed somewhat into an expression more suited to her.
"Then let us move on."
Once they had passed through the square and drew nearer to the Griffon theatre, where they had heard musicians practicing for the very parade he and Hawke had watched that morning, the throng had thinned enough that they could walk without fearing collision. But as they moved closer to the theatre, it became evident the place was once again a source of music.
Hawke read his look with unnerving accuracy. "There's dancing inside. I don't know if it's a…" she slowed as they passed the open doors. "—A ball." Going up on tiptoes, she craned her neck. "Or maybe something not-quite a ball."
Fenris looked at her a moment; Hawke wasn't the only one who could interpret expressions, after all, and hers was full to overflowing with longing.
"Do you wish to join them?"
Longing jolted into surprise, followed by dismay as she shook her head. "Maker, no. No. I—no."
The vehemence in her reply startled him. "Forgive me. You appeared interested."
"No, it's—" Hawke bit down on her lower lip and glanced through the open doors again. "I don't—I can't… I can't."
"Dance?"
"I—when I was small, my mother taught me a little. But then…" She looked down at her hands and swallowed. "And then it was more important to learn other things instead. And it became obvious I wasn't going to be able to put in the same… the same sorts of appearances as the other girls in Lothering." When Hawke looked up again, her smile was a rueful one. "I resisted every time Mama tried teaching me. Figured I'd never use it. Besides, this isn't anything like some little country dance at a barn raising."
"Hawke."
"Yes?"
"Do you wish to dance?"
Another longing look through the playhouse doors. "Oh, yes," she whispered.
Sliding his arm from hers, he grasped her hand. "Then come with me."
"No, Fenris—!" but her protest was lost as he pulled her, not into the playhouse, but past it. Past it and several other buildings, in fact. He'd spent much of his time in Highever learning it, from the routes into and out of the city, to the narrow paths between buildings that led to other paths and routes, peppered with nooks and niches at every turn.
It was because of this Fenris knew Highever's library and the playhouse stood more or less back to back, separated only by a shallow pond across which a wooden footbridge stretched. In the daylight, it was a peaceful place, particularly when the wind caught the reeds and sent the water rippling.
"You weren't kidding when you said you'd been exploring the town," Hawke murmured.
"No," he replied, leading her midway across the bridge. "I was not."
When she spoke again, her voice was softer, more uncertain. "What now?"
"Now," Fenris replied, taking one of Hawke's hands and settling it at his shoulder, while he grasped the other and settled his hand at her waist, "we dance."
"You… know how?"
What could he tell her? That any slave worth his or her price in Minrathous knew precisely how to behave in polite company—even bodyguards? Could he tell her about the welts that had blossomed along the backs of his calves every time he missed or fumbled a step to any one of Tevinter's countless waltzes and minuets?
Perhaps he could. But he wasn't going to.
"I have some idea," he replied, pulling Hawke into a simple box-step. "Though I admit what I know may not be fashionable here."
She smiled up at him, rueful. "Well, that makes two of us."
At first Hawke struggled with the pattern, cursing whenever the toe of her slipper trod across his boot, her head bent as she tried to stare downward. "I can't see," she hissed, frustration turning her tone ragged. She stepped on his foot again and she stopped, pulling her hands away and shaking her head. "I can't see my feet around these skirts. I can't do this. I can't see."
Before she could take another step back—and, more importantly, before she began believing her own words—Fenris gripped her shoulders, ducking his head to meet her eyes in the moonlight. "You do not need to see. Not for this."
"Fenris—" But he pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her. Her eyes went wide and her breath caught at the gentle pressure, and he found himself faced the tantalizing urge to run the pad of his finger along her lower lip.
"All you have to do is trust me to lead you," he said, suddenly, acutely aware of just how soft Hawke's lips were. He swallowed once. "Do you trust me?"
How strange to expect hesitation and find none. Hawke nodded, then caught his hand in hers, turning it to press a kiss to his palm. "I do," she said, the words nearly lost to the hush around them.
"Then," he said, and even clearing his throat did nothing to alleviate the husky quality from his voice, "let us try again."
And so it went—long enough that it became evident Hawke did indeed have some measure of natural grace, and once she stopped trying to see her feet and follow their movement with her eyes, she eventually stopped stepping on his feet entirely. Not long after that she started enjoying herself, her grip more sure at his shoulder and her smile more confident as their steps wove into shadow and moonlight at turns.
When he next released Hawke, it was to the sound of her laughter. She twirled away and back again in a swirl of skirts before pressing a warm, lingering kiss to his cheek, and then another to the corner of his mouth. "Thank you."
"You needn't always thank me."
"How else should I show you my appreciation, then?"
She spoke the words so lightly, Fenris knew she hadn't meant them as anything other than innocent. But Hawke realized too late what she'd said and bowed her head, covering her eyes with one hand. "Maker's blood, I do step in it, don't I?"
He chuckled, pulling her closer, resting his cheek against the crown of her head. "It is no matter. I understood your meaning."
A high, shrill whistle cut the night's silence, and they both went tense before a sparkling white light blazed upwards, cutting a bright swath through the night sky before scattering into dozens of sparks, twinkling like so many stars.
"Anders' fireworks," she murmured, tipping her head back. "I imagine Isabela and Varric will be at the square, waiting for us."
"Shall we rejoin them?"
"Soon, but not just yet," she replied, taking a step closer to the smooth wooden railing. Another stream of light, this one red, spun upwards before bursting into a cascade of glittering motes. "Besides, he's not the only mage who knows how to put on a show."
With that, she cupped her hands and took a breath; moments later, a tiny whirlwind of iridescent sparks spun to life in her hands, blooming outwards like a flower. Then, arms outstretched over the railing, Hawke let the sparks fall in a tumble from her hands, down into the pond, where they settled atop the water's still surface like so many fireflies. She looked up at him then, her face lit from above and below, her joy evident and unrestrained.
At first Fenris thought it had been her display of magic that had provoked such a reaction—such happiness.
But then Hawke leaned closer, lifting herself up and pressing a slow kiss to his lips and scant moments before Fenris let himself tumble into the embrace, his hands threading gently into her hair as she pressed against him all satin and soft skin, he realized with incongruous clarity—no; no, that hadn't been it at all.
