fenhawke week

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The thing in his dreams is not Hawke.

His Hawke - his Threnody - was a storm folded in on itself - a large, unruly body and heart doing its best to stay within the lines. It had taken him so long to see that, in the beginning - the constant effort, all the ways she hated herself for the overflow. He had only seen the spill - the swagger, the affected selfishness, the magic that burned so bright it hurt to look at - not how much it had cost her.

After Kirkwall, with the help of years and time and a life that the stories knew nothing about, Threnody had begun to learn how to flow. She had gone quiet, for a while, and slowly learned a different kind of loudness - a truer, less self-conscious kind. She had begun to laugh at their own jokes, so hard it made them snort and tears run down their eyes. She never would have done that before; it would have interrupted the performance.

The thing in his dreams never laughs.

He never thought, when Threnody taught him to read (one of the only times he had ever seen her unguarded - her finger poking hesitantly at the letters, glancing at him nervously, biting her lip and focusing for fear of teaching it wrong) that he would learn to hate the written word.

The thing in his dreams is a parody. The swagger is there, and a little of the affected selfishness, but the magic grows dimmer every night. The thing in his dreams is neither large nor unruly - in body nor in manner. Every joke is perfectly timed. Every movement fluid and smooth. She holds her head up high, even when she doesn’t know who’s watching. Worst of all, when the thing in his dreams speaks, the voice is Varric’s, not Threnody’s, not Hawke’s.

It is worst when she remembers.

One moment she’ll be sweeping him off his feet, having just saved the day, with a cheeky wink and a grin on her face - and something will curdle in her expression. Her face will fall. Her movements will slow. She will look at him - really look - and say “Fenris? Is that you?” He will say “yes, Threnody, I am here,” and his voice will be thick with tears. She will say “oh, Maker. Where am I? Where did I go?” He will say nothing, only reach to cup her face with his hand - but before his skin meets hers, she will be gone again, lost in the lie they told.

Merrill explained it to him, once, while he sat bedraggled at her fireside, trying not to hate himself for accepting a maleficar’s comfort. The Fade is a realm of belief - and Hawke has been trapped there a long time. Physically there, not just in her dreams - and nobody knows what that does. But the theory goes like this: anything that stays long enough in the Fade eventually becomes like the Fade. A product of belief. And, well, what most people believe about Hawke is…

“The Tale of the Champion,” he had finished for her.

Varric sends him a letter, every once in a while. They all go in the fire. The thing in his dreams would hate him for that. Maybe Threnody would too, just a little.

It has been a decade since Threnody taught him to read. When he puts pen to page, the letters come steady and even - although he cannot help but worry, sometimes, that a reader could tell how late he learned. It does not matter. He will be getting plenty of practice, soon.

A fresh roll of parchment. A full pot of ink. He has made a desk of his dining table, set everything else to one side. Threnody’s mabari snoozes by the fire. He closes his eyes, takes a breath, sets his feet flat against the floor. He steadies himself, and he begins.

The Champion of Kirkwall was a storm folded in on itself.

At that time, he’d been confused why she’d chosen to come to him, they’d grown closer over their time in the Deep Roads but not as close as she was to Varric, Aveline, or even Anders. But he’d allowed her in, ignoring the blooming pleasure he’d felt at being chosen. 

Beside his fireplace she’d told him about Carver leaving to join the Templars, explaining how it was her fault for pushing him away and making him feel small. 

Eventually, she’d told him good stories of her brother, and even some rare stories about Bethany; they'd both laughed over Hawke’s colorful narration as she told tales about her younger siblings' antics.

Even so early into their friendship he’d felt a great sense of privilege getting to see this side of Hawke. She’d fallen asleep on the floor in front of a dying fire that night, and woke up full of apologies and bad jokes, revealing that she’d not cried in front of someone else since her father’s death. 

That night the tears were delicate tracks down her cheeks, that reflected the firelight, as she talked about her brother. 

This was different, it was the sounds of a broken woman, and it scared him. 

Leaving the others to comfort Hawke, he’d paced behind them, throwing worried glances at the object of his affections as they whispered words of comfort to her. 

But there were no kind words that would help, what difference would it make if he crouched alongside the rest of them? 

Would she even want him trying to comfort her? 

It was a cowardly question, he knew she wanted him there. Possibly, wanted him there more than anyone else, but he couldn’t do it. 

Finally, the guards arrived and they got Hawke to surrender her mother’s corpse and start the journey home. 

By that point, Hawke had grown fully silent in a way that was almost as disturbing as the screams of grief.

Hawke was never quiet. 

The rest of the party gently cajoled her, trying to convince her she should not be alone, but she hardly responded to them. 

In the end, though, Hawke would not stay anywhere but her home and would not allow anyone to stay with her. 

By the time they were in Hightown only Fenris, Varric, and Anders remained. 

“Thank you,” Hawke said on her doorstep, pulling on her usual mask of genial reassurance, “I’ll be fine. I won’t be alone, Bodahn, Sandal, and Orana will be about if I need anything.”

“They’re your servants Hawke, you need your friends,” Anders reasoned, reaching out and taking hold of her hand. 

The gesture sent a spike of furious jealousy through Fenris followed instantly by guilt. 

She deserved better than his pettiness at a time like this, but the mage’s obvious affection towards Hawke had always irritated him. 

Hawke squeezed Anders hand and let go. 

“I’d rather be alone.” 

Her eyes skittered to Fenris, where he stood to the side, trying to blend into the shadows. As quickly as they’d landed on him she looked away, but he’d seen it. 

He felt hollowed out. 

“Please, just send a messenger if you need anything, alright?” Anders said, squeezing her arm. 

She gave him a hug and Fenris had to look away, fighting the instinctual possessiveness that sprung up. 

“I’m sorry Hawke,” Varric said, “Just- take care of yourself ok? I’ll come back around tomorrow to check in.” 

“Thank you,” she said, giving him a hug as well. 

On his way past Fenris, Anders shot him a glare that was readily returned. 

But Varric leaned in and whispered to him, “Don’t let her be alone.” 

The dwarf continued past him as if he’d said nothing and Fenris looked after them, feeling a bit helpless.

When he turned around Hawke was leaning against the door frame, exhausted, eyes turned to the ground. 

Unsure, he started to fiddle with the scarf on his wrist before quickly dropping it. 

“I’m sorry we could not save her, she seemed to be a good woman.”

His words hung in the air around them, hollow, true, but not enough. 

Hawke nodded, eyes still on the ground.  “She was,” she sighed, “she deserved better.”

Deserved a better daughter, her haggard tone and expression screamed. 

“Goodnight, Fenris. Thank you for your help tonight,” she said, and quietly closed the door.  

Before he knew it, he was alone, and unsure if he felt relief that she didn’t ask him to stay or fury at himself for failing her yet again. 

Surly Hawke didn’t want whatever paltry comfort he could offer her, after what he’d done. He was lucky she even still glanced his way. 

As he trudged home he thought about what it would be like to follow her inside and wrap her in his arms.

He didn’t know what to say in the face of such loss, but he could hold her, let her know she wasn’t alone. 

But no, it was a bad idea all around. What if he did go to her, hold her in his arms, kiss her, tell her he loved her… 

Fasta vass! 

He needed to leave her be, he’d been the one to walk away, it would be wrong to continue to confuse their relationship. 

But the sounds of Hawke’s cries echoed in his ears all the way through Hightown, up the stairs to his room, as he took off his armor, and finally as he lay in his bed staring at the ceiling.

Crystal clear, a memory of Hawke from years past came to him. 

Hungover, wearing a tentative smile she’d said, “Thanks for putting up with my blubbering,” she bit the inside of her cheek, a charming blush setting in, “I promise I’m usually more mysterious and alluring. I don’t think I’ve cried in front of someone else since my father died,” she leaned in conspiratorially, “keep it under wraps, can’t ruin my image.” 

He didn’t know what he’d done that night to make her feel better, but it had worked. She’d left his home with a smile that was more genuine than he’d ever seen from her.  The memory of whatever he’d said to comfort her was lost to time and wine but he had helped her once, perhaps he could again. 

Growling, he tossed off the blanket and began to pull on his armor.  Then, he took some time to pace around, pulling at his hair, swearing up a storm, before trudging out of the mansion. 

If she turned him away then so be it, he would leave, but if he could ease some of her pain he had to try. 

Despite his conviction, when he reached her door he just stood there staring at the ornate wood, suddenly forgetting how to knock. 

He’d need to think of something to say to her, but what was there to say? 

Hawke was blaming herself, but she would do so no matter what any of them said, it was her way. Her life would never be the same and there were no words to change that.

It would come to him. He hoped. 

His knock was almost too soft to hear and when there was no response he groaned and knocked again, slightly harder. 

Bodahn came to the door, eyes red and puffy, handkerchief in hand. 

“Oh Messere Fenris,” the dwarf said, shuffling his feet a bit at his late and unexpected visitor, “my lady has said she will take no visitors, I’m sorry.” 

The servant did seem sorry, and conflicted. 

“Do you believe that is what is best for her?” 

Bodahn looked back into the mansion, as if Hawke might be standing behind him, and sighed. 

“It is what she asked of me, ser, I do not want to disobey her at a time like this,” the man looked defeated, heartbroken for his employer who he cared for so deeply. 

“Bodahn, she will not blame you. I must see her.” 

Fenris tried to sound gentle, but his voice came out rough and desperate. 

“Alright,” he said finally, moving aside to let Fenris in, “but please ser, she cannot take more sadness.” 

The dwarf’s words stung; he wasn’t surprised that Bodahn knew of his early morning escape from the Hawke mansion, but his ears grew warm at the kind reproof. 

Nodding, he made his way to Hawke’s room, stopping in the foyer to remove his armor. 

He’d been to the mansion since their night together, but they’d been in the study. 

Walking to her room brought to mind the last time he’d lingered on those stairs. 

Pressing Hawke against the railing, lips on her neck, hand on her breast as she whispered that they needed to keep moving to her room only to be silenced by more kisses. 

Fenris hesitated, pain and arousal intermingling followed by a good amount of shame.

Here he was lusting after Hawke, while she mourned her mother a few stairs up, he needed to pull himself together.  The walk to her door felt too long and doubt began to take hold, but then he was at her door, and could not turn back.

At first he reached for the knob, but decided better of it and knocked. 

“Thank you for your concern, but you can go to bed. And please sleep in tomorrow.” 

Hawke’s reply drifted through the door, gentle and reassuring. 

He sighed and walked in. 

When he entered, she was staring at her hands, face blank, but her eyes and nose were pink from crying. He desperately wanted to hold her. 

“I don’t know what to say,” he started and she turned eyes wide, “but I am here.” 

“Fenris…” she whispered, eyes full of so much affection it nearly knocked him over, “you didn’t have to come.” 

“I could not stay away,” he replied truthfully.

“Thank you.” 

Choked up, Hawke didn’t seem capable of saying anything more for the moment, but she scooted over on the bed.

He stared at the vacated spot, not sure if he wanted to run to or from her. 

But she didn’t pressure him or even seem to be waiting for him to sit, she just stared into the fire.

When he sat, the bed didn’t turn him into stone or break him into a million pieces, as he worried it might.  They stared at the flames in silence for a time, it wasn’t awkward as many of their silences had been lately, but it was suffocatingly heavy. 

“My mother taught me how to play the lute,” Hawke said without preamble. 

Unsure what to say, Fenris simply looked at her, giving her the chance to continue. 

“I was a terrible student, when I didn’t learn a chord as fast as I’d like, I’d quit. Of course I would come right back to it after a few minutes. But she’d never lose her patience with me.” 

“It sounds much like how our reading lessons go,” Fenris said lightly. 

Hawke’s laugh was watery, but real, and he felt relieved at the sound. 

“Oh, you’re much meaner than I ever was,” she joked, nudging his shoulder with hers. 

The brief pressure of her touch reassured him, he smiled at her. 

“We used to play together in the evenings, some days I’d come home and be too tired to move but I’d never miss our little recitals,” her smile faded, “when father died she never touched her lute again. I didn’t understand how she could just give up something she loved so much.” 

Her eyes strayed to her lute sitting next to the bed. 

“I understand now though, all the love songs she’d written for father, the songs they’d sing. So many memories wrapped up in it. It’s too painful,” her face turned back to him, “I want to burn the damn thing.” 

The recollection of Hawke’s clear high voice and quick strumming fingers danced through his mind and he shook his head. 

“Do you think it made her happier to stop playing?” 

Hawke seemed to truly consider the question. 

“I’m not sure if my mother was ever truly happy after he died.” 

“Perhaps that is because she gave up on living.” 

Her eyes grew wet and she looked away.

“You are just full of pearls of wisdom tonight.” 

Elbows on her knees, Hawke dropped her head into her hands, not crying but certainly stewing on an unpleasant thought. 

“Am I to blame for not saving her?”

She said it so softly that Fenris almost didn’t hear the question, he wished he hadn’t.

It was the question he feared she’d ask. Silence lay thick between them as Fenris tried to find the words he needed. 

Finally, he spoke, “I could say no, but would that help?”  Wet blue eyes met his, sad but attentive. 

“You are looking for forgiveness, but I am not the one who can give it to you.” 

Taking this in, Hawke's eyes drifted from his face. 

“Will you stay?” she asked, in the same too soft tone. 

“Yes,” he replied before his mind could catch up. 

Hawke laid her head on his shoulder, just a small touch. He ached to pull her closer but resisted, instead he leaned his own head against hers. 

After some time wordlessly watching the fire, Hawke felt heavier at this side, she’d fallen asleep. 

Slowly, he moved her into a lying position, and took a moment to examine her face, brushing an ebony lock of hair from her forehead. 

In her sleep her face was untroubled, free of her war paint and make up, she looked younger and so vulnerable.  It wasn’t a word he’d normally use to describe Hawke, his heart squeezed. 

He’d told her he’d stay, but he didn’t know where his place was. 

Her bed… Well, it was a little too tempting. 

In the end he wasn’t able to resist his own instinct to lay beside her, though he tried to keep as far to the other side of the bed as possible. 

“Thank you,” Hawke whispered, startling him. 

She curled onto her side facing him, eyes still closed, half asleep.  The sight of her weary, tear stained face broke down his last wall of resistance and he scooted close to her, drawing her against his chest. 

Wrapping her arm around his waist, Hawke didn’t resist his comfort and buried her face against his neck. 

It felt so right, like he was always meant to spend his nights in her arms. 

Tomorrow, though, he would have to leave. 

It was too soon, he couldn’t be with Hawke until he was fully free of Danarius. 

Until then, the darkness inside would always threaten the shining beacon that was Marian. 

As night fell on Kirkwall, Varric and Isabela made themselves comfortable by the oversized stone table in study of Danarius’ former mansion. The room had been picked over and still bore signs of the night it was taken, but the lamps and candles gave the room a warm glow it did not have under the magister’s care. Diamondback Night had become a weekly ritual for Fenris, allowing him a regular source of good company, wine and coin.

His ears twitched at a short knock at the door; their fourth player had arrived. With a nod to the two rogues who were chuckling to themselves, he went to the door to greet his guest. There stood Corrine Hawke. As the door opened, she took a step back. They both averted their eyes before they could fully meet.

After a moment, the mage broke the silence. “So…Diamondback Night. Do I owe the pleasure to Donnic being on patrol?” she teased. It was an unexpected invitation. She seemed in good spirits though she eyed the elf carefully, still curious about his intentions.

“I thought it’d be a welcome change to a night of drinking games and witch cards for you,” Fenris quipped as he raised a brow and crossed his arms. Without his grafted hide armor for once and in his tunic and leg covers, she could see the contrast of the lyrium brands branching along his tanned skin.

“Witch cards? It’s tarot. Ta-rot,” she stuttered incredulously as she corrected him and refocused herself. As she followed him in, she caught the slightest hint of a smirk. He brought her to the study to be greeted by their friends. Varric chuckled and patted the seat by him, moving over as she got settled.

“Nice of you to join us, Brighteyes. Now the games can really begin,” Varric said as she nudged her playfully. She nudged him back and smiled as he poured himself a goblet of wine from one of the two expensive looking bottles on the table, no doubt from Danarius’ private collection.

“We’re lucky to have such a generous and pretty host, don’t you think, Hawke? It’s almost enough to forgive the decor!” Isabela teased as she took a swig from her goblet. She eyed the elf, winking and grinning widely as she twirled a strand of her raven hair around her fingers. “And lanky even for an elf. I like that.”

”Subtle,” Corrine said with a raised eyebrow as she eyed the pirate gleaming at Fenris. She earned herself a grin from Varric and a hearty laugh from Isabela.

“What can I say, Hawke? Maybe I like my meat with a bit of chew to it!” Isabela cackled before taking another drag of wine. Corrine shook her head as her face fell to her palm at the less than stellar mental image. Isabela was like a dog and Fenris was the bone she wanted to gnaw on.

Fenris huffed as his eyes narrowed briefly in response. He pulled two magician cards from his decks and placed them aside. They began a draw for a high card with Fenris pulling the highest, who then passed each player two cards face down and placed down two silvers to start off the pot. Varric flipped over a king and Isabella a priest. Corrine considered her cards as she pushed two silvers up as well, revealing her first card as a priestess. She leaned over to pour from the bottle Isabela and Varric had poured from. Without looking up, Fenris pointed to the other bottle.

“That one might suit you better, Hawke,” he suggested. She hesitated before pouring from the bottle he had gestured to. A fruity floral scent wafted from the bottle as she poured and with one sip, she tasted sweet passion fruit and caramel. No sourness or dryness at all. A surprised noise escaped her lips. “Oh wow.”

“Just enough alcohol to keep conversation flowing, as the Antivans would say,” Fenris added, pleased with himself. It had been a deliberate choice after seeing her choke on the ale at The Hanged Man. He had found it stashed in the corner of the cellar. Though he couldn’t read the label, he had distinguished it by its shape and color. It was a popular choice for Danarius’ more sensitive guests. Despite his wariness of her magic, underneath it all, she seemed the sort to appreciate something more sweet and delicate.

“Antivan Brandy, huh? Of course you’d go for something rare,” Varric noted as he eyed the bottle. Too sweet for my liking, though.”

“And much too weak for me,” Isabela added. “Just right for a lightweight like you, though.” Corrine rolled her eyes as the pirate cackled and took another drink.

Varric grinned as his fingers stroked his broad chin. He looked from one side of the table to the other at the broody warrior and the coy mage. An interesting little dynamic, the dwarf thought to himself. “Awfully considerate. Didn’t know you had it in you, Elf,” he chuckled, earning a shrug from Fenris.

The consideration hadn’t gone unnoticed. She smiled at Fenris genuinely as she looked up from her goblet. “A great choice. Thank you,” she said, raising her drink. He nodded in response as he raised his as well. The others joined in a toast.

“Do you like sweet things? You seem more the type for something bitter and drier than wood,” Corrine teased. At her side, Varric raised an eyebrow.

“If its done right. Otherwise, its sickening,” Fenris responded with sneer. Varric’s eyes shot to the elf; his mouth was ajar.

“Something going on between you two?” Varric questioned, smiling and twiddling his thumbs. He had already assumed.

“No,” they said in unison. Their eyes were still locked from across the table.

Isabela leaned in, eager to join in on the banter. She was by no means drunk but was happily warm from drinking. “Well, we can’t have you sauced too early, Hawke. Not when there’s still some coin we can get out of you.” She tugged at Corrine’s pouch playfully before letting the mage pull it away. She then turned her attention to Fenris. “Doting on mages and making drink suggestions. Old habits die hard, don’t they, pet?” She had always been brash but this landed harder than she expected, much to her enjoyment. Fenris scowled at her but she laughed it off, enjoying his discomfort a little too much.

A “pet.” Corrine remembered him mentioning Danarius’ charade of having his intimidating warrior pour wine for his guests. It was a humiliation ritual the magister delighted in. Fenris had taken this mansion as one victory against his oppressor but that reminder of what he had been so long ago had darkened his expression.

Suddenly, Isabela’s goblet tilted, spilling over her lap. She choked out a shriek and stumbled out of her seat as she grabbed at her soaked tunic. “Shit! This is going to be harder to take out than blood! I look like I gutted myself!”

“Messy, Isabela,” Corrine tutted, shaking her head. “Serves you right though for getting carried away.” She offered a handkerchief to the pirate who was wringing the end of her tunic and bemoaning her stained boots. Fenris noticed a hint of a grin on the mage’s lips as she helped dab the spilt wine. An accident or something more? The topic had been dropped, at least. Fenris revealed his card to be a king and dropped in two more silvers.

The game continued a couple more rounds as the crew chatted with the pot shifting between them. Isabela, eventually worn down by the wine soaked tunic and boots, admitted defeat. “I’ve been drenched in far worse for sure and been far stickier, but it’s getting late, loves,” she declared as she finished off the bottle.

Varric got up as well, offering to go along with his fellow rogue. “We’re headed the same way anyways and I’ll quit while I’m ahead,” said Varric as he thumbed through the silvers in his pocket. He put an arm around Isabela’s waist as they headed towards the door.

“Borrow him for the night. Maybe at least then one of us can have some fun,” Isabela joked. She cackled at the mage’s sour expression, satisfied she could get one last laugh in at Corrine’s expense before the trek back to Lowtown.

Varric turned to Corrine with a grin. “Don’t mind her. Choice is yours if you’d like to come with us or spend some more quality time with the broody elf. Just don’t kill each other. Kirkwall still needs you in the morning.”

Corrine had already gotten up but the question made her stop a few paces behind the dwarf and pirate. She took one look over at Fenris who was reshuffling the cards. Isabela and Varric were already past the front door. There was a moment of silence as her eyes met his yet again. She put her hands together and cocked her head playfully. “If you’ll tolerate having a mage as your friend for a little longer.”

Fenris scoffed and gave her a sideglance. “A mage as my friend. I suppose it won’t kill me. Not immediately, at least.”

She paused at his comment. “Then I take it back,” she said flatly as she turned to leave.

“Don’t,” he sighed, struggling with his words as his hand slid down his face. “You would be…good company, Hawke. Tonight would be well spent with you.”

Pleased, she looked back grinning and all too satisfied as she took her seat across from him and began helping him tidy the table. “Rest assured, so long as my heart stays where it is, you have nothing to worry about with me,” she said with a smile.

“Same, so long as that magic’s leashed,” he said as his lips creased with a crooked smile. It would be mutually assured destruction if it ever came to that. Hawke was an ally but she was secretive and her methods were questionable. He’d seen her magic at work. It still seemed strange that the girl in front of him had entropy and frenzy at her fingertips.

It wasn’t so long ago that they had had a confrontation. He remembered how her heart felt pounding against his touch and her defiant gaze despite it. They hadn’t addressed what happened since that day and the back and forth they had now treaded precariously between play and threat.

There was still spilt wine and coins strewn along it and the floor from Isabela. Fenris eyed her before he spoke again, gesturing to the wine stain.

“Isabela’s not known to be clumsy. Did you do this?” he asked.

“Did I do *what* exactly? Everyone’s clumsy sometimes,” Corrine cocked her head as she met his gaze and crossed her arms.

Fenris tilted his chin, observing her. “You included? You’re dodging the question, Hawke. And you have a tell.”

“Do I?” The mage’s brow knitted in response as her eyes went from the coin she had lost back to the smug elf. She shrunk in her seat under his stare. “Is this going to be another interrogation? Last time, it got tense.” She looked at the door where their friends had departed, her eyes narrowing slightly. Maybe she made a mistake not leaving with the others.

“It did.” He hesitated as he looked down at his hands, feeling again at where he’d touched her. “It’s partly why I invited you. I could have approached it better.” He took the bottle of brandy and topped off her goblet.

“Oh,” Corrine paused before she spoke again, her voice softening. “Admittedly, I also could have done better. I understand why you’d be dodgy especially with how I handle things. A force of habit, I guess.” She cringed at the unintentional pun but eased up in her seat.

Fenris nodded in agreement. “Old habits die hard, as Isabela said.” He looked at his fingers as he spoke. It may have been the first time Corrine had seen them not clad in steel. The pale lyrium brands ran along the top of each slender finger.

Corrine stacked a few coins on the table while frowning. “Isabela said a lot of things tonight.” She paused for a moment in though before continuing. “Why tolerate it? Are you a masochist?”

Fenris narrowed his eyes at her but considered the question. It hadn’t been dissimilar to how Danarius and his guests and passerbies in Kirkwall had regarded the spectacle of an elf with striking green eyes and branded dark skin. It felt like something he’d come to expect. Even his name was something given to make him less of a person. He was a curious thing to be gawked and prodded at, a trophy in Danarius’ trove of assets. He had become numb to it; he had heard all of this before.

“I guess she finds me amusing,” he stated dryly with a shrug. “I’ve grown accustomed to it. It’s nothing new.”

Amusement. Corrine paused and studied his gaze. She’d seen his eyes sharpen with anger and dull with a long tiredness at times as they’d passed through Kirkwall. Even during Diamondback, she’d noticed it; he had stayed calm but an old pain had dulled them momentarily.

“You have a tell too, you know, besides the lyrium.” She began as she raised her goblet to her lips.

“Found something to pick at, Hawke?” Fenris asked as he raised a brow. He was skeptical about where the mage was leading to and already on guard from her earlier bluntness.

She took a long drag of brandy, for courage, before she spoke again. “Those eyes of yours betray the cold front you put up in a tragically beautiful way.”

His eyes widened as he looked away. His brands, however, smoldered at her words. Isabela had called his eyes pretty and joked about wearing them as a necklace and Danarius also had contemplated about plucking them from his skull with sick glee. He had been disassembled in conversations into just a sum of his parts so much it had all become static. This was different.

Fenris reached for the brandy bottle and raised it to his lips, before meeting her gaze. He had been caught off guard and spoke hesitantly, still wondering if he had heard her correctly. “I wasn’t expecting flattery from you.”

“I'm just speaking plainly,” she muttered quietly. The brandy had loosened her lips more than she had liked.

He paused at the comment before a half-smile creased his expression. “Speaking plainly, your eyes also give you away as something more than just magic and tarot.” He had noticed the subtle shifts in her gazes and seen the facade drop when she thought no one was paying attention.

Surprised, Corrine brushed off the comment with a laugh. “Ah, I guess we’re even then…,” she replied. “I didn’t take you for a charmer.” They had been drinking so she chocked it up to banter.

It wasn’t her only tell, just the one he was willing to give away. There was also something intriguing, a valuable hint he wouldn’t give up just yet. When he strained his ears, he could hear her heartbeat. It’s pace was quickening.

Emboldened, Fenris grinned and followed up on his statement. “Perhaps I’ll work on my flattery for your next visit. With any luck, I’ll be better at it.”

”Next visit? Already thinking that far?” Corrine looked away as her face flushed red.

Was it too much? Fenris cleared his throat; he was getting carried away by the details and panic was starting to set in for both of them. Eye contact at this point felt like a death sentence.

Being Hawke the mage and tarot reader had been safe and simple in its two-dimensionality for Corrine but this conversation had taken new turns. Along with that, she was touching on something past the lyrium and armor to the person beneath it. All of this was alien to both of them. It felt precarious. The mansion was dead silent as their stalemate continued.

”Speaking of tarot, would you be up for a reading? Just for fun?” she offered, trying to the ice. She was desperate to change the subject and rifled through her pocket before pulling out her deck. It trembled in her grip.

There was a pause for a moment as he sat there, stone-faced. “Fine, but if you pull The Fool on me again, you’re leaving,” Fenris said dryly as he gestured to the table. Relieved, she sat back in her seat and shuffled the cards while he observed her. Her face was still flushed and her bright blue eyes were locked on her cards.