Chapter Text
hawke
I have heRd it said that the pen is mightyeR than the sword
it is shoRely moRe difikult to hold
thiz pen fills me with Rage
fenRis
Dear Fenris,
That never made sense to me. I get it that writing things down is important but surely a sword is more dangerous sort of immediately, I mean I would rather be stabbed with a pen than with a sword because I never heard of anyone being stabbed to death from a pen though I suppose it could work if it was stuck in your eye.
Everyone is very excited, they are posting Appointments, this means that someone is going to be knighted. Paxley says it takes years to become a full knight but that’s only because you have to prove yourself and I think I have proved myself a lot, unless they ask me about the Canticle of Threnodies in which case I will probably muck it up so fingers crossed.
There is nothing wrong with this pen except are these teeth marks? Did you bite this pen? Don’t send me your pens, how will you write to me again?
Carver
hawke
the pen can cut swaths thRew nations and bring lite to the daRkness
the woRds of a king can save or slay thowsands
woRbs aRe more poweRful than wepons and peRhaqs more dificult to foRj
even if you do not yet be come a KNIgHT do not be down cast as youR time wil come
fenRis
Dear Fenris,
I can’t believe they chose Barker. He’s such a suckarse little snothead. He knows the Chant backwards but he holds his shield like an Orlesian whore and I know the Knight Captain chewed him out for it not a week ago so why would they choose him? And now I have to take orders from him and he is so smug about it I want to punch him in the face. I bet I could take him in a fistfight. I know I can.
I will be next I swear it I will beat Ruvena and Paxley and Hugh and then we shall see about Barker’s face and which side of it he’s laughing out of when I make Knight Corporal before him.
I’ve been trying to work out what this soap smells like. Pommegranit?
Yours,
Carver
PS I love your pretty little Rs.
hawke
do Not mock me
I have every faith that you will prove your self werthy soon enuf
Sebastian tells me the spelling is pomegraNate
fenris
P.S. I suppose you meant for me to read that aloud. Very punny, Hawke. S.V.
Dear Fenris,
Here is a typical day in my life. I get up before dawn and pray. Then I have breakfast. Ruvena tries to steal my fruit preserves and I drink her tea when she’s not looking.
If I have guard duty I put on my armour and go stand somewhere in the sun. The helmets feel like buckets, and they get hot inside. If I don’t have guard duty I go to the training yard and hit Paxley with a stick until he has bruises. Yesterday Ruvena gave me a black eye, but it was really funny so that’s okay.
We break for lunch and then it’s guard duty/training again. In the afternoon there is Contemplation. I’m still Contemplating the Canticle of Benedictions (blah blah Champions of the Just).
Then there’s supper. It’s usually a hot meal with meat or fish but not always, and when it is meat we try to guess if it is horse or something worse. Last week it had suckers. That was new.
Then we run errands and do chores and things until curfew. I’ve been assigned to the Knight Captain’s office. This means that he gets me to fetch things when he needs them. It is interesting because normally if I ask someone for something they roll their eyes because no-one ever does anything for recruits (except the Tranquil because they are not a bunch of jerks) but if I’m asking and it’s for the Knight Captain then they get all nervous and jump like frogs.
And then it is curfew and I go to bed. Sometimes someone has an idea for a prank. That never ends well.
It’s different on other days, and I might have to run errands in the morning or when ever, but basically that’s it.
I had better stop now as I’m at the end of the page. See you in 27 days!
Yours,
Carver
hawke
your letters are too long
Do you Do this to sHame me
fenris
Dear Fenris,
Of course I don’t want to shame you! Don’t be dumb. I would never do that.
But I’ll make this one short.
I have a new duty, helping one of the Tranquil to take stock of the stores. It is mostly heavy lifting and very dull.
I think I might have grown a new muscle. I’ll show you in 23 days.
Yours,
Carver Hawke
PS Thankyou for the cheese. I shared it. Everyone likes cheese. I hope it wasn't dog.
hawke
muscle is a foul word why are worbs so hard to sqell ?
sebaztian tells me that it will becom easier
I long for this day
forgive my terribel writing
fenris
Fenris
There is nothing to forgive. Your letters always make me happy. I miss you and when you write to me it makes things better. Really. Really, really.
Please don't stop writing to me.
Don't forget about me.
I'd better stop before I get too miserable.
Yours always,
Carver
PS 17 days. I can't drink this wine now but I will keep it especially.
hawke
do not be miserable
I command it
fenris
Fenris,
Sometimes there are things I want to tell you about this place, but I can’t, and I won’t, because they’re not up to me to tell. I know we have a noble duty, and that it is just, but there are things done here in the name of the Maker that bother me. Surely the Maker knows and will show me what is right. I will do His will.
I miss you. I think of you often. Margitte drinks chamomile tea when she can’t sleep, and the smell of it makes me heartsore.
Where did you get these pennants? What have you been doing?
Yours,
Carver
PS 11 days. I am counting.
Fenris reads all of it, and it takes an age, but when he puzzles out what he can of the words he smiles. Heartsore. That makes sense, even when so much of it does not.
There is a pile of stones beside the hearth, two piles in fact, and Fenris gets up, goes over, moves some of them until one pile numbers eleven, and then he sits on his heels and stares at them because this insignificant mound (two mounds) of rock has become so important to him that it aches.
It is foolish.
He knows, and has always known, that becoming attached to something or someone is an excellent way to be hurt when the thing or person is removed from one. And yet.
Eleven days. It shouldn't matter, but it does.
He picks up a bottle and moves to the chair by the fire that has become his favourite. It is also foolish to become attached to a chair of all things, but he likes sitting here, in this chair, near this warmth, thinking … and thinking about someone in particular.
He drinks, sits, and thinks. His lover. He smiles, wipes a hand over the smile, and tries to frown but it won't come.
There is someone out there who cares for him, who writes such simple, childish letters, so full of youthful exuberance and honesty, and Fenris isn't sure how he feels about that. On the one hand, it is pleasant (blissful) to be cared for, to be the object of someone's regard. And yet --
And yet. He feels false. As though he has been deceptive, as though he has not revealed enough of himself for anyone to feel so thoroughly attached to him. Because he is not the person he is believed to be. He is and will always be this monstrous creature, and not as bright and beautiful as the person he sees reflected in those deep blue human eyes.
What does Hawke think of him? It seems clear -- that he is a pliant, willing lover, and yet. And yet. There is so much more to it than that; the Fenris who exists behind the masks (and they are so many). He isn't entirely sure who that is himself, but he is even more sure that Hawke does not see how awful he is, how very despicable he has been and will, no doubt, be again. Hawke, who believes so hard in the light of the Maker. How could he possibly find room in himself to encompass the dark horror that is this 'Fenris'?
And. Fenris is selfish enough to want to hide it, to conceal all the terrible things he has done, that he is, in the hope that no-one will see it and denounce him and turn away.
So, he drinks, turning up the bottle until the first brush of dregs touches his lips. He stops, then, puts the bottle down, reaches for another. Surely, with everything he has done, there is some mercy in the drink that will help him forget.
But, those eyes. Hawke. Looking up at him, on his knees between Fenris' feet, hands knotted in Fenris' clothing, begging to be shown how to use his mouth, his eyes bright, his lips wet, his hands shaking. Please, Fenris, I want to. Show me how. I want you, I want to, to, and then looking away, the blood rising in his cheeks because Hawke is so easy to read, so very obvious, and when he wants he wants, and when he is shy he is shy, and when he desires it is so very...
Fenris shifts, picturing him there, all that strength and uncertainty. And then, Hawke, pulling his clothes away, revealing him, and the lust in Hawke's eyes as he runs his tongue up the stretch of Fenris' cock, that blue gaze flickering up to see if he's doing this right, to see if he is acceptable, and Fenris groans, now, remembering the brush of lips against his skin.
The vision of that mouth, so red and so tentative, but so eager. Those eyes, watching him, closing when it becomes too much, the dew on his lashes, eyes opening again and gazing up at him with horrified wonder because this was the first time he had ever taken a man in his mouth and whatever he had been expecting Fenris is sure he did not expect this.
The memory is too much. Fenris curls in on himself, trying to crush the want that burns in his crotch. Because. It is so much more than simple 'want' or 'need' and he does not want to profane it with something so base as lust.
Except. That is part of it as well. And he is not so simple-minded as to think that he is anything more to Hawke than just lust.
Sometimes, it feels like more than that. The press of a mouth to his shoulder, and the laugh smothered there against his skin. The way those arms go around him, pulling him in, as if he -- foolish, dangerous, profane Fenris -- is truly wanted, and not simply the object of concupiscence. Maker, the way those eyes look at him sometimes, as though he really does have all the answers instead of muddling his way through explanations of things he only half understands himself.
Hawke. Carver. His own Hawke, all his own. Who maybe, maybe, thinks he loves him.
And he, too, will leave, when he realises what Fenris is.
It is inevitable.
The wine is tart, and bitter, and it soothes in its own way. Enough of it, in any case.
He has plenty, and he consumes it, counting down the pebbles until he can try again to anchor himself to something he knows he does not deserve.
Anders doesn’t like her, and she knows it, but she’s completely unprepared for how bitter he sounds when she asks him how he went on the trip to the Deep Roads.
“Oh, it was like being betrayed, and then trapped underground with a few hundred darkspawn, some demons, and the taint. It was a walk in the sodding park, Merrill. You would have loved it.”
She should have known better, she supposes. He looks haggard, lines of grief and anger digging in around his eyes. But then, Anders has always been a grumpy one. She wonders how much of that is him, and how much is the spirit lodged in his head. Isabela told her that Anders used to be much less grumpy, back in Ferelden, and some of the things Isabela said were absolutely filthy and Merrill secretly thinks sounded terribly fun. 'Fun' being something he really isn’t anymore.
“You poor thing,” she says, meaning his possession and all the terrible things he uses to justify it.
Anders gives her a horrified look. “I don’t want your pity.”
Merrill opens her mouth to say that it wasn’t pity, or really that it was, but the good sort, not the bad sort, but Varric invites them both to play diamondback and so they do.
The game is confusing, but Merrill thinks she can’t be all that bad at it. She’s got a lot of ones, this time. That’s a good thing, she’s fairly sure, so she asks Varric for confirmation. “Is this a good hand?” and she shows him.
He clears his throat, and smiles. “Daisy, that’s a wonderful hand.”
“Oh! Good.”
Anders shakes his head, covering his face with one hand, and puts down his cards. “I fold.”
They play, and Anders is really quite bad at it, Merrill thinks.
And then he’s there, dropping down into a chair opposite Varric, between Anders and herself. “My three favourite people! Deal me in, and I’ll buy everyone a drink.”
“Hawke.” Anders looks annoyed but Merrill can't understand why.
He refuses the drink. Merrill doesn’t really drink either, but she allows herself to be poured a small cup of ale, (she’s never really got used to the taste, which is mostly horrid, and pointless because it’s not even as if it’s medicinal). Varric, meanwhile, is happy to make up the difference.
“This reminds me of the time,” he starts, leaning his elbows on the table.
“How can you not have run out yet?” Anders shakes his head. “Two and a half months underground, and you’re still spinning yarns.” His tone is irritated, but his face is something else. Something soft. Something kind. It makes him look far less grumpy.
“Ah, but this time you get to be the story, blondie,” and Varric starts to tell the story of what happened after Aveline went with the Grey Wardens.
His stories are good, always, and Merrill listens, enraptured. “Why is it always Anders and, and Hawke who are the heroes in this story, Varric? I’m sure you were very brave and dashing too.” Dashing. She blushes a little, glancing up at Hawke out of the corner of her eye. He really is quite dashing. And Anders is quite brave, she adds to herself, to be fair. Not really dashing, though.
“Varric was probably the most brave and dashing of us all, being the least upset about the whole ‘trapped underground’ thing,” Hawke says, dry and charming as always. He rests his hand on the back of Anders’ chair, and Anders glances at it, looking away almost at once.
Oh, he’s such a grumpy old thing. Merrill wonders if maybe she can cheer him up.
“Anders, do you have any stories? Fun ones, I mean. Isabela says you used to be lots of fun. She said one time you made all her organs tingle, all night long. I’d like to see that, it sounds in-ter-es-ting!”
Hawke must have taken some of his drink the wrong way, because he chokes on it, spluttering a little. Anders, who doesn’t seem terribly concerned that Hawke might drown on his ale, gives her a very odd look. “Would you, now?”
“I know I would,” Hawke says, clearing his throat. “I would very much like to see that.”
“I’ll pass,” Varric rumbles. He has a lovely, rumbly voice, like a lovely rumbly bear. Merrill tried to tell him once, but it came out wrong, and she ended up calling him a bear, and then a talking bear, and then a beehive.
Anders tells them a story about a prank played on a Templar, which ended with both him and the Templar falling through the roof of a shed, soaking wet and in their underclothing. It sounds ... dangerous, actually, and a little mean, but Hawke laughs until his eyes water, and Varric seems to think it’s hilarious.
Then Hawke tells a story about having his trousers eaten by a goat while he was in a haystack with a girl from the Chantry, and having to run home three miles through the wheat-stubble, pantsless and chased by a bleating goat.
Merrill tries to think of a time when she lost her clothes in a comical manner, only she can’t quite understand why it’s so comical and, anyway, she hasn’t ever lost her clothes. “The Dalish all bathe together in the river,” she says. “Naked.” Hawke blinks at her, so she adds, “Once, a little boy did a wee on my tunic while I was bathing. He didn’t mean anything by it, but I had to wear the tunic wet for the rest of the day, which was ver-y uncomfortable.”
That, at least, makes Anders laugh, slapping the table with his hand. Hawke and Varric are staring at her, though, and their faces are terribly similar, sort of twisted up in horror or something.
Oh! “I washed it,” she explains, over Anders’ laughter. “Before I put it on. And it was only a little wee.”
“Or, as Sebastian would say,” Anders adds, grinning, “A ‘wee wee’.”
Merrill nods. “Yes, a wee wee.” This sets Anders off again, and Hawke looks like he’s trying very hard not to join him. “You can laugh,” she tells him, touching the back of his hand very lightly. “It’s funny.”
He looks down at her hand. Oh. That was probably a little too bold. She takes back her hand and tucks it firmly under her thigh, where it won’t be so silly as to try touching people as thrillingly terrifying as Hawke.
“It is funny,” he agrees with her, and she peeks at him. He’s smiling and, oh, it’s so warm and heart-stopping. Why does he have to be so lovely? Why couldn’t he be horrid? Or less handsome? Or Dalish?
“Ye-es,” she says, forgetting what they were talking about.
Later, Anders pushes back his chair. “Well, that’s enough not-drinking for me. I suppose I should ... get some sleep.” He glances at Hawke, who nods, smiles at him and says goodnight.
Anders raises an eyebrow. “Are you planning on a big night?”
“No, but I thought I might walk Merrill home,” Hawke says, making her heart skip. “Since Carver isn’t here to do it for her.” He smiles up at Anders. “I’ll see you tomorrow. First thing.”
The look Anders gives her is sharp, and a little unfriendly. “First thing,” he echoes.
He goes, and Hawke cocks his head like a, oh, a hawk, watching her. Which she supposes would make her a rabbit. She does feel awfully twitchy. “Did you want me to walk you home?”
“Yes!” That was a bit squeaky! She tries again, “Yes, please. Sh-shall we go now?”
Varric catches Hawke’s arm as they leave. “Hawke,” he says, low and rumbly. “Take good care of Daisy, won’t you?”
“Would I do anything less?”
It’s cool outside, getting cooler these days. She’ll have to get another blanket for her bed, one that isn’t rat-nested-in like her last spare blanket. She hugs her chest, and Hawke, so tall and warm, puts his arm around her shoulders. “Better?”
It’s better than better. “Yes,” she says, beaming, and then they walk.
It’s not like walking with Carver. Hawke talks. Hawke doesn’t stop talking, except to listen to her talk, and she really doesn’t have very much to say right now, walking alone with Hawke under the -- well, actually there aren’t any stars. But she can imagine stars. And she doesn’t have to imagine the weight of his arm or the sound of his voice, or the things he’s saying which she realises she hasn’t been listening to and the last thing was a question and she has no idea what it was.
“Merrill? Have you?”
Um. “Have I what?”
He blinks down at her, and smiles. “Heard from my brother.”
“Oh! No. I ... should I have? I don’t think,” and she frowns down at her feet. “He probably wouldn’t write to me. He’s still probably ... well. And now he’s a Templar.”
She doesn’t understand that at all, because the Templars are awful and Carver is kind and sweet and like a big puppy, just like Isabela says, and he’d never hurt anyone, except, well, bad people, and the thought of him dragging mages off to the Gallows is like the thought of Varric wearing a coat of elvhen skin. Well, actually, that thought is worse. But still, it would be horrible and completely unbelievable and it makes her unhappy to think about.
“Yes. I wondered about that. I thought, well. I rather thought he wouldn’t do that. Especially on your account. Did you,” and he pats her shoulder, “have a fight?”
It wasn’t, really, because a fight would mean that Merrill had fought back, and she hadn’t dared. “He was very angry with me,” she says quietly. “I’m not sure that he hadn’t every right to be.”
“I’m sorry.” He hugs her a little. It’s lovely, and it does help. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, well. Most of the clan is angry with me. So it isn’t the first time I’ve been yelled at by a friend.”
He stops, and he’s looking down at her, and he’s so tall and handsome, and Merrill wonders how Isabela might, in her position, get him to kiss her. “I rather thought,” he says, with a faint smile, “that you were more than just friends.”
“Well, good friends,” she says, and he shakes his head.
“I meant more than just good friends. I thought -- he’s very fond of you. I rather expected you might be fond of him too.”
“ I am fond of him,” she says, frowning because this isn’t quite making sense.
Hawke sighs and squeezes her shoulder, tilting his head back in exasperation. “Merrill. You know what I mean. Not just good friends or even best friends but particularly good especial friends. Kissing friends. Who kiss each other.” He looks back down at her, eyes twinkling. “Romantic friends.”
“Lovers!” She puts her hands to her cheeks because, oh. “No. We were never ... I really don’t know why you would ... no, not Carver, I don’t think.”
“Oh?” He grins, and starts walking again, tugging her along with him. She’s probably pink. She is certainly embarrassed. “Not Carver, hey? Why not Carver? He’s ... annoying, and ... well, actually. He has some good points. He’s brave. And he swings that sword about pretty damn well. And he’s got nice, shiny armour. He doesn’t snore, and he washes behind his ears, most days. He doesn’t smell too terrible. You could do a lot worse.” He’s still grinning.
“I don’t think he’s interested in me.” By the dread wolf, her face is so hot. “Not like that.”
“Well, when I left he was courting you, so I don’t know what changed while I was away.” He seems quite cheerful about this, skipping down the steps to the alienage.
“No, you’re wrong,” Merrill tells him, struggling to keep up. “That’s Fenris. He’s been courting Fenris.”
Hawke gives her a very odd look. “What? No, Merrill, courting means--”
“I know what courting means!” Shemlen, always thinking she doesn’t understand. “He’s been ... they’re very affectionate, when they don’t think anyone can see. Carver’s always giving him puppy eyes. And they ... well. They’re mated.” Like a pair of pigeons, only less innocent.
Hawke’s eyebrows go nearly all the way up his brow. “Mated?”
“Lovers.” Merrill makes a vague gesture with her hands. “Physically.” She wonders if he knows much about it. “Sometimes, two men will do that. It’s really quite sweet.” Though, she imagines, messy. Isabela told her about it and, yes. Messy. But lovemaking is always a bit messy, anyway.
He looks horrified. “Fenris is tupping my baby brother?”
She isn’t sure what that word actually means, but the context seems to be right. “Yes?”
“Maker’s breath!” He leans against her doorjamb, and she can’t tell if he’s just shocked or angry, but then he swipes a hand over his face and chuckles, and it's not quite his usual chuckle, but close enough. “And here I thought ... well. Well, that does change a few things.”
“Does it?” Merrill can’t think of anything it changes, except that maybe Hawke will be nicer to Fenris now. Poor Fenris. Always so cross.
“Mmm-hmm.” He looks at her, smiles sort of shyly, and reaches into his pocket. “I’ve got something for you.”
He pulls out a long golden chain, and suspended on the end is a Dalish charm, a ward against misfortune, just a little ball of gold with etchings on it. It's an old thing, a powerful thing, and Merrill's hands go out of themselves, to catch and cup this little charm in her palms because it's so precious, and small, and delicate, and it reeks of history.
“Oh! Oh, tha-ankyou!”
Hawke drops the chain into her hands, and she holds it against her chest because it is special, and he gave it to her, and it means something that he brought her something so very, very, very old. “I thought,” he says, and his smile is just … wonderful, “that you might find something useful in it. I mean, it's Dalish, right? Surely you know what it's actually for.”
Ah. A useful thing. Well, it's still nice of him. “I'll keep it safe,” she says, wishing he had meant it for her, and not just because he wanted to know if it was useful. She takes a deep breath, because Isabela told her what to do if he ever showed up at her door, at night, and wanted to talk. “W-would you like to come in? I … Carver used to check all the cupboards for me, in case there was a burglar, only now I check them myself and there never is. Probably because I set wards, but ….” You never know.
He makes a face, looking away. “Sounds like you know what you're about,” he says, and he shakes himself, leaning away. “I'll see you tomorrow.”
“Oh. Well. Yes.”
He waits for her to go in and shut the door, and she leans against it, holding the little charm in her hands, and after a while she opens the door again to peek out. He's gone. Well, of course he is.
Hawke.
She summons a magelight, a little wisp hovering just above her shoulder, and holds the charm up, examining it carefully. Yes. This was a love token, between some long-dead elf and her (or his) long dead lover. A small thing, to protect against the dark, but a valuable thing nevertheless, from a time when gold was still something the elvhen worked for themselves.
He doesn't know. And he wouldn't have given it to her if he had known.
She loops the chain around her neck, tucks it deep under her clothes, and smiles.
He doesn't know. But she does. And she will treasure it.
The door bangs open and Fenris jumps, just a little, because he must have dozed off and the sound jerks him out of sleep.
For a moment his heart lifts, because only one person ever bursts into his house these days, and there are footsteps on the stair, heavy and furious, and he pushes himself up, eager for the company.
“Hawke,” he breathes, and then -- no. The shape in his doorway is Hawke, yes, but the wrong Hawke, and this Hawke is not happy.
“Evening, Fenris.”
Fenris sinks back into his chair, and he does not exactly glower, but he feels dissatisfied, disappointment making him sullen. “Hawke,” he says, and gestures at the bottles, opened and unopened, on the table. “Please, help yourself.”
Hawke grunts, picks up a bottle, and pulls the cork free. “So.”
It is an odd way to open a conversation. “So,” Fenris answers, curling around his own half-drunk bottle and watching Hawke. They move the same, Carver and his brother, the same height and the same colouring, but there the resemblance ends. Carver is broad and heavy where the elder Hawke is rangy, mage hands and mage limbs and no real muscle. Carver is transparent, easily read, where Garrett is layer upon layer of secrets and subterfuge. Carver is honest, where his brother lies. A warrior and a mage. So very different it is hard to see the relation between them.
“Been enjoying yourself, have you? While we were dying underground.”
Fenris supposes it is true, but he recalls how Hawke abandoned him in his extremity and he scowls. “I take it your venture was less pleasurable than you expected.”
“Damn straight.” Hawke sits, resting his staff within reach. Fenris eyes it cautiously. A mage with its staff handy is dangerous. Hawke takes a pull from the bottle, watching Fenris over the glass. “You should have come.”
“I had business to attend,” Fenris tells him.
Hawke grimaces. “So I've heard.” He toys with the bottle. “This isn't your usual quality,” he says.
“You've been gone a while.” Fenris sits up, settling his feet on the floor. “I have had to find other sources. Some of them … inferior.”
His unwanted guest makes a face full of teeth, fury flashing to the surface, and Fenris tenses because that is the precursor to an attack. But. The attack is not forthcoming, and instead Hawke laughs, brittle and false. “I see.” He takes another pull, and now he is bristling with that under-the-skin restlessness of a mage who is ready to draw lightning from the sky. “I suppose it was your idea for my brother to become a Templar, of all things.”
Fenris does not think it was. “No,” he says. “That was his own idea.”
“And you didn't help with that at all.” Hawke's eyes glisten with magic, and Fenris sits up a bit straighter because, well, it has come to this?
“I support his decision,” he says sharply, watching and waiting for the first breach of spellcraft that will make it necessary to defend himself and -- and if necessary to kill his lover's brother. Carver would not like that. It would be necessary. He does not want to. “But it was his decision, not mine. He is free to make choices for himself, is he not?” Even when Fenris himself does not agree with them. Such as with the blood mage.
“He's a fool,” Hawke says bitterly, and Fenris feels a burst of anger, his markings flickering with … indignation? He takes a deep breath, and Hawke goes on. “He never thinks things through, always charging off into something he doesn't understand. He never thinks about the consequences, just about how he feels.”
It is insulting. Fenris feels … unhappy and embarrassed and angry that Hawke would say that, would demean his brother by speaking so ill of him behind his back. “He is not a child,” Fenris growls, and Hawke snorts.
“He's hardly more than.” And Hawke looks at him, eyes dark and dangerous. “So, I hear you two have been … close.”
Ah. This. It is not something Fenris expected but, looking back, perhaps he should have. The righteousness of the protective elder brother. Foolish to think that this was a thing reserved for brothers with sisters. “That is our business and no-one else's.”
“I don't really think it is,” Hawke says, and his tone is sharp enough to cut flesh. “I really think it's something I should make my business.”
“To what end?” Fenris tips his bottle up, drinks from it, wipes his mouth. “Would you threaten me, and make me cease this thing? Knowing it would make him unhappy, and angry with you. Or do you come to warn me not to hurt him, as though it is a thing I wish to do but would refrain from should you so demand it? Or would you have me make an honest woman of him?"
Hawke glares, and Fenris can feel the power in it, the barely held back force that could crush him should it choose, and here is the reason why mages should be feared, because they can kill with a thought. Or can try to do so. Fenris can feel the lyrium rising in defence, can see the faint glow of his skin, and as much as he hates it he is glad of it, now, for this moment.
And then, the tension is gone. Hawke sits back, holding up his wine. “If you do,” he says, and there, his amiability is back, and his mouth quirks into a smirk, “I will hurt you.”
“Such a caring brother,” Fenris mutters.
They drink. They talk. None of it is important, because the important things have already been said, and cannot be easily forgotten.