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There's something not quite right about Garrett Hawke.
There's something in the way he carries himself. He is an apostate, he should be living in fear, constantly chancing a look over his shoulder, jumping at the slightest sound of armour. But he does not. Instead he moves with his head held high, his staff in full view. He strides through Kirkwall, crowds parting around him even though he is a lowly smuggler, eyes darting away from him as if looking at him too long will burn. He has the gait of a predator, when he stands still he commands attention. He fears nothing, and he is right to, because everything fears him. He is in full control of himself, every muscle knowing its purpose. It makes Fenris bite his lip, his body heating, when he watches Hawke move. Hawke's self-assurance is something tantalising, because it is not arrogance.
No, there is nothing arrogant in Hawke. Not when he gives his last few silvers to a beggar woman in Darktown, or rolls on the ground with his hound. There is no arrogance in the way he jokes with Varric, or helps Merrill with a heavy load of shopping, or the way he kisses his mother on the cheek when they leave to run some errand or another. There is nothing haughty in the way he looks at Fenris like he holds the answer to all of life's mysteries in the palm of his hand. No, Hawke is not arrogant, merely confident in his own power.
There's something in his voice, as well, in its fluctuations and its intensity. It is profound, a steady rumble like something from the deep earth, and it seems to vibrate through everything. When he speaks, Fenris feels it in his very core, inside him, shaking his foundations. When Hawke shouts, it is a roar, wild and made of sheer rage. There is power in Hawke's voice, power and danger and Fenris loves to hear him, feel his words as he speaks them. When Hawke speaks, people do his bidding, heads ducked like trained dogs.
And yet he is also capable of softness. When he speaks to a lost child, or to his mother. When he says Fenris's name like a prayer to the Maker, full of adoration.
His magic is like nothing Fenris has ever seen. It holds none of the magisters' poise and refined mastery. Hawke's magic is not studied, it is wild, loose and free and it will not be tamed. Fire is his friend, his partner, his constant companion, and all burn if he so wills it. It surrounds him, moves with him, seems to come from inside him rather than from thin air and the Fade like Anders's magic, and it certainly does not come from blood like Merrill's. And Fenris does not fear this mage. There's something in the nature of his fire that Fenris knows is not like the magic that carved welts in his flesh and filled them with lyrium. This magic is pure, savage, untainted by science and study. And Fenris will allow this mage close, because he knows, with surprising clarity, that this fire will never burn him.
Sometimes it's in Hawke's grin. His teeth are slightly pointed, and his grin is a hunter's grin. It can be savage in battle, taking great joy in the act of shedding blood. It can also be dark, when his humour is at its blackest and everyone else winces as he laughs (though he never takes joy in the misfortunes of those who have nothing). Other times his smile is soft, but Fenris can see it, something there, something... feral. When it is for Fenris, though, there is nothing but warmth.
Hawke is stronger than any mage has any right to be. Danarius was pot-bellied and weak from years of easy living. Anders is tall and lanky, gaunt from lack of food and the wrong kind of exercise. Hawke... Hawke is built almost like a warrior, like his brother, or Aveline. His arms are mighty, his muscles ripple, and he can lift more than even Fenris can, with his lyrium-strength. Hawke makes light of it, half-joking about farm work, but any fool can see that this strength is in his blood. He lifts loaded carts and barrels down metal-studded doors with an ease no man should rightly have. It both puzzles Fenris and makes him ache. The thought of Hawke manhandling him is not one that is easily ignored.
Hawke's eyes are strange, as well. Carver's and Leandra's are blue, a normal, human blue, but Hawke's... Hawke's are amber, whiskey, molten gold. They glimmer, and shine much like Fenris's and Varric's own in the dark. At first, Fenris half-thinks he is elf-blooded, but that makes no sense – elf-blood is easily seen. There's something altogether different in Hawke's eyes, and it is something Fenris has seen in the Qunari. His pupils become slits, there's flames within his irises, dancing there, but Fenris ignores this. He ignores it whenever their eyes meet and he gets lost in the way Hawke looks at him.
Fenris only learns the truth many years later, the reason why Hawke is so... different.
They are in the Bone Pit, and Fenris knows they are going to die. This is a dragon, a huge, majestic, terrifying beast, and there is no way they will survive this, not even with two mages. They cannot even run, she knows they are there, and she has the power of flight. Fenris steels himself for the fight, for death... but neither comes.
Hawke strides forward, unwavering, powerful, and stands before the dragon. She watches him, steady, unblinking. Hawke stares back.
“What's he doing?” Anders hisses, and Varric hushes him angrily. Fenris can only watch, in awe.
Hawke raises his hand, creates his fire. The dragon matches him, their flames mingle, and one thought only flashes through Fenris's mind.
Hawke is a dragon.
The dragon, with a mighty beat of her wings, takes flight and leaves, heading north. Where she will go is a mystery, but Hawke still stands there, straight and proud, and Fenris steps towards him.
“Hawke?”
When Hawke turns, it is as if nothing has even happened. “Look, she left armour, that's nice of her!” he says, and Fenris is bewildered.
How could it even be possible?
Fenris does not speak to him for a week, unsure of how to even handle such a revelation. It makes no sense, but with all the magic in the world, perhaps it does. Hawke is a man, a human man, but he is also a dragon. Fenris's head reels with it.
He hears the sound of Hawke's confident step up the stairs, the clink of armour and buckles, but he doesn't turn.
“What did I do to deserve the cold shoulder this time?” Hawke asks, and Fenris wraps his arms around himself, and says nothing. When Hawke next speaks, he is closer, but still a respectful distance away.
“Seriously, though.” And he sounds hurt. Fenris turns, doesn't look at him.
“You... you are...”
Hawke winces. “Oh. That.”
Fenris has to briefly chuckle. “Yes, that.”
“I don't... I mean, does it change anything?”
Hawke sounds slightly desperate, so Fenris looks up. There's a vulnerability in his eyes, soft, the fire quenched for now. Fenris takes his hand, touches his palm.
“You are no mage,” he murmurs.
“Hallf-mage,” Hawke admits. “There's magic in the Amell line. The dragon part? That's all from my father.”
Fenris shakes his head, disbelieving. “How does that even work?”
“Well, when a daddy dragon and a mummy human love each other very much...”
“Hawke.”
Hawke stifles a laugh. “I don't even know. I don't think my father was anything close to a pure dragon. And there's no Qunari blood in us, as far as I know. I have no idea how it works. It's just... how I am. Bethany was almost the same, but I was the one the dragon blood came out strongest it.” He sighs, shrugging. “You get elf-blooded, maybe you can get dragon-blooded too.”
He is quiet for a moment, as Fenris runs a gauntleted hand up his arm, to his shoulder. He licks his lips.
“Does it change anything?” he repeats quietly.
Fenris thinks. He was not expecting this, of all twists, but Hawke is sewn into his heart by now, etched under his skin, deeper than lyrium brands, in his blood and his soul.
“I made an exception for a mage,” he says, “I can make an exception for a dragon.”
Hawke's kiss is fiery, hot and passionate, but Fenris would expect nothing less from him.