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Chapter Text

If Mairead Hawke never had to hear the Chant of Light again, it would be too soon.

Sebastian had carried her back from the coast, whispering verses all the while. She had only been vaguely conscious of tanned arms, white armor, and Andraste's face hitting her in the ass as they doubletimed it back to the city... which was no small feat with an injured person.

Especially one as uncooperative as Hawke.

They'd made it back in record time, soaking wet from a sudden downpour and the inability to stop, even for shelter. And though filthy, at least the Hanged Man was dry.

And had Anders in it.

Powerful as Merrill was, she was no healer. The most she'd been able to do out on the cliffs was put Hawke under with a sleep spell so she'd one, stop fussing, and two, not have to feel the dig of the arrowhead as it pressed itself against the chambers of her heart with each breath. It had made her more compliant, sure, but it did nothing to stop the blood or take the broken metal any farther from her vital organs.

Hawke stirred and felt herself coming out of it as she was carefully laid on Varric's bed, sitting upright against the headboard. "Sebastian?" she murmured.

He was instantly at eye level, a hand on her arm. "Yes, my friend. Anything."

She cracked one eye open to glare at him. "When someone is injured," she said slowly, "talking about how everyone has a place at the Maker's side isn't very positive."

He chuckled, his warm accent seeming to emanate from the depths of his chest. "I'll mind that, then." He wadded up a few blankets and eased them behind her back. "Merrill and Isabela are fetching Anders as we speak. And Varric, though I doubt he'll argue against the use of his suite."

"I'm in this bed a lot."

The archer raised one eyebrow, but kept his mouth shut. He'd spent enough time with her to know when she was baiting him, and sure enough, a weak smile crept onto her face. He's learned well, Hawke thought. Instead, he did his best to pull her sopping wet red hair away from her face, hoping to keep her as dry as possible.

The door flinging open drew his attention, and he stood. In ran his friends, the healer and the dwarf in tow. The string of simultaneous curses they each let out would have been comical if the situation weren't so dangerous.

Anders reached in with fast hands, nimbly unhooking the fastenings on her leather chestpiece. He tossed it aside and gingerly peeled back the linen tunic stuck to her torn skin. Though it hurt, Hawke craned her neck to see the damage: a small but undeniably ragged hole in her chest, slowly and rhythmically pumping out bright red fluids.

Varric swallowed, pulling over an end table. "See, Hawke? Not so bad. Hole could've been a lot bigger."

"Actually," Anders said with a sympathetic grimace, "a bigger hole would've been better. I might have to widen it in order to get the arrowhead back out."

"Nice, Blondie."

"It's the truth. No use sugar-coating it."

The group started arguing about the next step to take, and Hawke closed her eyes and let her head fall back, her skull hitting the carved wood with a dull thud. Her vision started swimming if she tried to focus too hard on something for more than a few seconds, and the noise and voices were foggy in her ears, but she could make out a few choice words from the room.

"Fenris."

Her companions quieted, and Sebastian leaned over. "What was that, Hawke?"

She tried to straighten up, and two pairs of hands were holding her flat down in an instant. "Bring Fenris here."

"Why?"

Hawke gave a tired half-grin, but managed it all the same. "Because he's not nearly as noisy as all of you. Send him over. And..." She took a deep breath, feeling a sharp pressure nearly everywhere in her chest, "If your name's not Anders, get lost for a while. I'm feeling a little too loved here."

All of a sudden, she felt a kind of warm blanket drape over her mind, and she didn't have the energy to fight it. She surrendered to the darkness calling to her, and blissfully slipped away into unconsciousness with only the shuffling of feet and muffled voices in the background.

When she awoke, it was to the feeling of something cool and wet being held against the angry skin of her wound. She opened her mouth to complain, but the medicinal smell hit her like a ton of bricks, and her stomach churned before she could speak. Instead, she only groaned and swatted at the offending person lazily.

A tattooed hand caught her wrist, placing it firmly back at her side. "Welcome back, Hawke." The elf's gravelly voice echoed in her ears, and she slowly opened her eyes to a fuzzy blob of telltale white hair and the general shape of someone by her bedside.

She sighed a little, waiting for her vision to adjust. "I'm going to strangle Merrill if she knocks me out without asking first ever again."

"And normally I might agree," he said, adjusting in his seat, "but that will have to wait, seeing as she is no longer here."

Hawke blinked a few times and looked around. Sure enough, the only occupants of the room were herself, Fenris, and Anders, who held the compress against her chest.

"Besides," Anders said, pulling the cloth away only to freshen it up and put it back again, "she told us in detail what you did the first time Sebastian tried to carry you."

Hawke snorted. "He brought it upon himself. No one with a vow of chastity should reach for a woman's ass that quickly."

The mage fought down a smirk. "He was trying to scoop you up."

"That's his side of the story. My delicate lady backside knows otherwise."

"That may be so," he interrupted, "but we have other things to worry about right now. Like the arrowhead lodged in your heart."

"It's not in my heart," she corrected him, breath hitching, "just near it."

Fenris' brow crinkled, and he frowned so deeply that only years of practice could make it look so disapproving. "Were you even wearing armor?"

She nodded toward the corner that the ruined leather had been tossed into. "Just bad luck."

"I do not understand what I am doing here."

She stopped to process the sudden change of subject, but didn't miss a beat. "I'm calling everyone in here one by one to say my goodbyes," she said gravely, "and I thought I'd start with you."

Anders froze in his work and Fenris paled, reaching for her. "Hawke -"

She weakly batted his hand away, snickering faintly. "Just kidding. I actually need your help."

Fenris leaned back, arms crossed over his chest, and Anders might have been a little rougher with the next compress than was necessary.

"That wasn't funny," the healer said, glaring.

For once, Fenris agreed with him. "I will never understand your particular brand of humor."

"You know you love it." She coughed as the smell of herbs burned her throat, and the tightening of her lungs sent shockwaves of pain throughout her torso, like there were dozens of broken arrowheads stabbing into anything and everything they touched. The pain was incredible, and for the first time she could remember in a long while, Hawke let out a stifled scream.

Fenris leapt from the chair to her bed, holding her back against the headboard while Anders pressed glowing hands against her sternum in an attempt to calm the convulsions the coughs had triggered.

"You said you needed my help, Hawke." He kept eye contact, his face inches from hers, until her breathing slowed, and Hawke wondered how any living person could be that intense. "Tell me what you need."

"You're not going to like it."

"I am quite used to that, following you around."

"Fair enough." She winced as Anders pulled those lovely, magical, numbing hands away. "All right, Fenris. I need you to reach into my chest and pull the arrowhead out."

He was silent then, visibly uncomfortable. "What?"

"Your abilities. If you can wrap whole hands around people's internal organs, you can use a few fingers to grab a two-inch piece of metal, right? There's already an entry path, so just..." she mimed the action with one shaky hand. "Just yank it out."

Anders looked at his face, then back to her wound. "Is that really such a good idea?"

"I also must question your methods." The elf reflexively clenched his fist a few times. "I... have never had to do anything like this before."

"Well, what choice do I have?" She flinched from the effort it took to yell, and was steadily held down by someone's hand on her legs. She looked to Anders for confirmation of her estimate on how bad the situation was. "We probably can't wait much longer."

"We'd have longer if you'd stop fighting," he snapped.

"Then I'll keep fighting until you do what I say! Just try testing me on this one."

He shook his head. "That stubbornness is going to get you killed."

"I'm not in the mood to argue." She took the poultice from him, holding it over the wound and enjoying how the cool rivulets of medicine felt running down her heated skin. She looked up into the bright green eyes to her left. "And I trust you. I've seen what you can do, and you're incredible."

Fenris looked away, adjusting his shoulders. "I fear that your faith in me is misplaced."

"It isn't. And I need you now more than ever." She turned to the mage. "And you." She forced a smile, trying not to grimace. "You can lecture me all you want later, all right? I promise."

The corners of his mouth turned upward, and he raised an eyebrow. "I'll hold you to that, you know."

"I know." She straightened up as best she could. "So let's pull this thing out before it kills me."

"Right." Anders laid out a roll of bandages and rubbed his palms together, a green light emanating from the space between his fingers. "Ready when you are, elf."

Hawke could see Fenris prickle at Anders' use of the epithet, and it took sheer force of will not to yell at them both to put it aside and keep her from dying. They could bicker as much as they wanted when she no longer had shrapnel threatening to shred her most important bits.

To his credit, Fenris let it slide and turned his attention back to his wounded comrade. He looked her up and down, trying to assess the best way to go about pulling something out of someone's body. It took a moment, but he finally put one knee on the bed next to her, one arm above her against the wall to brace himself. His free hand gently pulled the compress from over the wound and took its place, palm flat against her torn skin.

"You... may want to hold on to something," he offered.

She wrapped her fists in the blankets surrounding her and exhaled slowly as he placed his other knee against her sternum to hold her against the wall. The pressure was a comfort, and she opened her eyes a little for one last crack.

"I never thought you'd be half-straddling me while you felt me up."

His mouth twitched into one of his rare smiles, and he leaned in closer. "If you cease stalling and allow me to do this, I will even sit on your lap and serve you drinks."

She snickered. "Now I'm going to be very upset if I die."

"As will we, I imagine." His expression sobered again, and he gave Anders a glance. The blond man nodded, and Fenris nodded back. "Brace yourself, Hawke."

And with that, Mairead closed her eyes. "Go ahead."

She could see blue light through the veil of her eyelids, and felt a warm pulse where his hand rested against her skin. It was almost pleasant, feeling the adrenaline that came from the lyrium rushing through her veins. And then she felt him slip through her skin, through her ribs, and felt a dull, throbbing pressure and a tightness in her chest she wasn't sure she'd ever be able to describe in words. There was something there, brushing against her lungs and her bones and what struck her most wasn't how unnatural it was, but the intimacy of it all. It was, in part, like having two heartbeats, and it took all the willpower she had not to buck against him and panic at the intrusion.

And then, for a brief moment, the two heartbeats she felt were synchronized perfectly, and her urge to thrash and pull away all but dissolved. She could feel the touch of ghostly fingertips on her heart, and the expanding and contracting rhythm lagged in response. He was slowing down her heart, she realized, and she did her best to marvel at his abilities rather than think about the many ways this could go wrong.

She felt a stab of cold searing through her, and instantly knew that he'd found the arrowhead. The first tug was painful enough, but when he pulled more insistently a second time, the tearing was nearly unbearable. She wasn't fully aware of what her body was doing, but she felt waves of pain radiating up from her hands. He gripped the metal shard a third time, and just when she was about to push him away and rip it out herself, her entire chest seized up and a flash of unplaceable agony ran through it.

And she found herself able to breathe.

She gasped for air, only vaguely aware of the fuss going on around her and the clank of metal hitting metal ringing in her ears. Her hands, clenched around Fenris' arms, gradually relaxed and she managed what she hoped was an apology as she loosened her grip. Someone was wrapping bandages around her chest, someone was checking her pulse and somewhat awkwardly stroking her hair, and energy crackled through her flesh as green spiderwebs traced themselves over her skin. It was all too much to focus on one thing.

As her body calmed down and the magic ran its course, Hawke moved one hand up to tentatively pluck at her bandages. "Hey," she called weakly to no one in particular, "am I all patched up?"

"Clear as the night sky," Anders answered, and she could hear the relief in his voice. "I'm surprised you're still conscious after that."

She waved him off clumsily. "It wasn't so bad."

"No?" She heard wood creak, and she knew that Fenris had settled back in his chair. "My arms hold evidence to the contrary."

"Sorry about that."

"It was understandable." He tilted his head, studying her as she struggled to move. "Though I must confess myself curious as to... what it was like for you. You are the first person to survive long enough to talk, you see."

She smiled, snuggling back into the wall of pillows. "I'll tell you sometime when I'm back to full strength. Over a pint."

"As you wish."

"That you buy me. And serve me while sitting prettily on my lap."

She could hear the amusement in his words over the scrape of armor. "And here I had hoped you might have forgotten that."

"Plan on backing out?"

"Never."

She chuckled, and Anders piped up in feigned indignation. "What about me? Do I get a pint for that?"

"Anders," Hawke said, "I'll buy you your own bloody keg." She rolled over, stifling a grin. "And Fenris can sit on your lap, too."

An awkward silence hung in the air, and she could only imagine the look that Fenris was giving him.

The mage cleared his throat.

"I'll pass, thanks."

Chapter Text

A few hours passed, punctuated by fitful bouts of unconsciousness. Someone came in to check on her every so often, which mostly involved waking her up to make sure that she wasn't dead or in need of any number of things they brought unasked to clutter the room. Bleary-eyed, she looked at the various poultices and books and preserved foods that had somehow gathered on every horizontal surface. Varric was going to have a fit when this was all over, she thought.

She attempted a stretch, or as close to it as she could manage. Her curiosity was killing her – it was driving her absolutely mad to not peek under the bandages and see what Anders had done. And, for that matter, how it looked after Fenris had pulled the arrowhead out.

Each passing minute that she was awake was an exercise in restraint. The bandages itched, and she didn't know if it was the scratchy material or her desire to tear them off that made it so insufferable. She tried reading, but the only books within arm's reach were terrible dwarven erotica, one of Varric's main staples in the market.

She was mostly sure that the dwarf had arranged the placement on purpose. Either way, he was in for some creative suffering when she regained her bearings.

She had given in and made it halfway through The Stone Temptress: An Intimate Proving when a hushed, very contained commotion in the hallway outside moved by her door. She thought nothing of it at first; drunkards were commonly disturbing what passed for peace at the tavern. And a certain thoughtful someone had left her daggers on the side table, which - if the intruder didn't know the extent of Hawke's injuries - could be very convincing, if nothing else.

It was quiet for another few minutes, and aside from the occasional exclamation and subsequent hush, her reading went undisturbed. She was almost grateful for whatever it was that was out there – her companions may have meant well, but she infinitely preferred solitude when recovering from a life-threatening injury, especially one only hours old. She wanted nothing more than to sleep.

And maybe a good, sturdy pair of shackles, she mused as she turned the page. Perhaps Orzammar wasn't as stuffy and boring as Varric made it sound.

A few more doorway scuffles came and went, and Hawke was beginning to think that it was just a slow night until she heard the door creak open. She put down the book and reached for her daggers, eyeing the firelight carefully. All it took was a shadow, and she'd have her aim.

"Hawke?" came a familiar voice. "You up?"

She relaxed and sat back up. "Not by choice."

As Varric turned the corner, he frowned at the sheer number of objects in his room. "Maker, Hawke, what happened in here?"

"Apparently my recovery is directly linked to how many dirty books I read." She held up a book emblazoned with a Paragon statue sporting a massive erection. "Rock Hard. Your private collection, I assume?"

Varric grinned and spread his hands. "What can I say? I have a taste for the finer things in life."

"You're terrible."

"You adore me and you know it."

"Alas, it's true." She flexed her fingers, some of the residual tension starting to fade. "You're not going to have a seat? Crawl into bed next to me and let me slumber delicately on your chest as you help me recover with the sheer extent of your manliness?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Our slumber parties usually end with you letting in all the cold air because your damned feet hang off the bed. And you talk in your sleep."

She picked up a book and raised it threateningly. "You going to sit down or what?"

"Okay, okay!" He pulled up a chair, raising his gloved hands defensively. "I just didn't think you wanted visitors, is all."

She frowned. "You know you're always welcome company. You're the one person I let see me drunk off my feet and nearly bleeding to death. What makes you think otherwise?"

"Your honor guard." When she stared at him blankly, he thumbed toward the door. "The Taciturn Twins. Big guys. With spears."

"Jibberish, Varric."

"Interesting." He crossed his arms and leaned back, studying her carefully. "You didn't know that there are two qunari keeping watch outside my door?"

"Two what?"

"Guards, looks like. I had to show them paperwork that this was my room in order for them to let me in."

Hawke fell back into the pillows holding her upright, thoroughly confused. "What did they say?"

"'No Entry.' I think those are the only words they know."

"Why would I have a qunari guard set outside my door?"

"You're a weird one, Hawke," he said, picking up one of the books and leafing through it casually. "I wouldn't put it past you to have picked up a few in your travels."

The idea of two fully armed giants standing around in the hallway of a tavern in the middle of Lowtown was more than Hawke had the strength to process. "Well, that explains the peace and quiet."

"Yeah," the dwarf said with a grin. "You should see the bar downstairs. All the rowdy ones are scared shitless into behaving. It's almost like a classy party in there."

"I'd pay to see that." She groaned, covering her face with her hands. "Maker, I don't have the energy for this."

Varric leaned over to pat her knee reassuringly. "I'll go get Elf Boy to see if he can get something out of them."

"Thank you." As he walked out, she called to add: "And ask them to leave!"

A few minutes of ransacking her brain for any clues later, and Hawke was no closer to remembering any details. She knew very little of the Qun, and what she did know came from her meetings with the Arishok, when they weren't discussing the situation in the city, or the few Kithshok who spoke the common tongue. They tolerated her, but she had a feeling that they only did so because the Qun was something they actually enjoyed talking about, regardless of their company. So she pestered them often, asking about Seheron and their way of life, and it seemed to get her the most (or rather, least irritated) response.

And they had said nothing about being compelled to play bodyguard for nonbelievers.

When Fenris walked in, she sat upright and tried to gauge his expression. "So?" she asked. "Are they gone?"

He scratched his head and looked over his shoulder at the door. "Not exactly, no." He turned back to her. "Actually, they're under strict orders not to leave."

Hawke's stomach felt like it was lined with lead. "What."

"From what I can understand," he said slowly, choosing his words with care, "the Arishok was informed by his watch that you were seen being carried back into the city, mortally wounded. He sent a scout to follow, who reported that you were unconscious and unguarded."

"Not true. There are at least a half-dozen of you downstairs."

"Nevertheless," he continued, "the Arishok found this unacceptable."

It took a moment for this to register, and Hawke stared at Fenris expectantly, waiting for him to finish his explanation. When none came, she shook her head in exasperation.

"So he sent two of his men to keep watch?"

"It appears so."

"But why?"

"I myself am unsure." He tilted his head thoughtfully. "Though you have proven yourself adept at making very powerful friends."

She eyed him warily. "I wouldn't call us 'friends.'"

"No?" He folded his arms, leaning against the painted wall nearest to him. "He grants you audiences, engages you in philosophical discussion, did not kill you when you did something utterly ridiculous-"

"I'm never going to live that down, am I?"

"...and now sends two of his soldiers to safeguard you while injured." He straightened up, something outside in the hall catching his attention. "It seems that he holds you in high regard, Hawke. You should not dismiss it so easily."

"I'm not-"

He held up a hand to silence her, and she saw his shoulders tense. Despite the weak grip she still had, she leaned over enough to wrap a hand around the hilt of one dagger.

"Unnecessary."

That voice. She knew that voice.

As he came into view, Hawke froze. The Arishok had to duck under the doorways, his horns a mere foot from the ceiling. And he was in full armor, still scary as hell out of the harsh light of day.

Upon seeing him, Fenris bowed deeply at the waist. "Shanedan, Arishok. We are honored by your... unexpected... visit."

The massive qunari leader turned to him, acknowledging his presence. "Elf who speaks the Qun." He fell silent, and Hawke wondered how Fenris didn't catch fire or shrink to nothing under those eyes. After a moment, the Arishok seemed to have come to a decision and crossed his arms. "You will instruct your brethren to leave us to our own."

Fenris bowed in acknowledgement. "I will speak to them." He nodded to his friend, and Hawke pleaded with him with her eyes to stay. "Hawke."

"Fenris."

He shot her a look that said Think about it, then gracefully made his exit to the hall.

Hawke sat in silence, simply staring at the Arishok as he inspected the room and silently cursing the tattooed elf. He could be so damned smug sometimes.

"So," she said, smoothing out the blankets covering the lower half of her body, "there are two Karashok outside my door."

He turned to look at her then, an interested look on his face as she used the correct Qunari word for their rank. "You have been speaking with the Kithshok."

"Anyone who will talk to me, really."

"So I have heard." He studied her briefly before shifting his posture. "The men find you... curious."

"Really? Not irritating?"

He didn't answer, something that Hawke was altogether far too used to. Instead, he came to sit on a chair next to the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. The sight made Hawke stifle a laugh, as this giant sat in a dwarf-sized room with dwarf-sized furniture and dwarf-written smut.

He stared at her in response, and she flapped a hand to dismiss it. "I'm sorry. It's just..." She smiled despite herself. "This room really doesn't suit you."

He made a noise in his throat, one that she could feel reverberating through the floor.

"I am comfortable."

"You're always comfortable."

"This is true."

And with that, most of the tension in the room had disappeared. Hawke smiled to herself. She always relished the moments like this, the exact instant that always came in her visits to the Arishok: the point where she could feel herself relax in his presence. It was the instant that she waited for and, though it had taken some time, she had learned to spot it. She had a strong inkling that he knew, as well.

She also suspected that her ability to not panic and run at the mere sight of him may have been one reason he tolerated her as much as he did.

They sat in silence for a time, and Hawke pulled a coin from the bedside table, flipping it between her fingers in a long-practiced dexterity exercise to pass the time. With her newly weakened hands, however, it became a test of patience as it dropped to the sheets again and again. Minutes went by, and she realized with a start that he was watching her hands intently.

"Your hands are restricted," he noted.

"Only just," she explained, flexing her fingers into fists and out again. "A side effect of the main issue."

His eyes moved to her bandaged chest, and she was unsurprised to find a few flecks of blood seeping through.

"Explain," he commanded, motioning to the wrap.

She sighed inwardly, running a finger under the top of the band and only just realizing that she was naked from the waist up save for the strips binding her chest. Ah, well. Her guest didn't seem bothered by it, and she was far too tired to care.

"You sure? You'll be disappointed."

He didn't answer again, waiting expectantly.

She pointed to a thick leatherbound volume on the shelf behind him, and he pulled it open to the marked page.

"The Gorgon Heart," she explained, "is a flower that, when used correctly, can be used to make extremely potent lightning-resistant concoctions. It only blooms at the exact instant when lightning flashes, so we had to wait for a big storm and then wait for lightning to strike." She tapped the diagram on the well-worn page. "Trouble is, it has... aggressively friendly vines. So we couldn't just walk in and pluck it. Besides, it's about the size of a dinner plate. One of my companions – the one in white armor? - is a skilled archer, so we lay in wait, and he'd fire off an arrow with each bolt of lightning, and that pinned it to the sandbar behind the plant."

If she didn't know better, Hawke would've thought the expression on the Arishok's face was one of genuine appreciation.

"Shrewd," he murmured, the word rumbling from his chest as he spoke.

"It took us a few tries," she admitted, "and we finally got a handful of full blooms. But the plant started to defend itself."

The Arishok took another long look at the illustration, lingering on the vines. "We have such plants in Par Vollen."

"Then it won't surprise you that it attacked. A few vines grabbed hold of Sebastian – archer, white armor?"

"I do not care."

"Right. But he lost his footing and an arrow ricocheted off of a nearby boulder, the arrowhead lodging in my chest. It was an accident."

His eyes moved to the metal dish by her bedside that now held the blood-covered point. "It has been removed."

"Yes."

He folded his hands in front of his face, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on her. She felt pinned in place, wondering what in the Maker's name he was thinking when he did that. She met his gaze, and almost wished she hadn't. His eyes were dark and the fire behind them was as compelling as any demon she'd had to contend with. And for a moment, she wished that she'd been able to bring him with her on trips to the Fade, just so he could stare all of the resident spirits into submission. The Circle would never have any problems ever again.

Minutes ticked by like hours in the silence that enveloped them. Suddenly, without warning, he rose and walked to the door, issuing commands to the karashok awaiting him there. He turned, and calmly strode over to the bedside, towering over her.

"Lean forward," he ordered, without a word of explanation.

Puzzled, and more than a little curious, Hawke did so, only to have him pull the blankets from her legs and inspect them.

"Can I help you?" she sputtered, grateful that she at least still had pants on.

And with that, she felt him slide an arm behind the small of her back and another under her knees, lifting her clear off the bed as if she weighed nothing.

"Arishok!"

"Hawke." He met her indignant glare, as if daring her to just try and defy him. "Reopening your wound is unwise."

She prepared to launch a colorful verbal assault upon him, most of which she was sure would be entirely wasted on a qunari, but didn't manage to get out so much as a syllable. Her breath caught in her throat when she realized how close their faces were, and the memory of her palms against his cheeks and the feel of his mouth on hers rose unbidden to the front of her mind. She could feel the warmth of his skin where he held her, and just the massiveness of the man was enough to send a shiver down her spine.

Because he was, after all, a man.

Thankfully, the guards moving from the door signaled an opportunity for a few of her companions to come into the room, all pausing to stare in disbelief at the sight of their leader carried in the arms of the qunari official.

It was Anders who spoke first, stepping forward. "I don't know what you plan on doing, but she shouldn't be moved."

The Arishok evaluated the blond mage before speaking. "The object has been removed. And she is conscious enough to protest. That is sufficient."

Hawke didn't miss the very slight tinge of entertainment edging his voice as he pronounced the word "protest."

"And where do you intend on taking her?"

The qunari glared down at him, and Hawke could see Anders swallow hard. The Arishok could make anyone squirm, and the look he was giving him practically bellowed "I don't have to explain myself to you."

"What my friend means," Varric interrupted, "is that we're concerned for her health and would also like to know where she is, is all. She's our fearless leader, as you know. If she's gone, we won't know where to get our marching orders."

Maker bless him, Varric knew how to speak everyone's language. With a grunt of assent, the Arishok spoke. "Though accidental, her wounds are severe." He paused. "She will recover within our compound."

"Any particular reason?"

The Arishok stared down at him. "This place is foul."

Varric shrugged. "Can't argue there."

"Hawke has many enemies. Your defenses are inadequate; ours are more than sufficient. Our healers are far more skilled than any she will have access to here and I am done explaining, dwarf."

As the qunari behemoth's voice boomed off of the walls, the dwarf in question raised his hands in surrender. "All right, all right. It's her call."

"There is no question," the Arishok declared firmly before Hawke could even speak. "We will take what she requires."

One of the karashok carried a knapsack and canvassed the room efficiently, packing her armor and blades and the first set of books he came across into it.

"Oh no," Hawke groaned as volumes one through ten of Stone Temptress disappeared into the bag. "Not those books."

Ignoring her, the Arishok issued a few short words to his men, who cleared the way for him to leave, Champion of Kirkwall in tow. No one moved to stop him, and Hawke wondered if it was out of fear, because she hadn't asked them to, or utter bewilderment.

Join the club, she thought bitterly.

As they walked out, Merrill stood in the hall where she had been waiting, carving a design into her staff. She looked up and blinked her enormous eyes in surprise.

"Hawke!" she said, putting her knife away. "Why is the Arishok carrying you like a princess?"

Hawke looked down at her. "What about this says 'princess' to you, exactly?"

"Well," she said brightly, walking alongside them, "Sebastian carried you like that before, and he's a prince, isn't he?"

Dumbfounded, as was usual with the Dalish elf's logic, Hawke snorted. "I suppose." As soon as she met Varric's eyes, however, she regretted it immediately. He wore a broad grin from ear to ear, mouthing the word "Princess?" for Hawke to see.

Her blood ran cold.

"No," she called over the Arishok's shoulder, "that is not my -! Pick something else! Don't you dare!"

Varric only waved, still smug. "Have a nice trip, Princess. Don't forget to write."

"Varric!"

And with that, the back door shut behind them, leaving her fuming with the knowledge that she had a nickname at long last.

One of these days, she was going to murder Merrill.

Chapter Text

There are some people who greet the morning with a song and a smile. Or even a cup of tea and a good book.

Hawke, however, didn't feel inclined to salute the day with anything except a string of particularly illustrative curses. Besides, she hazarded a guess that it was one, afternoon, and two, the most pain she'd been in in years. She groaned as she stared up at the ceiling... or rather, the rust-colored canvas that she could see tiny particles of light through.

It took a moment for her to realize where she was, and her efforts to sit up were punctuated by hisses and stifled moans.

"Well," she said to no one in particular as she braced her hands against the bed, "this is going to be interesting."

Along the walls of the large tent hung well-organized but large and unruly bundles of herbs, some of which she recognized as medicinal. Benches held instruments and tools, and woven baskets hanging overhead, overflowing with bandages and splints. There were maybe a half-dozen other beds, oval mattresses that seemed to be some variant of stuffed sacks with neatly folded blankets at their feet. The one other bed that was occupied held an unconscious Ashaad who didn't seem to stir at the mild ruckus that her waking had brought.

And a good thing too, Hawke thought as she began the arduous task of standing. The last thing she wanted was being judged on her clunky mobility by some over-elite warrior that she couldn't tell "I just had a big chunk of metal taken out from the inside of my chest." There were very few people that Hawke let see her so impaired, and she didn't count total strangers among them.

Moving from pole to pole for support, Hawke leaned against the wooden beams to catch her breath between awkward strides. Her entire body was stiff as a board, and walking was proving to be considerably more challenging than she remembered it being. It was as if every part of her body was protesting each step, and she muttered "man up, I own you" under her breath at her muscles as she closed the final few feet to the tent flap.

No sooner had she pulled the canvas aside than she was hit with a dizzying burst of daylight. It seared her eyes, even through the skin of her lids, and she raised a hand to block it out enough for her aching sensory organs to adjust. It took a moment, but she rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms until she could at least vaguely make out the outlines of her bare feet on the flat stone. At least the warm sun felt good on her suffering body, and she enjoyed the way it seeped down to her bones as she slowly drew her hands away.

A few good, solid blinks later and she was able to see clearly enough to formulate a guess as to where she was located in the compound. The armory and barracks were slightly blurred in the distance, on the opposite side of the enormous enclosure. Frowning, she wondered why she was located so far from the infantry – until she turned and found herself much, much closer to them than she thought.

Two Karashok stood guard outside the tent, and were regarding her with interested, albeit cold, stares. Hawke hadn't even noticed them when she was blinded, and cursed her condition for the temporary lack of her well-honed senses.

Aw, hell.

She half-smiled and attempted one of the few qunari phrases she knew.

"Shanedan?"

Expressions unchanging, they watched her for a moment in silence, and she wondered if she had mispronounced it enough to have insulted them or possibly asked after their mothers.

The one closer to her finally moved, pointing back into the tent. "Bed," he said simply.

She frowned. "Actually, I was thinking of taking a walk to stretch my legs. I can't go too long without-"

"Bed," he repeated, this time pulling aside the tent flap and pointing sharply inside.

She groaned. "Do you know how much effort it took for me to get out of there in the first place?"

He glared, and Hawke almost wanted to pat herself on the back for recognizing the expression on his face.

Do I look like I care? it said.

"Bed," he insisted, and gave her a firm shove back inside before letting the flap fall closed.

At least she was learning how to read facial cues from the otherwise incomprehensible giants, she thought to herself as she played the pole-hugging game back to her place.

Even if all of them were some variant of annoyance.

With a sigh, she eased herself back down onto her mattress, thoroughly not enjoying the way her joints creaked like an old man's. After a moment, she decided to fold her blanket like the others and drew her legs in to sit cross-legged and take a better look at her surroundings.

She had almost given in to the temptation to nose around when she heard a short, muffled conversation outside. She furrowed her brows as she heard a much higher pitch than she was used to speaking the Qun, and was proven right when a thin, dark-haired elf made his way inside with a basket under one arm.

"Oh," exclaimed as he saw her sitting upright. "You're awake!" He hurried to put the basket down on one of the workbenches and came to her side, kneeling by the mattress. "How are you feeling?"

Hawke tried to roll her shoulders with a grimace. "Like I'm made out of wood from a shipwreck."

He smiled, and she could see the open friendliness spread wide across his features. "That could be from the arrowhead," he said, taking her arm in his hands and stretching it out. "Or the fact that you've been quite comatose for two days."

She raised an eyebrow, but found herself surprisingly... unsurprised. "That long?"

"Yes. The Arishok was worried." He chuckled, standing and brushing his pants off. When she moved to stand as well, he gestured for her to sit back down. "No, no. You stay put. You shouldn't be walking on your own just yet." He dumped nearly two dozen bound bundles of plants from his satchel onto the bench and started to sort them, waving a handful of tall, grassy herbs at her. "In fact, you shouldn't be able to walk at all!"

"I'm surprisingly resilient," she said, watching him separate his ingredients. "Speaking of surprises..."

He laughed a little, pinning a few stalks to the tent wall. "Yes, imagine the looks on our faces when the Arishok comes back with a human and tells us that she's to stay here in the compound. Carrying you, no less! It was an interesting sight, to say the least."

Hawke winced at the memory. "Right. I can assure you that it would have been just as awkward for me if I had been conscious." She tilted her head, taking a good long look at him. "Actually, what I meant was seeing an elf in the compound. Especially one who speaks qunari."

He shrugged, returning to her bedside. "There are more of us here than you'd think."

"I know," she said, "the Kithshok have told me. It's just..."

"Seeing it is odd? I understand." He reached for her bandages. "May I?"

She made an affirmative noise and raised her arms as much as she could for him to undo the ties. "Your accent – you're not Dalish."

"Came from Denerim," he said as he started to peel them back. "Fereldan, like you."

"So you know who I am?"

"Who doesn't?"

She smirked and was about to say something when she was interrupted by a gasp. As the healer got down to the layer covering her skin, the moisture of the poultices Anders had used made the fabric stick to her skin, even fusing to it a little in places where the surface had torn.

"Mairead," she said through clenched teeth. "My name is Mairead."

He paused, as if moved by the gesture. His voice seemed a little higher and his touch gentler as he continued. "Fenlin," he said, tugging slowly. "Nice to meet you, though I'm sorry it isn't under better circumstances."

"Well," she said thoughtfully, "usually it's either this or killing someone. So this might be the better end of the spectrum."

He chuckled, tearing the last bit away in one fell swoop. "And we're clear."

Hawke let out a sigh of relief as the cool air brushed over her bare skin. "How does it look?"

He studied the entry wound, putting her old bandages into a refuse basket. "Not bad at all, considering. The Arishok informed me of what had been done so far."

Incredulity evident in her voice, she turned to him with a frown. "The Arishok himself told you?"

"He isn't like human rulers. He speaks to us all. We have our place here, as will you."

She snickered. "I can only imagine what that will be."

"As of right now?" Fenlin handed her the blanket to wrap around her shoulders. "I believe the Arishok referred to you as Imeshara."

She shook her head. "What does that mean?"

The elf tried to hide his grin by getting up and walking back to the bench.

"Headache."

Hawke had managed to sleep for a few blissful hours, enjoying the feeling of letting her skin finally breathe. She didn't care what she smelled like at this point, just that she could get some non-magical, non-life-threatening rest.

When she was woken by Fenlin greeting someone at the entrance, she wished desperately for something at hand to throw at the intruder.

"Hawke," the elf prodded gently, "you have a visitor."

Grumbling, she gathered the blanket up, wrapping it around her chest and propping herself up on her elbows. The light coming in was less harsh, and as the tent closed, it only took a few moments for her eyes to catch up this time.

The Arishok stood at the foot of her bed (which was a few feet too long for her, she noticed with some amusement) and swept his eyes from her covered toes to her head.

"I was told that you had woken."

"I did." She met his eyes, sighing. "And your men refused to let me set foot outside."

He snorted, crossing his arms. "As well they should." He turned to Fenlin, who seemed to understand the Arishok's silences and cleared his throat.

"Ah," he said, "the wound is mostly closed, and she'll need some time and a lot of rest before she'll be ready to start moving around a lot again. But the danger has passed, for the most part." He shot a meaningful glance down at his patient. "Unless a certain someone decides to do something unwise."

Hawke looked to her left and right theatrically. "Oh, is that me?" She looked up at him as innocently as she could manage. "I will have you know that I am perfectly capable of staying out of trouble."

"Your reputation says otherwise," the elf replied with a glint in his eye, but turned back to his leader all the same. "She'll need a few small meals before she can handle something bigger, but I see no further need for her to stay in the healer's tent."

"Am I allowed to walk?" she piped up from the ground, motioning to her legs. "I'm going to go crazy if I'm shoved back to bed whenever I try to move."

"Take it easy, and you should be fine."

"Understood," the Arishok said, turning his attention back to Hawke. "You will maintain daily visitation here."

"So I'm leaving?"

The Arishok turned to exit, and Fenlin motioned for her to follow. As she pushed herself up, he lent her a shoulder for support until she was steady.

"How do you know what he wants?" she muttered under her breath. "He's impossible."

"You just learn," he said with a sympathetic smile. "It gets easier after a few years."

"Years. Lovely." She let out an exasperated sigh, then straightened herself out as much as she could and took tentative steps after the qunari warlord.

"Good luck," the healer called.

The implied you'll need it wasn't lost on Hawke.

The sky was starting to burn at the horizon, the first sign of dusk. Still wobbly on her feet, running her hands along the walls for support every few steps, Hawke took in her surroundings like a wide-eyed child toddling after a parent. She greeted the few qunari she had spoken with before, but if she fell too far behind, the Arishok would gather her up with a pointed glare.

"You dawdle too much," he half-growled as they passed a small forge.

"I might not," she replied, "if I knew where we were going."

They walked a bit farther, and she accepted that dealing with him would largely be a fill-in-the-blanks matter. She also decided that it would be best if she was just pleasantly surprised when he answered her instead of frustrated when he didn't.

"You will bathe," he informed her as they turned a corner, "and then eat."

A little part of Hawke's injured heart melted at the thought of a bath and a hot meal. Life returned to her gait, and she practically cripple-skipped alongside him as they walked.

The change in her pace didn't go unnoticed, and the Arishok frowned. "You are far too unguarded with your thoughts."

"By comparison, I'm sure. Non-qunari have a hard time reading your people's expressions."

"So I have been told."

"But it's not so hard once you get in some practice," she continued, ticking off her count on her fingers. "So far I can identify 'slightly irritated,' 'decently irritated,' and 'really irritated.'"

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly upward for a brief moment, and as his features changed, Hawke pointed it out. "Oh, and 'bas are strange.'"

He made a noncommittal noise in his throat, and Hawke smiled to herself. Walking beside him was strangely comfortable, and she almost wondered at the change. Not that she wanted to stay here permanently, but there seemed to be a starting point for something there. She could feel it in her gut – like a nick in the sheer surface of a cliff that one could use as a foothold to carve out grips farther up.

She had that foothold, she realized, and was being given the opportunity to climb.

She was about to thank him for going so far out of his way to make sure she was looked after, but the words caught in her throat as they passed through a set of tall wooden partitions.

And she froze in place.

All around them were qunari of various ranks and titles, one or two elves in their midst. Some leaned their weapons in the racks alongside the partitions. Others took off their armor and placed it on stands beside the weapon racks.

And still others had already seen to their armor and weapons, and were now completely nude.

Hawke subconsciously drew the blanket tighter around her shoulders, unable to look away as the men walked about, either rinsing or scrubbing or soaking in one of the enormous tubs that could easily fit twenty grown qunari along the sides. Completely unashamed, they went about their bathing as a normal practice, and as one particularly large and soaking wet Kithshok walked by, Hawke swallowed hard and vowed never to let Isabela near a qunari ever again. Not if she knew what Hawke was seeing now.

Her face was suddenly very, very warm.

It was a moment before Hawke realized that the Arishok was staring down at her, arms crossed.

"What?" she snapped defensively, frowning.

"You intend to bathe wearing a blanket, then."

She took a step back. "Wait, you don't expect me to -"

He held out a hand expectantly, and her own hands flew of their own accord to the place said blanket was rolled and tucked across her chest.

"Really?" she protested, knowing it was useless but unable to stop herself. "Here. With everyone."

He indicated the wooden pails and washcloths sitting next to a large basin. "Rinse and clear yourself before entering the soak."

And thus began the staring contest. Hawke didn't care if she looked ridiculous or insubordinate by glaring up at the Arishok in front of his men. He was easily three or four heads taller than she was, and she was injured, to boot. But she met those yellow eyes all the same, mentally running through all of the reasons that this was a bad idea. Most of which, she hated to admit, did not apply to the militant race that occupied the tubs.

"If you do not bathe," he said in a low voice, "you do not eat."

She sighed, finally giving in and slumping her shoulders. "Shame is a human concept and has no substance here."

"Correct."

"Fine." With a deep breath, she whipped the blanket off of her body and draped it over a bench, followed by her pants and smallclothes. She stormed toward the basin, fighting down the urge to punch something for no other reason than it was how she dealt with awkwardness. "Rinse and scrub and then big tub, right?"

He unhooked his waraxe as she sat on a stool clearly meant for someone twice her size and dunked a bucket in the basin, filling it with warm water. As she poured it over her skin, some of her agitation seemed to melt away with the greenish-brown poultice grime that coated the majority of her torso. The washcloths were rough, but Hawke was happy to scrub the slime into oblivion, relishing the sight of clean skin.

After washing and rinsing her hair (their soap smelled like cinnamon and made her scalp tingle, which made her wonder how the qunari could be so uptight if they had something this wonderful hidden away), she tied it up as best as her strained arms could allow and made her way to the raised tubs. A few enormous steps led up to each one, the metal coils underneath keeping the water a pleasant steaming hot. As she gingerly slid into one of the less-occupied tubs, she let herself sink chin-deep and felt the stiffness in her limbs melt away.

Her vision started to blur from the heat after a few minutes, and she leaned over the edge, head resting on folded arms. The Arishok was there, leaning against the nearby partition and surveying his surroundings. She tilted her head a little, noticing that here in the compound, among his people, he seemed far less intimidating. Physically, anyway. It was likely due to the fact that he was roughly the same size as the others, though still impressive, and wasn't currently scolding her for something.

She was at his eye level now, in the raised tub, and more relaxed than she had been in a long time despite her earlier panic. The endorphins that came from soothing warmth seeping into sore muscles brought her a strange sort of calm, and she found herself openly staring at the Arishok as she soaked.

He noticed, as she knew he would, and regarded her for a moment before speaking.

"You wish to ask me a question." It was a statement.

"Yes."

"I am unsurprised."

"That day," she said, barely waiting for his response, "why did you kiss me back?"

After a moment of study, he crossed his arms. "You underestimate the value of a week of silence."

"Funny," Hawke drawled. "You're funny!" She flicked a few drops of water at him, and he didn't move to avoid it, only frowned as the warm water hit his shoulders.

"But really," she prodded, adjusting her posture, "you didn't even ask why I did it to begin with."

"Humans are subject to the whim of their physical needs," he said, disdain apparent in his voice. "I assumed your behavior typical of a human female in season."

"In seas-!" Incredulous, Hawke gripped the edge of the tub with her hands. "You thought I was in heat?" she hissed.

"I was not incorrect."

She paused as she watched his nose crinkle at the memory, and he rubbed one knuckle across the bridge.

"The smell you secreted. Adrenaline and..." he hesitated, as if struggling for the correct word in the common tongue, "want."

Hawke sank back into the tub up to her nose, almost as if she was trying to hide. The adrenaline she could explain in spades. That last part, though–

"And," he continued, furthering her embarrassment, "your... intensity was telling."

She laughed at that, a voice in the back of her head telling her that no, it couldn't get any worse. "Well," she said, grinning as she stretched, "it was never said that I did anything by halves."

"A surprising philosophy for a human."

"But one you agree with." When he gave no response, she expanded on their point of common ground. "Chase two rabbits and you get none."

He made a throaty noise. "An interesting human idiom."

"One that should be minded," she replied, gesturing with her hands. "Dividing your energy weakens your focus and resolve. The training I've had, the fighting style I prefer – it calls for a lot of things to concentrate on at once. Makes you appreciate the importance of having a clear line."

She had his attention now, she knew. And damned if she wasn't going to give him the chance to understand her a bit, as well.

"It is disrespectful to your task," she continued, choosing her words carefully, "to not give it your full attention. It devalues everything involved. And this applies to everything – a job you have to do, a decision you are part of..." She brought her eyes from her hands to his face, and his gaze held her there.

"Something you want," she finished.

The Arishok studied her face for a moment, something moving behind his eyes, and Hawke found herself wondering just what kind of effect her words had had on him.

He turned, motioning toward the towels on the nearest wooden bench. "You have dawdled long enough. Again."

Disappointed, she watched as he moved back to the weapon rack to reclaim his axe. Was it something she said? She ran through her last few sentences, looking for anything odd that she-

When she put two and two together, her grip on the edge tightened.

"Why did you kiss me back?"

"You smelled like adrenaline and desire."

"I act with my full attention. Including things that I want."

Things she wanted. Which, in that context was...

"The Arishok," she murmured, letting her forehead hit the wooden rim with a thud. She didn't know if it was her treacherous subconscious or complete coincidence, but either way, she had just said something very bold.

He'd grabbed her journal from the Hanged Man, she remembered as she stood and cautiously descended the tub steps. If he let her continue keeping it while she was here, she'd start every day with "DO NOT FLIRT WITH THE ARISHOK" in large, bold letters across the top.

She towel-dried her hair, the familiar waves forming with their usual enthusiasm. Only when she'd dried her body did she notice that her blanket and clothes were gone.

"My clothes-" she began, but the Arishok handed them to one of the attending soldiers. He started to walk away, and she groaned as she wrapped the towel around her body and took after him, less painfully this time as her legs were finally starting to limber up again.

Their journey back was considerably shorter, or perhaps only seemed to be now that walking wasn't nearly as torturous. He disappeared into a large tent, and she followed obediently.

This one was more lavish than the others she'd seen, with rugs and floor cushions and a low wooden carved table in the front room, separated from the second by a curtain. To one side was a short bookshelf, and metal lanterns hung on chains from the ceiling.

As she breathed in deeply, enjoying the lingering smell of spiced teas, Hawke admired the décor. "Whose tent is this?"

"Mine."

She suddenly felt somewhat uneasy, as though she were an intruder on such a man's private sanctum. She didn't have long to dwell on it, though, as a Karashok appeared at the entryway, a basket in each hand. Dismissing him, the Arishok handed her the smaller one, which held a few sets of clothes.

He stared.

Well?

"Right," she said under her breath. "I'll go – there."

She ducked behind the divider curtain into what functioned as sleeping quarters, mostly filled with an enormous mattress on the floor covered with furs, blankets, and pillows in disarray. He was likely a man who valued his sleep, she mused, and pulled on the loose pants, undershirt, and wraparound overdress that were on top of the pile. She didn't know if she was wearing them correctly, and she didn't particularly care. What was important was that she was covered up... and she was starving. Hawke frowned. If the smell coming from the other room was any indication, the second basket held supper.

"These fit," she said in wonder as she rejoined him, sitting across from him at the short table. "Your men know how to make clothes for humans?"

"No," he said.

"Then how-"

"Imekari," he said casually as she emptied the basket of its contents.

"Meaning?"

"Child's clothing."

Hawke didn't have the energy for a comeback at what she was half-sure was meant as a taunt. Instead, she ate what she could manage, feeling some of her strength return to her bit by bit.

As he continued his meal, she looked around, feeling very small and rather anxious. She'd had tea with him before, true enough, but this was a meal in his quarters and entirely away from the rest of his men. Should she say something? Leave him be? She'd never been good with social graces, never mind those from other cultures, but the feeling of pressure on her shoulders was starting to rub at her nerves.

She was about to ask after her sleeping arrangements when that same Karashok returned, this time with a bedroll in tow.

"Here?" she asked as he left with the dishes. "I'm sleeping here? With you?"

"You are in no position to object," he stated, the first time he'd spoken in over half an hour. "You would serve as a distraction in the barracks."

"And you don't get distracted?"

He didn't answer, only stood to take a book from its place on the shelf. "Sleep in the bedchamber. Or here, if you prefer."

If you don't trust me, that tone said. Go ahead, insult the Arishok. Maker, she was learning so much about the qunari today.

"Do you snore?" she huffed as she picked up the bedroll and walked into the back room. "Because I will kick you."

He ignored her, naturally. She laid out the mattress as far from his bed as space would allow, shaking out the thick blanket and crawling underneath it to settle in.

"I'm exhausted, so I'll turn in," she announced to the other side of the room. "Good night."

After a moment, she added a quieter "Thank you," to which she was given a noncommittal grunt in response.

She smiled into her pillow. At least that was progress.

Chapter Text

Day 10

Hawke couldn't remember the last time she had slept so well. She barely stirred in the slightest whenever the Arishok came to bed, but his armor was always laid out neatly on the stand and he lay in the bed next to her, his rumbling snores in a regular rhythm almost comforting.

It was rather like sleeping next to a dragon, she thought. Frightening, yes, but she had never felt quite so... safe. It seemed strange to think it, but she knew that while he was so close by, nothing in Thedas could threaten her.

Except for the Arishok himself, but he didn't seem to have any intentions of killing her just yet.

It entertained her to realize that, while normal women found solace in their lovers' arms, Hawke found security lying next to a legendary monster. Fitting, she wrote in her journal. Fitting that she would rather sleep next to a bear than a beau.

Fenlin was pleased with her progress, often slathering the now-sealed wound site with something that burned either her skin or her nose, and he often made inquiries as to her acquaintance with the Arishok. Her answer was largely the same every time: "I'll get one more sentence out of him today. Even if it's a reprimand."

The enthusiasm she showed for gaining an understanding of the qunari and their leader was something that interested him greatly, and he told her as much on one occasion.

"Most people are either too afraid of them or too ignorant of our ways to try and learn," he said, handing her a book. "That's why no one knows what to do with you."

She cracked the worn cover open and skimmed the pages of what appeared to be a language-learning text. "They ignore me, mostly."

"But you're trying. It does make them oddly happy."

Hawke raised an eyebrow at the mental image of a happy qunari. It involved kittens and rainbows and frowning.

"In their own way," he clarified, seeing the look on her face. "To be honest, I think that's why the Arishok brought you here. Your injuries make you seem less threatening-"

"Hey!"

"-no offense, your reputation alone is terrifying, but you're one of the few outsiders who've actually made an effort to communicate in some way other than violence."

She sighed, leaning back against the workbench. "Have you seen the way they look at me when I ask them questions? I think they'd prefer violence."

"Then try doing something that they can understand. Be more friendly."

"I'll have you know," she protested, "that I am plenty friendly."

"You ask them questions in a foreign tongue. That's two things that make them uncomfortable." He shooed her out, handing her a bag of tea for the pain. "Look around. You'll figure something out."

Annoyed, she was about to very politely ask what the hell he meant, but he only smiled and shut the flap.

Fantastic, she thought. The one person here who spoke the common tongue who wasn't the Arishok or terrified of her, and he liked to see her suffer.

Odd quality for a healer to have, but there it was.

She spent some time wandering as she read over the book, her restlessness keeping her from sitting and reading for any period longer than half an hour or so. Notes on pronunciation and military terms were scribbled in the margin in what she recognized as Fenlin's penmanship, and from the age of the book, she wondered just how long ago he had converted to the Qun. She had assumed, apparently incorrectly, that he had come to Kirkwall as a Blight refugee.

As she made a mental note to ask him about it later, Hawke slowed to a stop alongside the sparring arena. She enjoyed watching the bouts, even if a part of her ached at the limitations of her current state. Not that she'd be allowed to join in, necessarily – that seemed to have its own set of rules – but it only made her recovery seem maddeningly slow and helpless. She missed fighting. She missed her companions. She missed her blades.

With a start, she realized that her blades had been sitting wrapped up since the rainstorm she'd been injured in. And that was almost two weeks ago.

Cursing under her breath, she took up a brisk pace to the Arishok's tent, where she knew her pack sat against one wall, largely ignored. She would apologize to them, she vowed as she pulled the flap aside and rummaged until she found the tied bundle. Apologize and show them the kind of care a mother had for her children.

She held them to her chest as she slowly approached the Armaad, whom she had gathered to be a kind of qunari quartermaster. Fenlin had said that everyone within the compound had access to the supplies, and all she had to do was ask, but she didn't trust the tone in the elf's voice or the smile on his face. And after a few minutes of watching him interact with his fellows, she understood why.

The Armaad didn't speak a word of the common tongue.

All she had to do was ask, she remembered Fenlin saying.

Sonofabitch.

Adjusting her parcel so that she could flip open the language book, Hawke bit her lip. "To hell with it," she muttered, tucking the book back into a large pocket. She wasn't really one for forethought, anyway. "Let's see just how much tolerance I've earned so far."

She strode up to the Armaad, placed her still-bound blades on the table and waited for him to turn his attention to her. Of course, she also attracted the interest of several surrounding soldiers, who paused in their work to watch the scene before them.

Let them stare, she thought as she made eye contact with the Armaad. She was Mairead Hawke, for Maker's sake. Defender of Kirkwall, slayer of dragons, blood-born nobility, and master linguist extraordinaire.

And she knew about a handful of relevant words.

Let the fun begin.

"[Sword]...[rock]...[thing]," she said, miming the act sharpening with her hands. He stared at her for a moment, and she didn't know whether it was the idea of her trying to speak qunari, her horrible pronunciation, or trying to figure out what in the name of Koslun she could possibly be describing. She pointed to her blades, repeated the strung-together cluster of words, and mimed again.

After a moment of silent contemplation, he walked back into the stores and she heard the clinking of jars and shuffling of cloth. Praying that he didn't come back with a pickled rat's head or something equally ridiculous, Hawke held her breath.

To her delight, he placed a palm-sized whetstone on the table in front of her. She let out a sigh of relief, and as she reached for it, he spoke.

"Isaabak," he said.

She paused, then pointed to the tool. "Isaabak?"

He nodded.

Whetstone, she realized. He was teaching her the word.

A rush of warmth filled her chest, and she beamed up at him as she repeated it over and over until he was satisfied she no longer butchered the elongated vowels. The idea that someone was actively trying to educate her eclipsed any embarrassment she might have felt at her struggle, and when she excitedly turned to the onlookers and said her new word, pointing at the object in question, she was rewarded with a few acknowledging nods.

Practically giddy, she turned back to the quartermaster.

This was going to be fun.

An hour later, Hawke found herself sitting among at least a dozen Karashok, a bottle of polishing oil and whetstone sitting on the bench next to her. She was working at scouring the lyrium veins in her blades with a sandcloth, and she marveled at how maintenance and repair of weapons could be such an important social ritual to the qunari. Some polished the wood on spears, re-wrapped pommels, sharpened steel, cut fletching for arrows, or any other kind of upkeep imaginable. And though it was largely silent, the lone human felt as though she was a part of it somehow.

She'd let her blades be passed around when one soldier had expressed curiosity, and he'd seemed almost taken aback when she offered them up for inspection. The twin daggers might have been her children, but judging from the way the others treated their weapons, she was amid like-minded company.

So there she was, nestled happily in the group of giants, when the Arishok walked by. He wouldn't have noticed but for the sheer physical difference of having a small human amid the comparatively colossal Kossith.

He watched for a moment, observing their interactions. Only when his shadow blocked her light did Hawke think to look up from her work. She shielded her eyes at first, but her face brightened to see him.

"Shanedan, Arishok!"

"Hawke." His eyes lingered on her cleaning tools, and she wondered for a moment if he disapproved of her methods.

"I did not think that the Armaad spoke your tongue."

"He doesn't."

He stared, one of his you-are-required-to-explain stares. She held up the language book in response, showing him her notes. "I described and mimed, and he gave me the right word." She frowned. "Or he's toying with me."

The qunari leader kept his eyes on the book a moment more, then swept over the group of soldiers. "You have been to the healer today."

"Yes."

"Then you may continue."

Laughing, Hawke waved the sandcloth at him. "Polishing parties. Girl could get used to this!"

Chapter Text

Day 12

Hawke hummed to herself as she walked the length of the small canal that bisected the compound. It wasn't too terribly wide, but just enough to require small bridges to cross back and forth. The stars were brightly visible in the clear sky that night, and she enjoyed staring up at them as she crossed a central bridge.

It had become a regular spot of sorts for her, and she often sat with her legs hanging over the edge while she read or watched the goings-on. The running water was calming, and it helped whenever she was particularly restless from her recovery. The pain-easing tea from Fenlin helped as well, though she drank five or six cups a day more for their sedative properties than for the pain. She'd essentially been shot in the chest, she constantly reminded herself. It would take time before she was back up to strength.

Just how long that was, however, remained a nagging concern in the back of her mind. How long did the Arishok expect to keep her here, she wondered as she walked. A month? Three? She didn't exactly relish the thought of having to fight her way out, and at this point, it was more a matter of not wanting to destroy any goodwill she may have fostered rather than the danger it posed.

She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she didn't even greet the Arishok as she entered the tent, going so far as to wrap and tuck away her blades before she even thought to check if he was there.

He was.

His armor already off for the night, he lay reclining on a pile of the large cushions that littered the floor, a book in hand and plates of food on the table. Hawke would have been entertained by the fact that she felt like a husband coming home late to dinner and an aggravated wife, if the one waiting for her weren't an accomplished military leader who could snap her like a twig.

His face remained impassive as ever, though, as she busied herself with digging through her pack to find the pouch of tea that Fenlin had given her. And then she ran out to get hot water, back in for a teapot, back out for a cup, back in for -

"Your fussing irritates me."

She sat quietly, almost dog-like in her obedient response. "I've been restless."

"It has not gone unnoticed." When she didn't move, he gestured to the table. "Eat."

He must have already eaten, she realized. The knowledge eased the feeling that she had somehow inconvenienced him by returning so late in the evening.

For his part, the qunari seemed deep in thought, eyes focused on his guest. When he finally spoke, it was with a curious tone in his voice.

"The quality and frequency of your interactions with the qunari here has greatly increased."

She swallowed before speaking, tearing off a piece of still-warm bread. "They're helping me with the language, too. What did you think I did all day?"

"I was kept informed of your activities."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"And saw firsthand your time spent with the Karashok. It seemed..." He rolled over the last word, as though in slight disbelief. "...civil."

"Well," she replied, laughing a little, "your men did warm up to me a lot more after that incident."

There it was again – that flicker of a smirk. Hawke did her best to look focused on the dish in front of her as she wondered when that expression had started making her heart speed up just a bit.

"Yes," he said slowly. "I suspected they would."

If anyone knew his men, she mused, it was the Arishok. As that thought crossed her mind, however, a tiny flag flickered up in its wake. He could predict the thoughts and actions of his men with eerie certainty, as well as understand the impact that outside influences would have. And if he were to bring in a radical factor...

She spoke her thoughts aloud as they occurred to her. "I'm an experiment, aren't I?"

The look on his face brought a swell of satisfaction to her chest. His expression hadn't changed, but she saw his posture shift. She'd hit the nail on the head.

"Yes," he said plainly.

"I appreciate your honesty."

He gave a short nod, leaning back. "Deception accomplishes nothing. You are the first of your corrupt species I have encountered to realize this."

"I would have it no other way, if we are to understand each other." Again, he nodded in response, and she sighed while she adjusted her legs. "I assume that I am here to serve as a resource for your men as far as the common tongue and human culture while I'm nonthreatening enough for hostility to not be an issue."

He studied her face for a moment. "You show surprising insight."

She raised an eyebrow, a lopsided smile working its way across her mouth. "I'm not so important that you would take me into the compound just to ensure my recovery."

"You underestimate your worth, Serah Hawke."

That sentence caught her off-guard, and the way his eyes were locked on hers didn't help any. In an attempt to hide the effect he'd had, she broke contact and cleared her throat, relying on her long-proven defense of humor.

"Stop flattering me. I know what you're trying to do, and I'm not going to kiss you again."

A quiet rumble came from his chest, and Hawke recognized a chuckle when she heard it. Some of the knots around her chest loosened, and she relaxed in the knowledge that a solemn, poignant conversation had been successfully averted. And that a bottle of wine poked its neck out of the supper basket.

She reached for the bottle as she spoke. "I accept that I'm an experiment. But don't think for a moment that I won't be getting as much out of this as you and your men do." As she poured them both glasses, a small smile of pride teased at her lips. "I managed to spend two hours on my weapons the other day and not irritate a single one of your soldiers."

"Indeed," he said thoughtfully, "I had not predicted your success."

"I'm just that charming."

"That is not the word I would choose."

She opened her mouth to snap back at him, but instead let it shut, beaming a patronizing smile at him over the table. "Perhaps you don't know the correct meaning of the word."

He snorted and took one of the glasses, and as Hawke watched him, warmth blossomed in her stomach. The fact that she was sitting with the Arishok, having an honest discussion and even bantering a bit back and forth, was unthinkable. Yet here she was. Eating and drinking with him.

Enjoying his company.

The revelation that she truly did enjoy his company hit her like a bright ray of sun, and she attributed the slight lightheadedness she felt to fatigue.

Paying it no mind, she raised the glass to her lips and took a sip, immediately followed by sputtering and coughing, setting the vessel back on the table as she tried to regain her bearings.

"Humans often find Seheron wine overwhelming."

She managed to shake her head, and with a few deep breaths, she was stable enough to wipe the tears from her eyes and glare at him. "Thank you for the warning." The aftertaste was very pleasant, though, and when her throat no longer felt like she had swallowed a pincushion, she took another (much smaller) taste. And another. Before she knew it, she had emptied the glass, and the Arishok was watching her with an amused look on his face.

"I like it," she explained. "When it's not attacking me." After a pause, her mouth seemed to continue of its own volition. "Kind of like you."

He frowned, and she poured him another glass. "I fail to see the comparison."

"Well," she continued, wondering how she was still saying things and where her filter had gone, "we hardly ever meet outside of piss-poor circumstances, and even then, I had to seek you and your men out and practically badger you to speak to me. It's gotten easier as we've gotten more familiar with each other, but it's been an uphill battle. Sometimes getting answers is like pulling teeth and even then I don't always understand," and Maker why was she still talking "and it has been slow progress, very slow."

As he listened, the Arishok replaced his glass on the table. "Then why do you persist?"

She smiled warmly into her empty glass. "Because I was right." There was a tiny voice in the back of her head yelling for her to shut up for her own good, but it couldn't seem to penetrate the fog filling her mind at that moment. "Like the wine, you..." She made firm eye contact, completely earnest. "I get past the initial gut-wrenching and the spikiness and just put out some patience and you are actually really pleasant." And with that, she fell backwards onto the cushions behind her, her balance finally giving way. She smiled and closed her eyes, clumsily flinging an arm across her face. "I knew you would be," she practically giggled up from the floor. "I am the smartest woman in Kirkwall."

She heard the rustle of fabric and the world went somewhat darker. When she looked up, the Arishok was hovering over her, a knee on either side of her hips and palms at the sides of her head. And he was very close.

Personal space was not an issue for the qunari. It was very misleading.

She covered her face with her hands and snickered, peeking out from between her fingers.

"I already said that I wasn't going to kiss you again."

He ignored her and pulled one of her hands away, studying her face intently. "You had one glass," he stated matter-of-factly.

She crinkled her nose in a delicate frown. "I know. I'm not usually such a lightweight."

His eyes caught the teapot, and he rose up to smell its contents. With a disapproving frown, he turned back to the woman pinned beneath him.

"How many doses of Kasaanda-Hisran have you consumed?"

Hawke struggled to count them off on her fingers, but when she got to eight, her hands became blurry and the world spun. "More than seven. I think. I drink it whenever I start to get all..." she tried to think of the word, but failed. "Stir-crazy."

"Parshaara," he muttered under his breath, yanking her up by one arm. "Do you take all medicine so foolishly?"

"But it keeps me calm," she whined, stumbling in her attempts to stand.

"Then meditate."

"But I can't sit still!"

"Learn."

As her feet gave out from under her, Hawke slumped against him, muttering into his chest. "I never thought I would be so injured for this long."

"Your self-pity is-"

"Exasperating?" she finished, groaning. "For the both of us. Yes. The sooner I'm healed up, the better."

"You are anxious to leave, then."

She shook her head, inadvertently rubbing her nose against dried warpaint. "No, I'm like a Mabari. Once I get attached to you, I'll never want to leave." A warm wave flooded her mind, and she smiled as her very backbone seemed to melt. "And I like to bite people."

She felt a rumble reverberating through his ribcage, and was disappointed by its loss when he pushed her away in an attempt to get her to stand on her own.

"Walk," he commanded.

"Happy to!" She took a tentative step forward, but was sent reeling back by her body's newfound distaste for the laws of nature. A laugh bubbled up from her throat as she fell, a strong hand catching her at the waist.

"I am sad to report," she said in the most serious tone that she could muster, "that the mission was an unfortunate failure."

That was apparently the end of the Arishok's patience for such things. He hoisted her up with one arm under her thighs, having her effectively sit on his forearm and lean her upper body over his shoulder, which the pliable Hawke took to with little protest. As he walked, snow-silver strands of hair drifted over her nose, and she smiled as she pictured his features in her mind.

"You're very pretty," she murmured thoughtlessly, sliding her arms about his neck and pressing the side of her face against his. "How does no one notice?"

He ignored her and pulled aside the divider with his free hand, ducking into the sleeping chamber. As his head lowered, Hawke was presented with an expanse of throat, the skin warm under her lips. An impulse presented itself, and without her sober mind to keep check, she acted.

She none-too-gently sank her teeth into the junction of his neck and shoulders, running her tongue along the captured flesh.

She felt him stiffen beneath her and suck in a strangled breath, and for a brief moment, her blood caught fire. Very brief, because before could blink, she was unceremoniously dumped on the Arishok's unruly pile of pillows and furs.

She yelped at first, then rolled to her side and laughed, glancing at him sidelong from under one arm. "I did warn you."

The enormity of what she had just done was diminished greatly by her dismissive tone, and the Arishok's expression lost most of its fury as he swore under his breath. "You are difficult."

"So I've been told."

He looked positively confounded, Hawke thought with a giggle, fighting to sit upright. When she failed and plummeted right back down, her head spun enough to elicit a groan and the need to bury her face in pillows.

The mattress beside her sank to accommodate a second person, and the qunari leader sat next to her, observing her failure at even the simplest movements. Hawke hoped she was at least entertaining as she slowly rolled her torso up over her waist, bracing herself against the ground with her arms. Her head hung low, and as she turned to look at him, her vision slowly came back into focus.

The light was dimmer here, but she could still see the brightness of hawk-gold eyes and the tint of the intricate warpaint across his muscled form. Scattered glints of reflected light flecked the jewelry across his horns and ears, and if he was offended by her stares, he made no mention of it.

"Maker," she said, unable to pull her eyes away. "You really are beautiful."

He said nothing.

She raised her head, gaze lingering on his dual rows of gold-banded horns. The horns that the Kossith possessed had always been a point of fascination for Hawke, and there had been more than one occasion where she'd physically stopped herself from reaching up and grabbing them when speaking with one of the kithshok.

But she might never get this chance again. While it was just the two of them, and while she was out of her right mind enough to be brave or blame the wine...

She crawled over and raised herself up on her knees, nearly at his eve level, getting a closer look at the adornments over the smooth bone. He made no move to stop her as she reached, watching her with genuine curiosity, but she withdrew her hands anyway.

"May I...?"

There was a moment of silence as he stared at her hands, but being respectful and asking was the right thing to have done. He grumbled some kind of unintelligible assent as he deliberately lowered his head, resting his elbows on his knees.

Hawke's face lit up, and she eagerly (but gently) ran her hands along the smooth surface, pausing at each band to inspect the detail work. Her fingertips ran an incredible pace, and she was unable to keep the smile from her face.

"Such a thing is gratifying to you?" he asked, a note of incredulity hanging from his voice.

"Yes!" she exclaimed. "I've been curious about them for ages but didn't think anyone would ever let me. They're wonderful." She ran a hand through the hair at the scalp next to where the horns originated, and an appreciative rumble vibrated through his body and against her skin. "You've really never had any curiosity about the human form?"

"We send the Beresaad to answer questions. We know more of your race than you do."

She laughed, still drawing her hands over every inch of his horns, marveling at how polished they were. It was liberating, finally scratching an itch that had been plaguing her for so long.

"Parshaara. Enough," he said, shaking his head and raising it up again. He stood, and to Hawke's surprise, he started to shuck the rest of his clothing, save the loose pants that hung around his hips.

Remembering her lesson from the baths, Hawke shrugged aside any claims to modesty she still held and stripped down to what she slept in, though the process was hindered by drunken fingers and questionable balance. She had only just tossed aside the last article when the Arishok lay down beside her, pulling a layer of furs to cover himself. Trouble was, that layer was directly under Hawke, and she tumbled sideways with a muffled curse or two. She was about to lecture him on how to treat someone with temporary balance problems nicely, but lost all train of thought when a massive arm caught her around the chest and pulled her down alongside him, under that same layer of fur.

Sputtering, she flailed as best her drowsy limbs would allow, but he held fast, hand on her chest still pinning her to her back.

"Sleep," he commanded. "Where you can be observed."

And Hawke didn't have it in her to resist him.

Chapter Text

Day 13

Hawke awoke as the first vestiges of dawn crept through the fabric of the tent, flooding the world with a wash of red. It was still dark enough that opening her eyes was painless, and as she blinked to waking, her toes curled into fur above and beneath her. She smiled languidly at the sensation, running her fingers into the plush softness as well.

Soft and warm and secure.

A gentle rumble resonated through her back, which she realized with a start was pressed against the Arishok's chest. He lay on his side as well, one arm lazily nestled across the swell of her hip. The other arm was tucked beneath his head, which followed the curve of his body against hers.

At first, she found herself too paralyzed to move, but when he exhaled a deep breath and sent a few errant curls to tickle her nose, she stifled a laugh and melted back into his arms. She didn't care how they had shifted in the night, or who had pulled whom closer. She couldn't recall ever feeling like this waking up next to someone, and the comfort was like a siren song, begging her to stay.

Rather than brave the cold morning air, Hawke nestled herself against him more cozily, slipping one hand over the arm on her hip and lacing her fingers into the spaces between his. No sooner had she started to drift off again than she felt him stir, the stretch of his muscles clear even through the thin fabric of her undershirt.

He sat up roughly, but hesitated when it came time to disturb the intersection of their hands. She could feel him stare at their intertwined fingers, and held her breath as he squeezed lightly, as if he were testing the sensation.

When he did pull his hand away, she rolled over to greet him, stretching enthusiastically. "Shanedan, Arishok."

"Shanedan, Hawke. I see that you are not dead."

She laughed, sitting upright and ignoring the dull throbbing at her temples. "I am not." She watched him stand and put on his clothes, noting the time of morning. "Do you always rise at dawn?"

"Yes."

"Why? Habit?"

He stared at her in silence, and she knew the look on his face all too well. It was functionally qunari for You ask a lot of questions, human.

"Morning meditations," he answered. "I contemplate the Qun at the break of day. It gives me... solace in this place of chaos and filth."

Hawke was quiet for a while, feeling the chill of the morning air prickling at her skin as she emerged from beneath the thick furs.

"May I join you?"

He turned to look down at her, and she met his eyes soundlessly in what she hoped demonstrated her sincerity to actually meditate and not pester him with trivial questions. After a moment, he began to walk out of the bedchamber, and she thought she had been deemed a nuisance or unworthy or otherwise lacking.

So it came as a surprise when he called to her as he drew back the divider flap. "You will want to clothe yourself more appropriately."

Unable to contain her enthusiasm, she grinned and scrambled upright, pulling on her clothing as she hastened to catch up with him and stepping out into the first rays of light.

Hawke never slept in her bedroll again.

Chapter Text

A/N: Since this week's chapter was a short one, here's a little bonus. I have about 8k words left on my NaNoWriMo fanfic and three days to do it! Root for me! =)

Day 17

Hawke's language practice was progressing well. She was now able to have basic conversations as long as they revolved around weaponry or food, and had learned nearly all of the qunari terms for military ranks so that she could address each of the men by their appropriate title, something that was obviously appreciated.

The real evidence, though, was in the little things.

Hawke was preparing her afternoon dose of pain relief tea when the hot water rushed out of the pot faster than anticipated. The boiling backsplash sprayed across the back of her knuckles, and she let the copper kettle clatter to the floor.

"Vashedan!" she spat, flapping her hand violently.

The Arishok smirked, pleased.

Chapter Text

A/N: …Aaaand we're back! I've finished the story outline, and it's settled that there will be 25 chapters, plus a collection of all the post-Arrowhead Hawke/Arishok drabbles that won't leave my mind.

But for now, more bonding.

OH AND I BEAT NANOWRIMO WITH WORDS TO SPARE. I feel like a champ.

Day 20

"Three weeks!" Hawke exclaimed as she strolled into the healer's tent, arms thrust into the air victoriously. "Three weeks and I am up and walking and please tell me you can lift this damned physical threshold ban!"

Fenlin looked up from his herb catalogues and smiled as he sighed, only half-feigning exasperation. "We'll see." He closed the books and pointed to the stool next to the workbench, reaching for his tools. "Loosen your shirt."

She all but flung it off as she sat eagerly in the seat, bouncing excitedly like a child who had been told that they were receiving a kitten for their nameday.

"See?" she said, running her fingers along the wound site, "Completely closed, and hardly even red any more. It hasn't stung to bathe for almost two weeks now."

"That may be all well and good," the elf said, checking the area for himself, "but it's your heart I'm more worried about."

"I'm sturdy," she insisted, leaning forward as he pressed an ear over her left breast.

"Stop talking and let me listen clearly," he chided lightly. After a minute or two of concentrated quiet, he pulled away. "You're still a bit ragged-sounding, and will very likely need at least another month of recovery. Perhaps more."

"Define 'recovery.'"

He raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms and doing his best to stare the most notorious woman in Kirkwall down. "Nothing dangerous. In another two to three weeks, at most light sparring." He turned his attention to his desk, scribbling notes down on a piece of parchment. "I'll recommend that you stay here until the tear is completely gone to ensure that you're not tempted to do anything that could endanger all the hard work your body's already done."

She watched him for a moment, a few thoughts tumbling about annoyingly through her mind as she studied his face and handwriting. Stay here for her own good, he had said. But something in his words gave her pause, and she wasn't the type to let those things go lightly.

Most likely Varric's influence.

"Are you recommending I stay because of the injury," she said slowly, choosing her words carefully, "or are you influenced at all by the Arishok's plan for me?"

He blinked then, his large eyes widening in surprise. After a moment of thought, however, he settled back against the table and rested the side of his chin on one hand. "It would be a lie to say I wasn't extremely curious as to why the Arishok insists on keeping you here," he answered, "but considering your lifestyle and the fact that I can't see into your chest, I can tell you that I really think it's best you take the safe road."

"As a healer?"

He nodded. "As a healer."

Sighing, Hawke slumped. "Then I'll take your word for it."

He chuckled at her obvious disappointment, studying her expression carefully before speaking. "Do you really think that he wants to keep you here so much?"

"I have no idea," she admitted, frowning as she pulled her shirts back on. "We've only talked about it once, and it was pretty brief. He's not exactly forthcoming with details."

"But he must have told you something."

"Just confirmed what I already knew. I'm here to basically immunize his men against loud, obnoxious, common-speaking humans."

"Hm." The look on Felin's face told her otherwise, and she leaned in.

"Unless you have some insight that you'd like to share with the rest of us...?"

He waved, shaking his head. "No, no. I don't claim to know what's going on in his head, but..." Shrugging, he rubbed the back of his neck. "Somehow, I don't think that it's that simple."

No major physical exercise for another two weeks, minimum.

That meant two more maddening weeks of calming tea, morning meditations and smothering inactivity. It was as though someone had devised her own personal hell and placed her in it, then added a few hundred reticent giants to shake things up, and then hit her emotions with a bolt of electricity just to screw with her.

Clearly, she had pissed off some deity somewhere. As she tried to remember if she'd ever urinated on any important-looking statues while climbing Sundermount, she sighed from her bones.

Fenlin, while good company, never let her leave without reminding her not to do anything too strenuous, like jog or sneeze. The Arishok was, after all, the Arishok, and their morning meditations together were silent. Not exactly chatty during the rest of the day, either. And while she was getting to know the men here, most times they were preoccupied with their various duties or jobs.

Jobs.

A light went off in her head, and she turned before she could take another step in that same direction. It was late morning, so the Arishok would be looking over reports, if she recalled correctly.

Sure enough, in the main administrative tent, he sat alone at a proportionately massive-sized table, an impressive pile of papers and scrolls to either side of him. He rested his head on one hand, lazily running his sharp eyes over the words and diagrams.

How he managed to look so impressive while slouching, Hawke would never know. It was fascinating.

Apparently, he didn't even need to look up.

"Hawke."

"Arishok."

She walked over to his desk, stretching her arms above her head. "You have a moment?"

No answer.

"It occurs to me," she continued anyway, "that everyone here has a position, right? A responsibility to fulfill; a purpose. It's the will of the Qun."

He half-grunted some kind of assent, standing and walking to one of the shelves. Undeterred, Hawke followed him.

"So why not give me one? A job, something."

"No," he responded, pulling out a volume of a thickly-bound series.

"Because I'm injured?" She frowned. "Just hear me out –"

"No," he repeated.

"No?" she said in disbelief. "Just like that?"

"Yes."

She crossed her arms, despite knowing it did no good when trying to stare down the Arishok. "Do I get any more explanation than that?"

A low rumble stirred in his chest, but died down quickly. "You are not of the Qun," he told her sternly, walking around a low bookcase that stood at waist height and separated them. "Even if you were, I am no Tamassran. It is not within my jurisdiction to assign you a task."

"I'm not talking about forever," she protested. "I'm talking a month and a half. I'm already stir-crazy after three weeks, so another few days of this and I'll-"

"You have seen the healer," he interrupted. It wasn't a question so much as a statement that he expected her to elaborate on. He did that quite often.

"Another five or six weeks just to be sure," she confirmed. "And that's five or six weeks of me in your face and under your skin and pestering you every time I get bored."

He turned to her then, narrowing his eyes before his expression turned to just the tiniest hint of amusement. "You threaten me."

"I can't help it," she said, leaning forward against the bookshelf, palms flat on its surface. "I hate being purposeless."

He stared down at her, frowning deeply. After a few moments, exasperation flickered across his imposing face. "You have somehow managed to take a core pillar of the Qun and irritate me with it," he said, voice dripping with disapproval. "Only you, Hawke."

"But hey," she prompted, "at least I know that pillar!" She trailed after him as he walked back to his desk. "And it's something you believe in, right? I'm here. Make use of me."

"Your use," he issued flatly in that deep and fearsome voice of his as he sat, "has been made clear."

"I need more than 'hang around and don't kill anyone.' I'm getting antsy."

"Meditate."

"It isn't helping."

"Then you are doing it incorrectly."

His dismissive tone made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, and she stiffened with indignation. She may have been injured, and he may temporarily have been the one responsible for her, but there was no way in heaven or hell that she would consent to sitting prettily and twiddling her thumbs for even another day.

Even for the Arishok.

He looked up as she laid her hands on his desk and made very deliberate eye contact.

"Give me something to do," she said slowly, "or I'm going to go crazy and I'm taking you with me."

An hour later, Hawke found herself gagged and tied to a chair in the far corner of the tent, facing the wall.

The leather strap covering her mouth was stronger than its predecessor, which she had chewed through quickly. The Arishok had underestimated her tenacity and obstinate commitment to her convictions. Her various attempts to argue her point, whether verbal or physical, had been tolerated and soundly ignored. And there had been many of them. In succession. It was after the fourth (or was it the fifth?) time Hawke casually threw a wadded up piece of parchment at his face that the bronze giant had decided he would suffer no more of this.

Hence, she was in the Chair of Shame.

As she stared at the shadow of an insect crawling across the outside of the tent, Hawke wondered how long her captor intended to keep her bound. She'd tried to hop around, but the qunari-sized chair was too massive to move easily in her weakened state and, in any case, her feet didn't even touch the ground. The only sounds that reminded her that the Arishok was still present were his footsteps and the rustling of papers.

With a deep sigh, she leaned back, the wood creaking a bit in protest. Her arms and legs were still tied tightly, and in her string of unfortunate cosmic events, Hawke felt her nose begin to itch. Head snapping upright, she quickly scanned for anything nearby she could potentially scratch it with. Bookcase: too far. Canvas: too far. Support pole: potentially do-able. She strained her neck, the vexing itch growing stronger. No matter the angle or position of her head, she still couldn't quite reach. Just a finger's width away – as torturous as the itch was becoming, Hawke thought nothing of balance as she moved as sideways as she could on the seat...

...and when her chair tipped sideways, she cursed the now-distant pole. She hit the floor solidly, side of her face pressed into the rug, and rubbed her nose into the coarse fibers as she contemplated her situation.

Silver lining, she thought. And the craftsmanship of the weaving was impressive, especially from this viewpoint.

A pair of feet came into sight, and Hawke felt her world spin a bit as the chair was yanked upright and placed in front of the Arishok's desk. He took to his seat again, leaning on his elbows and folding his hands in front of his mouth as he studied her in silence.

His expression as he stared was, as per usual, unreadable to the human. She tried to look nonchalant while his gaze nearly bored a hole clean through her skull, the golden yellow eyes fixated on her in contemplation.

After quite some time, he reached across the desk and hooked one claw gently under the top of her gag, tugging it down and freeing her mouth.

She didn't say anything, just continued staring back at him quietly.

"Why should I release you?" he asked in his low, controlled tone. "Will you seek other sources of entertainment?"

Glaring, Hawke set her shoulders. "I don't want to be entertained," she hissed. "I want to be useful."

At that, the Arishok slammed one massive fist down on the table, startling her and sending a few meticulously-organized papers and sticks of dry ink flying. The fury on his face made her wonder what in Thedas had possessed her to provoke such a man.

"Then why," he practically roared, "do you waste yourself in this festering pit of a city?"

Hawke's adrenaline started stiffening her limbs as she watched him with wide eyes. "What?"

"This place," he growled, standing to pace, "is a mire of the corrupt and pathetic. Yet you squander your time and energy suffering under the whims of these simpering, strutting bigots like a diamond in a cesspool."

The comparison wasn't lost and Hawke, and though his meaning might have been vastly different, she felt her frustration ebbing away. "Then," she asked cautiously, "why are you still here?"

He sat on the desk, crossing his arms. "I have been charged with reclaiming a relic long since lost to my people. It eludes me at every turn, but it cannot for long." He clenched and unclenched his fist, knuckles cracking. "As soon as I feel it beneath my hands, we will be rid of this vashedan place. But you..." He turned, and she had to crane her neck to look up at him. "You have no such bounds."

"I have a duty to my family and my comrades," she replied. "I would not abandon it. Sure, I hate this place. Maybe not as much as you do, but until something happens, I've committed myself here. With them." She tilted her head a bit, trying to gauge his reactions. "And something tells me that if you were dumped somewhere awful with your fellows-in-arms, you wouldn't abandon them either."

"No," he said carefully, after some thought. "I would not."

She shrugged, offering him a small smile. "Having character is a burden in places like these, I guess."

He snorted, staring off at one wall.

Hawke tugged at her bindings, feeling them start to dig into her skin. Trying to manipulate him had gotten her into this situation, so perhaps forcing herself to be blunt might appeal to the qunari leader's sensibilities.

"Look," she said, raising her chin, "I really do want to be useful and earn my place around the compound while I'm here. Currently, I do two things, and I'm not a woman who feels validated by an existence of either wandering around as an outsider or keeping your bed warm."

His eyes quickly snapped to hers at that last phrase, and she knew she'd struck at something. She hadn't referred to their odd sleeping arrangement in conversation before, and she'd used that particular wording on purpose.

"I annoyed you deliberately," she continued, "to lessen the distance between us."

The corners of his mouth tugged at a frown as he gestured to the corner he'd designated for her punishment.

"Not that kind of distance," she explained with an exasperated sigh. "I mean..." She struggled for words, chewing on her bottom lip. "Despite the huge differences between us, I want to see you as a friend, not a captor. Is that –" She frowned. "Can we be that, do you think?"

The Arishok regarded her carefully, then, before leaning over her to slip his claws under the ties that held her. The skin of his chest pressed into her shoulder, and the shared warmth spread like a wildfire through Hawke's still-sore body. As her restraints popped loose, one by one, she fought the urge to stretch and inadvertently punch him in the process.

"You are not a prisoner, Hawke," he said as he straightened.

"I know."

He hesitated, and some kind of thought or idea flitted across his stern features before he reached into a nearby shelf and dug out a thick leatherbound tome. He held it out, prompting her to take it, and the heaviness sank it into her palms. She flipped it open cautiously, scanning the contents. "What is this?"

"A collection of poetic works," he stated, sitting back down and reaching for the next leaflet in his pile. "They progress in complexity." After a moment, he gave her a short, acknowledging nod. "Further your language abilities and restrain yourself -" Hawke could practically hear the 'aggravate me like that again and by the Qun I will end you' implied in his voice, "- and you may eventually find a use."

Grinning, Hawke threw her hands in the air. "Praise Andraste!" she cried. "It's a damn miracle!"

He said nothing, but she could see the hint of a pleased expression as she fetched a dictionary and pulled Felin's phrasebook from her pocket. She pulled a chair up to his desk, commandeering a clear space beside him to crack open the three books and begin reading.

The Arishok allowed her this, and as she ran her eyes over the first stanza, a lazy smile planted itself across her mouth. Regardless of the fact that she could reach out and touch him, she felt the space between them close just a little, and the sound of turning pages narrated what was one of the most peaceful afternoons Hawke could recall in her entire adult life.

Chapter Text

"Hawke."

The Champion shielded her eyes as she looked up, the sunlight behind the person standing over her too bright to make out more than a dark shape. She sat on one of the bridges over the canal, books on her lap and either side of her thighs.

"Yes?" She squinted, barely making out the Ashaad's shadowed face. He had clearly come here with a purpose, and Hawke delighted in the fact that she had learned enough to now answer him in qun. "[Am I needed?]"

He nodded and pointed leftward. "The Arishok sends for you."

Gathering up her books and marking her place in the poetry volume, Hawke stood and placed them in her shoulderbag. It seemed to be the way things had worked out – she would speak to the qunari in their language when possible, and they would respond to her in the common tongue as they could. It was a way for both sides to learn, and this Ashaad in particular had shown an aptitude for Common. In ordinary circumstances, she'd have pointed out his success and complimented him, but here, the validation for effort came when the other party could understand you. They were content with her comprehension alone.

She followed the qunari scout obediently, the stiffness in her legs melting with each step toward the Arishok's reception arena. She couldn't hear any voices, so what the warlord wanted could've been anyone's guess.

She emerged from behind the whitewashed stone partition next to the Arishok's dais, lightly tossing her shoulderbag to the ground at his side. "You called?"

His earrings chimed delicately as he lifted his chin, indicating the ground at the base of the steps. "You have a visitor."

"A what now?" She turned, and the light glinted off of white armor as its wearer slowly paced back and forth in the dirt.

She smiled, the sight of her friend a breath of familiar comfort in a world of foreign tongues and culture. Something in her heart lightened to see him, and she called his name as she descended the steps without a second thought to the leader of the bronze giants behind her.

Sebastian turned as he heard her voice. "Hawke!" He jogged to the steps to meet her, wrapping an arm around her waist to help her down from the disproportionately enormous final step. As he lowered her feet to the ground, she kept her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. "It's been weeks," she said, feeling him gently return the embrace carefully, almost as if he were afraid to hurt her. "How've you been?"

He chuckled, patting her back lightly. "I came here to ask you the same."

The thick, rolling brogue had never sounded so warm as it did now, after near a month surrounded by Qunari. Hawke resisted the urge to sigh and ask him to recite the Chant of Light just to hear a familiar voice. Instead, she pulled back and punched him playfully on the shoulder. "Checking up on me? No faith, eh?"

He ignored her attempt to bait him, taking a half-step back to take quick stock of her appearance. "You look well," he observed. "How are you feeling?"

"Not dead," she offered, plucking at her clothes. He raised an eyebrow at that, and she sighed, laughing a little. "I'm a little stiff and not allowed to do anything too ambitious, like climb Sundermount or slay demons. But I'm walking, talking – kind of – and all things considered, I've come out of favors for Varric worse off than this."

"Glad I am to hear it." He looked genuinely relieved, and it occurred to Hawke that someone with Sebastian's personality would very likely have worried over her injuries to the point of losing sleep. In that case, she was impressed he'd managed to wait three whole weeks without storming in and demanding answers.

If that's the case, she thought as she undid the ties on her overdress, let's put it to rest now.

The archer's eyes widened, and he rushed to stop her hands with his own. "Hawke," he exclaimed, "what in the Maker's name are you doing?"

But she had already shrugged it loose, pulling her undershirt over her shoulder and hooking one finger under the neck and tugging it to the side.

"Look," she insisted, grabbing his wrist with her free hand. "All healed. Sealed shut. Nothing to worry about."

Sebastian looked up slowly at the exposed skin, which stretched from the top of her left breast to her collarbone. And dead center of it all was the jagged line of scar tissue that crawled across still tender-looking flesh.

Hawke saw him swallow hard, and despite an initial tug of resistance, she firmly pulled his hand to her chest to cover the wound. "Closed, Sebastian. Has been."

Hesitantly, he ran a few calloused fingertips gently over the surface, expression hardening at each bump and ridge.

"I did this," he said finally, pulling his hand back. "My arrow, from my bow, pulled by my own hand."

"What?" Hawke stared at him in disbelief. "It was a complete accident."

"That may be, but –"

"Has that been bothering you all this time?" She resisted a laugh, smiling despite her friend's obvious emotional discomfort. "I don't blame you at all."

He ducked his head, genuinely apologetic. "I still feel as though I should take responsibility."

"Don't worry! We got the flowers, thanks to you. And I have a lot of scars." As she spoke, she was only vaguely aware of Sebastian's gaze flicking behind her and up, a concerned expression on his face. "If I was worried more about my looks than being lightning-proof, I'd be in a different line of work and probably a seriously – whoof!"

She was interrupted by a massive forearm hooking around her waist, hosting her up and slinging her over one shoulder.

"Parshaara. You are done here."

"Put me down!"

"No."

She braced her elbows against his back, holding her torso aloft. Sebastian, she noted, looked positively horrified. Perhaps out of fear for her, she mused, or shock that she allowed the qunari to toss her around like a ragdoll.

Or it could have been the fact that the Arishok's hand was squarely on her ass as he held her in place.

"We were talking," she muttered as she spun, the Arishok rounding on Sebastian like a falcon on a baby rabbit.

"You," he declared in that low, commanding voice that passed as normal for him. "Priest."

"Truthfully, I'm not –"

The qunari held up his free hand to silence him, his outstretched palm doing more than words ever could. "Your self-pity has no place here," he informed him, pointing a finger accusingly. "Resolve it within yourself. Do not bother Hawke with your narcissistic, selfish trifles."

Hawke seethed. "Who do you think you are, to –"

"I am the Arishok," he said sharply, turning on his heel and carrying her off. "And you should be grateful for my counsel."

Sighing, Hawke supported her chin in one hand. "This has been fun," she called dryly to Sebastian, waving feebly as she bobbed away. "Let's do it again soon."

The Arishok deposited her roughly on the collection of cushions in his tent.

"Hey," she called up at him angrily, "what the hell was that about?"

"Your discussion was done," he replied calmly, watching her struggle to dig herself out of the pile.

"No," she managed, flinging a tasseled oval out of the way, "you decided it was done."

"It was done the moment he sought reassurance from you. You coddle him."

"He shot me," she practically hissed, glaring from her half-buried position. "Of course he would feel guilty, even if it was an accident."

"To do so is pointless and idiotic."

"It shows he cares about me!"

"To seek reassurance is selfish in itself; it gratifies only him."

"Does it?" Hawke pulled a cylindrical pillow into her lap, having since given up on looking dignified for the rest of the exchange. "Did it ever occur to you that it might make me happy to know that someone wants forgiveness for contributing to massive bodily harm?"

"If he wishes to repent, let him hone his skill to prevent it happening again." The Arishok leaned down slightly, staring at her pointedly. "Humans are too quick to relish suffering."

"And you are too quick to dismiss emotional bonds," she snapped back. There was no denying that he'd hit a nerve. The companions surrounding her were her extended family, and the only thing keeping her sane in this Maker-forsaken city. And this emotionally stunted warlord was not going to belittle the ties that bind.

"What if I wanted reassurance from you?" she asked, straightening her posture. "What if having your respect and affection was important enough that it made me insecure?"

He considered her words for a moment before speaking. "Such a person," he told her, "would never earn either. You are not so."

Suddenly, the question wasn't about Sebastian any longer, and Hawke's throat tightened. "And if a human like me wanted to understand, to know where we stood," she asked slowly, "then how would I know if you held me in any esteem at all?"

There was a pause. He drew his shoulders back in a gesture that she saw enough to recognize, but not understand.

"If I did not," he replied coolly, "would we still be speaking?"

Hawke pressed her lips shut, curling tighter around the pillow atop her thighs. She knew he was right. He knew he was right. It would have been easier for him not to bother.

Suddenly, the thought plucking at the tight string underlying most of her tension since she'd come here made itself clear.

Why do this, then?

At her silence, the Arishok grunted something unintelligible in Qunari, turning to leave.

"You will stay here," he commanded, exiting the tent flap. "And you will reflect."

Night fell. It was a welcome relief, as the blazing heat of the Kirkwall summer sun only served to make Hawke more miserable during her designated hours of stewing.

She knew that Sebastian had only been trying to apologize. The man prayed when he squashed a spider, for crying out loud. But she had also done as the Arishok had told her, and given her situation a great deal more thought.

Specifically, she'd chewed her lip and dug deep into what little she'd gleaned from the qunari leader so far. He enjoyed teas and wine, the stronger the better. Most of his books were, from what she could decipher, the works of philosophers and poets and scholars of the Qun. His men adored him and followed his every command without question, and while he was slow to anger, his wrath could devastate entire countries. But most significantly of all, he'd taken her into the heart of his men here, nursed her back to health, and allowed her nearly unobstructed access to his home and his life.

And though he could snap her like a twig at the slightest provocation, he had never, never so much as harmed her.

Sitting there, half-covered in textiles and trimmings, Hawke felt like a prize idiot.

As she was berating herself for the hundredth time, the sound of footsteps approaching alerted her to the tent's owner returning. She bolted upright, straightening her clothes and trying not to look as though she'd spent the afternoon navel-gazing.

The Arishok walked in, and the first thing Hawke noticed was the satchel gripped in his hand. As he walked by, he dropped it at her feet on his way to the armor stand at the back of the room. She pulled out the book she'd been working on, as well as her translation notes, and laid them out on the table in front of her.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

The Arishok grunted a noncommittal response, and she kept focused on the poetry as she opened the pages to her bookmark.

"Not just for the books," she continued, not looking up. "For... everything. Everything you've done."

The room was quiet, and she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.

He was watching her, narrowing his eyes in thought, and it was a relief when he returned to the task of removing his armor for the night.

"Your gratitude is welcome, but unnecessary."

"I still wanted to say it." She smiled at him, a little. "Even if it's for my own gratification."

A quiet rumble echoed from his chest as he set his shoulder pauldrons atop the mannequin, and she knew he'd understood the reference.

"Your afternoon has been a productive one."

"It would've been more productive if I'd had my books!" she exclaimed, back to herself again after that thoroughly awkward exchange. "I was just about to finish a tricky one when the Ashaad came to get me."

Shucking the remainder of the brick red armor and his boots, the Arishok took his usual place on the cushions, which Hawke had intentionally left vacant. The qunari were a people of habit, she'd realized quickly, and no one exemplified this more so than their leader. One of the men had already set a bizarrely-shaped teapot, still steaming, at the table just moments before the Arishok had come home for the evening.

Yes, the man loved his routines. As well as the strong-smelling tea which was served in a vessel that looked more like a monster than a teapot.

She poured for him, sliding the cup his way before only partially filling her own. The tea was sweet and richly spiced and heavy on her tongue, and the gradient from honey gold to a dark reddish brown in the cup was the one attractive aspect that had first convinced her to try drinking it.

It didn't disappoint. Nothing that the Arishok liked ever did.

As he sipped, the horned giant leaned his head back and relaxed, letting his eyes lay closed for a lingering moment before gazing up at the cut brass of the lantern that hung from the ceiling.

Hawke enjoyed the quiet atmosphere, feeling a kind of intimacy at being witness to the Arishok's private moments of decompression at the end of the day. She flipped through her notes, scribbling furiously and drawing arrows back and forth in her translations. Learning to speak and read the qun was surprisingly intuitive – it was spelled exactly as it sounded, but trying to get her mouth to make those sounds was like replacing sponges with cheese and about as productive.

She laid down her books after finishing the final stanza, drinking her tea carefully as she looked over her notes.

"Read," came the sudden command from her right, and Hawke jumped a little.

"Beg pardon?"

He only stared expectantly, cup in hand. He wasn't going to tell her twice.

"But I only just..."

He took a long sip, still pinning her like a bug to a collection board. He wasn't going to take 'no' for an answer, either.

"Fine," she said joylessly, "but no miracles."

Though she stumbled through the words about as gracefully as a donkey tumbling down a rocky cliffside, Hawke plowed ahead, determined to finish the whole Maker-damn thing. He wanted to hear her read? Fine. But he was going to sit there and suffer through her mangling his language.

As she finished the third and final stanza, he snorted.

"Your pronunciation is an insult."

She sighed. "I know, I know. But you say these things because you care."

A tiny smirk crossed his lips as he emptied his cup, but had faded by the time Hawke reached out to refill it.

"Translate," he prompted as he wrapped long fingers around the curved pottery.

She balked, indicating her messy notes. "Give me a minute."

"No."

Deep breaths, Hawke reminded herself as her blood began to boil and her fingers clenched a bit too tightly around her teacup. Benevolent leader. Lover of poetry, philosophy, tea, and bossing you around like it's his his purpose under the Qun.

Maintaining her calm, Hawke pulled the smaller notebook atop the massive pages of the qunari tome, looking back and forth a few times before piecing enough together to begin.

"White sand given voice by wind and sea

Bites at the shore and fades

There is no struggle.

I will not falter.

Sun-scorched walls of rock and bone

hold fast against the licking tongues of water

There is no struggle.

I will not falter.

The tide rises, the tide falls, masterless and all-consuming

The salt-soaked air pulls at my skin

There is no struggle.

I will not falter."

Hawke put the book down.

And she waited.

The Arishok stared into the space in front of him, seemingly lost in thought, only speaking after taking a long, slow sip and allowing the steam ghost his face.

"It is accurate," he concluded.

Without missing a beat, Hawke pressed further. "Is it Seheron?"

He hesitated then, and she got the feeling that it was equivalent to watching a human twitch.

"Yes," he answered simply.

And the tone in his voice declared that the end of that.

It had never occurred to Hawke that the qunari general could have been homesick. For all the creative insults he came up with for Kirkwall and its people, she had never taken the time to consider what toll several years far from your homeland would take on someone whose connection to home was so powerful.

She had nowhere to go back to. Lothering was decimated, that much was true. But that was another story altogether. She couldn't go back; he wasn't allowed. It would be like torture for someone so integral to his people.

And if nothing else, she could try to ease one thing.

She shifted closer, bringing the teapot within arm's reach on the table.

"Hey," she said. "Tell me about Seheron."

He frowned. "I have spoken of it before."

"A little, on short visits." She waved her hands, beaming. "Regale me with stories! Describe the painted cliffs, those creepy plants, the cinnamon farms, the temples – everything you know."

"You wish to distract me from your poor progress."

"No," she corrected him, "I want to distract you from Kirkwall. And myself from it too, while I'm at it."

He eyed her warily, but there was no denying the appeal of her motives.

"So," she began brightly. "Do those plants of yours eat people?"

Hawke could've sworn she saw the hint of a smile over the course of the night.

Chapter Text

A/N: Hey, guys! Sorry that this chapter is so late – I've had a couple of setbacks. Firstly, at the beginning of the week, I got glasses for the first time in my life, which meant that I couldn't stare at a computer screen for more than five minutes at a time for days. Then my doof of a dog took a tumble across our hardwood floors and popped her damn kneecap right out of place, and now isn't allowed to walk much for two weeks and has to chow down on pills. Trying to keep a year-and-a-half-old dog (who is six pounds of pure energy) still is an exercise in patience. Needless to say, it's been a busy week between Ibuprofen and vet trips. =/

Anyway, this week's chapter is a day or two late, but next week's should theoretically be on time! And it'll be about a Qun festival that Hawke gets to take part in, so I'm really looking forward to writing it.

Thanks for your patience, and here it is!

Day 26

It was a beautiful morning.

The scorching Kirkwall summer had finished its final, sizzling death throes, and a mellow cool had broken through. Even the qunari, despite hailing from a sun-bleached island jungle, seemed to appreciate the relief from this particular brand of devastating heat.

Best of all, Hawke could now indulge in her urge to sunbathe without fear of cooking like a steak. The warmth felt soothing on her limbs, and she laid out a mat across the tops of some enormous supply crates, scaling up a few layers to the prime rays.

She laid out her books in the fan shape that had become her rhythm, dictionary and notes alongside the enormous, ornately-decorated book of prose. A nontrivial amount of pages sat tucked beneath the bookmark, a testament to her progress.

Stomach-down on the ochre-reds and browns of the thick mat, Hawke energetically picked up where she had left off the night before. The piece she was working on was promising, and though the longest she'd had to tackle yet, it was also the most personal. It was a love letter for sure, but to whom or what, she'd yet to discover. The idea that the answer might lie in the final stanzas drove her onward, and she was so engrossed in her efforts that she didn't notice the gathering of company.

When she next looked down, a half dozen karashok and ashaad sat on the crates around hers, working on weapons or discussing the Qun or any of a number of menial tasks that they saved for the pleasant mid-morning lull. They acknowledged her with a nod as she peered over the edge, and Hawke waved and ducked back into her book. She pulled the book up to hide her broad smile, burying her face in the worn pages. She felt giddy, like a child who had fallen asleep in a field and woken up surrounded by winged insects who would never have come near when she was awake and noisy, but settled in her stillness.

Not wanting to scare off her titanic, muscular butterflies, Hawke inhaled deeply to combat the urge to blather excitedly. Her nose was so far buried in the center folds that she didn't see another soldier approach.

"Humans have strange reading methods."

She let the book fall into flat hands and away from her face, turning to see a qunari standing in front of her stack of crates, eye level even with hers. When she recognized the face and horns of a Sten she'd developed something of a friendly rapport with, she smirked.

"And here I thought that the qunari, of all people, would appreciate what a good long whiff can tell you."

"From another living being, yes. From a book, no." He tilted his head, the long, thick white plait over his shoulder sliding with the movement. The Sten had been one of the first to engage her in full conversation, his relatively young age as a talking point and his past assignments along Seheron's coastline providing him a rare familiarity with the common tongue.

Another striking point was his broken horn, leaving a full third of one dominant horn missing. Hawke hadn't had the nerve to ask him about that yet, as she didn't know if it was a personal subject to the qunari as a race. It did, however, give her another means of identifying the men when she had trouble with facial recognition; their horns were as unique in size and shape and scarring as their faces were.

She'd know this one a mile away, though. Aside from the damaged cranial bone, she'd seen him smile a surprisingly frequent amount. Especially when they talked about weapons. He doted on the pair of enormous swords strapped to his back, and for every question he answered about the Qun, she would answer one about lyrium. He seemed interested in the augmentation of runes, and Hawke wondered if Sandal could whip up something that worked well with the Sten's mammoth strength.

She'd have to figure out how the qunari felt about gift-giving first, of course.

"Did you stop just to criticize my reading abilities?"

"No, though as a learner, you should value any criticism you are fortunate enough to receive." Hawke was about to shoot back a witty retort, but he ignored her opening mouth and kept talking. "You have a visitor."

She blinked, closing her books. "Another one? Or the same?"

"Different. Mahtabas."

Mahtabas. As she tucked her books neatly into her satchel and rolled up the cushy throw rug, she considered the new word. Bas was their word for 'thing' or 'foreigner,' and if she recalled correctly, mahta meant 'small.' She frowned. A child, then? No, the word for 'child' was imekari, and she didn't really know any children, anyway...

"A dwarf?" she guessed, climbing down from her perch to a lower level of crates, then to the ground.

The Sten grunted an understanding, walking toward the audience arena. "Yes. 'Dwarf.' Mahtabas."

A light beamed across Hawke's face as she kept apace. If her visitor was a dwarf, there were really only two people he could possibly be. Varric would be a welcome sight, though she'd received a note from him not two days before. And Maker only knew the reason that the other option would come all the way from her estate and directly into the qunari compound when he got knock-kneed just setting foot in Lowtown.

Sure enough, though, there he was, braids in his beard twitching nervously as he waited at the base of the steps.

"Bodahn?" she called, nodding to the Arishok in acknowledgment as she passed by his dais.

"Messere!" He brightened, a sudden liveliness in his movements as he bowed and waved. "It's so good to see you looking well. We've all been beside ourselves with worry. House doesn't feel the same without you around."

She smiled at his enthusiasm, but quickly shook her head. "It's good to see you too, but I sent word that I'd be here for some weeks yet. Why are you..."

Her voice trailed off as her gaze fell on the crate next to the dwarf, filled with familiar-looking scroll holders and gilded frames.

"Maker, no," she sighed. "Please tell me that that's not what I think it is."

Bodahn looked sympathetic as he gestured to the official-looking parcels. "I'm sorry, messere, but your lady mother absolutely insisted when she heard about your extended stay. She'd've had my headif I didn't bring these down at once! Oh, if you had only seen the way she –"

"It's all right, I believe you." She grudgingly walked down the steps, feet feeling heavier with each step. She really didn't want to take that box, but she knew that poor, devoted Bodahn would have to suffer her mother's wrath if she didn't.

Though the temptation to throw the lot in the harbor was overwhelming.

"Stop," commanded the Arishok from his reclining position. "You will explain."

Before you bring any strange, potentially dangerous or (even worse) frivolous clutter into my compound, while unspoken, rang loud and clear.

Hawke reached for the topmost tube and popped one of the ornate end caps open, sliding the rolled-up contents into her hand and unfurling it. She held the canvas up to show the Arishok, the face of a skinny, pale, gaudily-dressed aristocrat staring out from the painting.

"Betrothal portraits," she said, "courtesy of my mother." She flapped it around a bit demonstratively, one hand on her hip. "I've a month's worth of candidates to go through." She tossed it back in the box along with the canister.

The qunari leader studied her curiously, adjusting his position to lean forward and narrow his eyes. When he spoke, it was with a mildly interested tone. "You seek a mate."

"No," she corrected, "my mother seeks one for me. I just look at the pictures and pass judgment."

"You do not welcome her involvement."

Hawke grimaced. "No, I most certainly do not."

He frowned for a moment, silently watching her adjust the crate's contents before she attempted to hoist it up.

It was heavier than it looked, and the champion felt her muscles protest as she lifted it to chest level. Her arms, shoulders and back were screaming, and just as she considered dragging the damn thing up piecemeal, a pair of massive hands covered hers, and warmth pressed into her back.

She relinquished her hold as the Sten effortlessly hefted the box over her head and onto one of his shoulders, staring down at her from behind. She tilted her head back to meet his eyes, squinting and trying to imagine that his smirk was because he was just so happy to be helping her rather than amusement at her new inability to lift a single damn crate.

"You should not attempt such things while injured," he reprimanded.

Deflating, Hawke turned to face him. "Why is everyone here always scolding me?"

"Because you do things that require correction," he stated flatly as he started up the steps.

"You're all busybodies," she muttered, following.

"We aim to improve those who seek to improve themselves."

"And if I feel like I don't need any improvement?"

He was quiet then, and Hawke craned her neck around to see his expression. A smirk was plainly written across his features, crinkling a scar that crossed his lips.

"You're smiling!"

"I was imagining you meeting a comical death," he informed her. "It was very appropriate, given your statement."

She sighed, but smiled despite herself.

Hawke liked the half-horned Sten. It was good to see that not all qunari were as strict and taciturn as a certain axe-wielding warlord, who had been her primary company for the first few weeks of recovery.

The Arishok watched the two of them closely as they approached, grunting a short, muted acknowledgement when the Sten asked for permission to excuse himself.

And his leader's hawkish eyes burned intently into the human's back as she walked away.

She felt something amiss, and when she glanced over her shoulder at him, the intensity of his gaze caught her by surprise.

Something about that look made Hawke shiver.

"No," Hawke muttered aloud as she scribbled on a long piece of parchment, "because Lord Crawsbury's nephew has a neck that looks as though it could snap like a chicken's. And even if that's just the portrait, it shows he has a terrible taste in art." She put it aside, reaching for the next framed portrait or flashy tube. "Next."

She'd been going through these damn things since midday, and her body was beginning to stiffen. There had to have been at least four dozen candidates in the box, each carefully handpicked by Leandra for some reason known only to the woman herself. And it was Hawke's job to go through each one just as carefully, explaining to her loving mother why, precisely, each prospect was unacceptable.

Sometimes it was tough to find something wrong with the match. Other times, it was far too easy. Especially with the Orlesian nobles. With them, often all she had to write was "Ruffles" and that was enough.

Hawke had very clearly lost track of time in her efforts to get the whole lot done in the span of an evening. She blinked, looked up, and any trace of sunlight had disappeared from the world. Instead, a cool breeze came through the gap in the tent flap, and the lanterns were lit.

She was so engrossed in her work, she hadn't even remembered getting up to light them. And, to her great dismay, her zealous drive had only gotten her halfway through the stack.

"You were not present for the evening meal." A voice from the door caught her attention, and she turned to see the Arishok letting the door flap flutter shut behind him.

It was apparently far later than she'd estimated.

"I completely forgot about it," she sighed, rubbing at the corners of her tired eyes with equally tired fingers. "I just want to get these done and over with."

"I assumed as much." He stood over here, tilting his head to inspect the box and the surrounding floor area, which was littered with scrolls and portraits. "You have no intention of taking a mate, yet you will still look at them?"

"My mother worked hard," Hawke replied, shaking yet another froofy-looking portrait out of its tube and unrolling it. "And even though it won't do any good, hard work is hard work." She scanned the note accompanying the man's painting. "It would be disrespectful to her to not even glance at them."

"Then you are doing as I expected."

She looked up from her writing to stare at him, puzzled. "You're not going to tell me that I'm wasting my time and hers?"

He picked up the stack of responses she'd already completed. "She is diligent in her efforts. Though they are at odds with your own purpose, you pay it due respect." There was an every-so-slightly, barely noticeable hint of something tender in his tone as he continued. "It is admirable; it cannot be faulted."

The human sitting on the wide cluster of cushions smiled warmly, pleased by the rare praise from the bronze giant. However, just as soon as it had appeared, it was replaced with chiding.

"You are foolish to skip a meal while recovering from an injury," he declared.

She laughed sheepishly. "I was so busy I forgot to be hungry."

"That is unacceptable."

"I'll be fine," she reassured him, but her treacherous stomach chose that exact moment to growl loudly, and she cursed her innards for betraying her.

Immediately, a small and warm parcel was dropped into her lap, sending papers every which way. Hawke's curiosity eclipsed her irritation, and she tugged the strings holding it together until they loosened and fell away, revealing a trio of doughy buns sending delicious-smelling steam wafting into the air.

"Eat." he commanded, reclining a few feet away.

"I will in a moment," she said, gathering the scattered papers together again. "I just need to finish –"

"Now."

"But I've already started –"

An irritated grumble echoed from his chest, and within an instant, he had caught her chin in one massive hand, holding her to face him. A clawed index finger tapped at her jaw.

"Open your mouth."

"Hey! What are you –"

"That will suffice." With that, he firmly pressed the flesh of one bun between her teeth, satisfaction written on his face as he released her and pulled back.

Sulking, Hawke bit down and tore a chunk out of her dinner, her love of the spiced meat in the center not mollifying her one bit. The Arishok, for his part, seemed completely unfazed by her pointed glare. She was eating; he had won.

"You have formed an acquaintance with the Sten," he said as she reached for a second bun a few moments later. "I was unaware."

Pride warmed Hawke's face and she smiled despite her earlier vow to be surly. "Yes," she confirmed eagerly, swallowing the last bit of fluff from the first roll. "Aside from the healer, he's the one I talk to the most."

Her response was a vague snort of acknowledgment, which she took as encouragement to continue.

"We have really interesting conversations," she shared, wiping her fingers on the waxy parchment upon which the food sat. "And I get to practice new words with him. My language is getting better every day." She laughed a little at a memory of the Sten openly ridiculing her for mispronouncing the word for 'crate' into 'goat's milk.'

"Soon," she said casually, "I won't need to be so much of a burden on you."

He turned to her then, frowning. He shifted his posture, watching her while his chin rested in one palm. "I do not recall ever telling you that you were."

Hawke's heart beelined for the base of her throat, and it took far too much strength to swallow back down, along with the bread.

"I have trouble believing that I'm not," she managed, trying to sound flippant. "Besides, you've never said that you enjoy having me around, exactly."

"Do you require everything told to you?"

His stare held her in place, and while Hawke knew he wasn't going to spell it out for her, she got the distinct impression that she'd just figured out something very important about the qunari warlord. And also, on a related note, about why her heart had been behaving so very oddly since the day it had been accidentally pierced by Sebastian's arrowhead.

Maker, the Arishok didn't shy away from anything, did he?

He turned his attention elsewhere, eyeing the bookshelf with a quiet rumble. "You are an exercise in my patience. Sharing a residence with you will bring me to a previously unimagined level of enlightenment."

And suddenly, things were back to normal. Hawke snickered as the tension broke like a twig, settling back into their comfortable, far less intense rhythm.

"Right. Fifth word I ever learned in qunari: imeshara. Thanks for that. My gratitude knows no bounds."

He smirked then, and Hawke let out a long breath, feeling the coiled tightness in her chest dissipate as she reached for a small, rectangular frame that held the likeness of yet another eligible bachelor. She held it up at arm's length to get a better look, and no sooner had she done so than it was plucked from her grasp.

"I was looking at that, you know."

The Arishok narrowed his eyes as he regarded the portrait. "I know this one."

"You do?" She fished around until she found the corresponding note from her mother. "That's Viscount Dumar's son, Saemus."

"Correct."

"You've met him, then," she asked, somewhat incredulous. As far as she knew, the Viscount had never come to the compound and always used messengers.

"As have you." He nodded to the door. "He frequents this place as though it were an oasis in a desert; he would walk the path of the viddathari were it not for his coward of a sire's interference."

"Well," Hawke sighed, "that 'coward of a sire' is Viscount, making his son nobility and therefore a potential candidate for husband. And I have to figure out the best way to politely refuse, so if you'll excuse me..." She crawled over him much like a monkey, one hand on his knee to hold her up while the other hand reached out and yanked the frame back. "I need this back now."

He made no move to interrupt or move her, but instead watched her with interest as she calmly settled back into the groove her backside had left in the pillows, prize in hand.

It only took a few minutes of attempting to write for Hawke to realize how difficult it was to work with someone staring at you. She put down her writing utensils, turning to her companion.

"What?"

He leaned in a bit closer, curiosity evident in his expression. "When did you lose your fear of me?"

Taken aback, her brain froze for a moment. That had come out of nowhere.

Or had it?

She did just brazenly climb into his personal space when not two weeks ago, she would have cowered at the sound of his voice alone. He was powerful, he was intimidating, he was frightening...

...and he ensured that she was fed and wrapped his arms around her in his sleep.

The scar tissue on her chest throbbed with every half-beat of her quickened pulse in a traitorous, telling way.

Andraste's glorious lady-cock, Hawke swore silently. I'm in trouble.

"I suppose," she began, flexing her wrists out of nervous habit, "I'm still afraid of you, just in a different way."

The Arishok didn't miss a beat. "In what way, then?"

Her mouth ran dry, and she couldn't pull her eyes away from the sight of the veins in the back of her hand rising under her skin as her fingers curled in and out. "I'm not used to someone having so much power over me."

This must have confused him, she knew, as he paused before his response. "You still retain full autonomy here."

She shook her head a few times, and only slightly. "You misunderstand."

And there was silence.

Slowly, Hawke picked up her writing and began again, still avoiding the qunari's piercing eyes. She could feel him fixed on her face as she worked, and she did her best to focus on the task at hand rather than speculate what in Thedas he could be thinking about for so long.

She'd gotten through another two suitors before they were blessedly interrupted by the delivery of the Arishok's evening tea, and he pulled a thick book from the shelf to immerse himself in as he drank. It felt as though she had been finally granted shelter from a hurricane, and the exhaustion from the day and the last moments of their conversation had taken their toll in the absence of adrenaline. She couldn't prevent herself from gradually drifting off into slumber, melting into the hills of lush comfort.

She was only vaguely aware of being shifted, the world tilting, and the braided velvet under her cheeks being replaced by silken furs as she was laid down atop them. Smiling, she burrowed into the warmth of it happily, ink-stained fingers splaying across the plush softness.

And she would have thought it a dream, except for the familiar low, rumbling snores at her back that woke her in the morning.

Chapter Text

A/N: Hey, folks! Have a longer-than-usual chapter as a post-holiday gift. ;) Sorry about last week – the holiday weekend was killer on both myself and my beta, and it turns out that my dog will, in fact, need surgery. When life rains, it pours, man.

I'm releasing this one a day early (on the New Year back in the States! We're 14 hours ahead here!) as a New Year's present. =) I had an awesome new year at the temple, and I hope you will too!

Here's where things start to get complicated. And a little sexy.

I had a load of fun writing the festival. Hope you enjoy it, and welcome to 2012!

Day 30

"What in Thedas is this?"

Hawke stared up at the tall poles that held giant swathes of jewel-toned fabric. That morning, the entire compound had been bustling with work, erecting the high, thin, mast-like stakes and airing out the long expanses of color before hoisting them up to flutter in the breeze. The cloth hung like banners from pole to pole, the sunlight beaming through them and painting the ground in vivid, rich hues.

The place was abuzz with the various sten and karashok issuing orders to their men, demonstrating how well-oiled they were as teams, even outside of battle. Swords and spears were laid aside for the day as tacking ropes and stakes took their place. The smell of foods, spices and teas that Hawke had never seen the like of before heavily saturated the air, and it was as though the culture isolated within the high stone walls had suddenly and brilliantly come alive.

The canals that crisscrossed the compound were decorated as well, qunari and converts throwing fistfuls of fuchsia and red and saffron powder at the canal walls. The dyes bled down to the still water below, weaving and blending into each other on the surface in a mesmerizing and patternless whirl. Rust-red and bright gold curlicue shavings of shorn wood littered the ground everywhere Hawke walked, crunching beneath her feet or springing away in protest.

Everything was so vibrant.

Still more decorations were being hung,including the garlands of dried flowers that graced the front of nearly every tent, and there wasn't a single being, kossith or otherwise, standing still. If you were qunari, you were busy.

Of course, being the only non-qunari in the compound, Hawke was completely out of the loop as to what in the Maker's name all of this beautiful and exhilarating preparation was for.

The thing that piqued her interest most of all were the strips of paper hanging from everyone's wrists. Some qunari had a few, others dozens, but all were identical rectangles of parchment attached to simple string bracelets. And they were everywhere.

When she finally saw a familiar face, Hawke ran over excitedly. The half-horned Sten stood with the Arishok atop a set of high stone steps, surveying the proceedings, powdered pigment smeared across their armor and skin.

"Shanedan," she called, inclining her head politely before her mouth practically exploded with the force of her pent-up curiosity. "This is – I mean – why are, what's going on – what is all of this?"

The Arishok turned his attention down toward her, and she fought the urge to wipe a smear of metallic gold dye from his jaw. "Today is Kaava Setash," he explained. "It is the Qunari day of gratitude."

"It's incredible," she breathed, staring out at the criss-crossing fields of color. "I've never seen everyone this happy."

He rumbled an approval, motioning to one of the infantry soldiers below to bring something over. "It is a celebration of that which one appreciates. It gives much cause for joy to those who observe it well."

"And I get 'joy' from all the colors and foods and wines," Hawke said slowly, waving out at the rest of the compound before pointing to her wrist. "But what are the papers for?"

The Sten held up an arm, and she marveled to see a collection of string bracelets halfway to his elbow. "These," he stated, the hanging strips fluttering prettily like leaves on a tree.

"Yes. Those."

"They are setaara, tokens by which the qunari express their gratitude toward one another," he told her, allowing her to reach out and read the flash of writing on one of the lower ones. "On it is written what it is you are grateful to that person for, and it is given to them to wear."

Some of the phrases were a bit complex, but most were one or two words and legible. Hawke distinctly made out quite a few 'leadership' slips, as well as 'passing of knowledge' and 'skill.'

"That's amazing," she said. "Even in this ludicrous place, you find things to be grateful for."

"Mostly in one another," he replied. "What else is there here?"

She laughed. "No, I completely understand. If I were to do the same, it would be for my comrades. And maybe the woman in the Hightown market who makes the little red cakes."

The Sten nodded his agreement, and Hawke was about to ask the two qunari for more details about the festival when she saw an Ashaad hold out a thin stick toward the Arishok. On it were about a hundred lanyards with blank setaara, and the warlord hooked his index finger under a dozen or so and lifted them gracefully off of their holder. As he dismissed the soldier, he turned to Hawke and extended his hand expectantly. When she only stared at him blankly, he grunted slightly and moved his palm to her eye level, prompting her to take them.

"You will participate," he commanded. "And you will use all of these."

The Champion reached out to take them, her human hands tiny by comparison. "You mean I get to take part in it, too?" A broad, warm smile beamed out from her face, and she was about to thank him profusely for allowing her such a culturally private thing when a thought occurred to her. All of the setaara were written in qunari. Meaning –

"Wait," she asked as her face fell. "This isn't a test of my writing, is it?"

The Arishok declined to answer, and the Sten smirked.

Hawke sighed.

"Damnit!"

It didn't take long for Hawke to get into the spirit of the festival.

After the noontime meal, everyone around her seemed to somehow understand that their work was done, and they instead walked about pleasantly, exchanging setaara and talking in the closest thing to warm tones that she had ever heard from the guttural and sharp language. She heard the sound of drums intermittently somewhere in the compound, and the ambient warmth of the sun was enough to shrug her overdress off of her shoulders, letting it fall about her belted waist.

She had a fistful of string bracelets, and by the Maker, she was going to use them.

The first one had been awkward. Hawke had wandered for an hour, agonizing over who to give them to and what to write, and after that hour, they were still as blank as the moment she'd received them. It wasn't until she'd stumbled across the half-horned Sten speaking with some of the elven viddathari that she was hit with any particular inspiration. She slipped a token from her wrist and scribbled on it, then proceeded to hover casually around the area, hemming and hawing and pretending to look interested in various decorations as she waited for an opportune moment that never came.

Fortunately, her glances and nervous flitting were obvious enough to the Sten, who pushed through the small crowd of chattering, waist-height converts and stood in front of her, holding out his arm expectantly.

Hawke laughed and slid the string over his hand, smiling at the way his expression shifted from focus to appreciation as he deciphered the word for 'criticism' amateurishly scrawled on the parchment. She was surprised, however, as he returned the favor, unhooking a loop from his belt and flipping through the bracelets it held until he found the one he was looking for, reaching for her wrist.

As seemed to be the trend that day, the human was glassy-eyed and almost touched by the gesture until she figured out what the impeccable handwriting translated to.

'Noise that makes you appreciate silence.'

What.

There was some flailing and irritated retorts, but the Sten simply smirked smugly down at the fussing human until she mumbled a 'thank you' and stormed off.

And though she was grousing about it at first, Hawke soon discovered that upon seeing the Sten involved in an exchange with her, the rest of the compound's occupants realized that she, too, was taking part. Suddenly, she was approached by dozens of qunari, kossith and elven alike, all with setaara to add to her collection.

Beaming, Hawke looked through each and every one of them. Most were written as some variant of 'understanding' or 'perspective,' though things like 'the common tongue' and 'respect' and even 'pleasant surprise' popped up more than once. It occurred to her as she wandered around the festivities that she might have had a far more profound effect than she'd realized. And, as the heady glow settled in her face and chest, she acknowledged that the long-stranded colony of qunari might have had just as much of an effect on her.

She would embrace it, she decided firmly as the pace in her feet picked up. And she would connect with these people even more, starting with paper bracelets and confetti.

The slips disappeared from her hands lightning-fast with her new enthusiasm, and she went so far as to pick up more blank ones to continue past her Arishok-mandated quota, this time for her own reasons.

Her writing was borderline atrocious, but legible. The language, too, was pieced together and broken, though usually on the correct path. The quartermaster in particular had understood the phrase 'hand language' enough to look entertained by it as she slipped it onto his arm.

Hawke had only just excused herself from a small but chatty group of converted elves who had each brought her setaara for saving the alienage or their family members when she saw the Arishok in the street ahead. He stood not twenty paces away in the middle of wide stretches of heliotrope and crimson cast shadows that bathed him in color, and he was watching her with mild interest.

She closed the distance between them with a smug, self-satisfied grin, a wave of her hand sliding the bracelets she'd amassed further down her forearm. When she got close enough to have a good look at him, she stifled a laugh. His elbows to wrists were nearly covered, and a leather strap was hung around his neck, weighed down with hundreds more of the tokens. She'd known that he was well-loved, but the demonstration made a hugely entertaining visual.

"That," she said, "is a lot of bracelets."

He murmured an assent, noting the few blank ones left attached to her belt. "You have done more than tasked with."

"I wasn't doing it just because you told me to."

"I surmised as much." He reached for her wrist, stretching her arm out to inspect the setaara she'd received.

"Hey," she protested, "those are personal!"

"They are displayed so that they may be seen," he replied calmly, making no motion to release her. "I will read them as I wish to."

There was a flicker of a smirk as he came across the word for 'entertaining' in the cluster of fluttering paper. "It seems that you have had an impact," he mused. "It is... interesting."

"I was actually surprised," she said, taking advantage of his proximity to read some of the strips on the arm holding hers captive. "Arishok, you're covered in the things." One phrase in particular repeated over and over, and she narrowed her eyes in concentration as she tried to sound out the syllables.

"What is qunoran vehl?" She looked up. "Did I get that right?"

"It is an honorific," the qunari explained slowly, "bestowed upon those who serve as an example to others."

"High praise," Hawke said appreciatively as he lowered her hand, satisfied with his findings. Before he released her entirely, however, he added his own setaara over her wrist, his fingers leaving streaks of red and purple powder in their wake.

She looked at her hand, then back up at him. "For me?" she asked, puzzled. "What for?"

He frowned at her questions. "They bear writing for a purpose."

"O-oh, right." She caught the spinning parchment gingerly between two fingers, turning it to read the familiar handwriting.

Effort.

She stared at it for far longer than she had to, catching her lower lip between her teeth gently. He knew that nothing here had been easy for her. She worked to befriend the men, learn the language, and understand their beliefs, all the while with a body still toiling internally to repair traumatic damage.

It had not gone unnoticed.

"Thank you," she managed. "Really."

The Arishok gave a short nod, and as he moved to leave, Hawke reached out to stop him.

"Wait," she said, unhooking the bracelet she'd kept separate from the others. "I have one for you."

He turned back to her as she grasped his massive hand, showing him what she'd written before sliding the loop of string over his fingers.

Rescue, it read.

Both of their hands were smeared in pigment from various points of contact with the dye powders, but Hawke didn't care. She held his hand between the both of hers as she spoke, a gesture that was eyed warily, but not rejected.

"I've wanted to say this for a while now," she started. "And it doesn't just mean letting your healer patch me up. I think you might have saved me from a lot more than that." After a pause and a thumb absentmindedly running circles on his leathery palm, she continued. "In the last month, I've learned more about myself from learning about your people. Being here – with them, with you – has taught me so much, and I suddenly want to give as much back as I can. And it's the first time in so long that I can remember having or wanting a purpose, not just surviving from one day to the next. It's so bizarre, and still..." She looked up at him, expression painfully earnest. "I'm the most stable I've been in years, I think. I feel like I've finally stopped running." A frown crinkled her nose. "Not that I really knew that I was running while that was what I was doing, but..."

She smiled as the breeze pulled the banners overhead, shifting the color surrounding them and leaving the Arishok awash in rippling reds and golds. He appeared more striking at that moment than ever before, staring at the intersection of their hands, and Hawke knew enough to step away before she did something she couldn't take back.

"So, that." She relinquished her hold, wringing her hands. "All of it wouldn't fit on the paper, you see."

A waving arm in the distance caught her attention, and she excused herself, grateful for the escape.

The Arishok let her go, saying nothing.

"There you are!"

Fenlin sat beside Hawke on a set of stone steps, handing her a hot cup of some kind of heavily spiced cider everyone was drinking. She smiled wearily up at him, wrapping her fingers around the ceramic surface and sighing. "The elven converts are... energetic," she said, considering her words carefully. "I only just managed to squeeze out of their clutches."

The healer laughed, nodding sympathetically. "They calm down eventually. Besides, you're still something of a novelty around here. And quite popular, it seems." He gestured to her arms, and Hawke laughed.

"You too," she said. "You might have to start a belt of them or something."

He pointed to the most recent few. "To be fair, there hasn't been a single one of these men that I haven't treated," he said. "Most of these say 'I am not dead.'"

Hawke couldn't help but burst out laughing, and Fenlin's musical chuckle was a welcome sound.

"That reminds me!" she exclaimed, pulling a setaara and draping it over his delicate wrist. "For you, good ser."

"Oh?" He read the phrase aloud. "'Unsolicited advice.' You're so sweet."

She snickered into her cup. "And you know all the good gossip."

"Your hand," he prompted, and Hawke held out one arm for him to add to.

"Aw, you shouldn't have." She tucked the steaming cup between her thighs as she turned the tag to read it. "'Entertainment.' Oh, not you too!"

Fenlin blinked his enormous eyes innocently. "I mean it in the best possible way."

"Of course. Healers only want what's best."

"Precisely." He chuckled again, staring out at the proceedings. "Speaking of which, seems like you won't be stopping by today, so I'm obligated to at least question you about your health."

Hawke sipped at the cider, enjoying the tingle it left on her tongue. "Seems fair."

"How are you feeling?" He swept a quick appraisal of her seated form. "Anything new or concerning?"

"Not particularly," she replied, sitting upright and taking quick stock of her back before resting her elbows on her knees again. "Haven't had any aches in a while."

"Mm. You haven't stopped by for any kassanda-hisran lately, so I assumed that you're sleeping better now."

"Well," she said, "the Arishok is a big help with that. Stays warm longer, too."

There was a stunned silence, and Hawke cursed her big mouth.

Balls.

"You sleep in his bed?" Felin was incredulous. "With him?" He stared for a while, looking thoroughly taken aback and his pointed ears flat against his skull, before finding the comprehension for speech again. "Why didn't you ever mention this?"

She scratched the back of her neck. "There's no sex involved."

"Of course there isn't; he's qunari. But that doesn't– "

"It just kind of... happened."

The elf wasn't done with his disbelief, apparently. "He lets you sleep with him," he said, "and you still think that you're just here as an experiment?"

At those words, Hawke groaned and folded over, arms wrapped around her legs and head on her knees. "Don't tell me these things," she pleaded, somewhat muffled. "You'll make what I already feel even worse."

And there it was. "Oh, Hawke," he said quietly, "you... towards the Arishok? Since when?"

"I don't know," she replied miserably, unmoving. "I don't understand any of this."

He patted her gently on the back, exhaling a long, deep breath slowly. After a few moments, the corners of his mouth perked up in a slight smile.

"Well," he said, pointed chin in one hand, "that explains the setaara exchange just then."

She turned her head sideways toward him, looking dismal. "You saw that?"

He nodded. "I did." With a soft chuckle, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "I don't think I've ever seen the big guy so confused."

Frowning, Hawke sat up and drank deeply. "How so?"

"You didn't see?" When she shook her head, he enlightened her, and there was a knowing spark behind Fenlin's eyes as he spoke.

"He watched you go, then stared at that hand for near a full five minutes after you left." He took a long sip, pondering the ripples on the surface before continuing.

"Be careful," he warned. "The both of you."

When night fell, enormous bonfires were lit in the openness of the central arena. The wooden curls littering the compound were tossed in as kindling, and the resulting smell of sandalwood and cinnamon bark perfumed the chilly air.

Drums had been brought out, and the pounding rhythms vibrated through the ground and up into Hawke's feet as she descended the dais steps and hopped down onto the dirt floor of the arena. It was just as lively as it had been during the day, and she enjoyed the atmosphere of merriment and music as she made her way to one of the fires.

She watched as the qunari gathered the bracelets they'd received over the course of the day, slid them off, and shook them into one of the colored powders that sat in bowls a short ways from the fire. They were tossed into the flames, and as the papers burned to nothing, a burst of color erupted toward the clear night sky.

Gaatlok, she realized as bright pillars of sparks and flame shot upwards. Mix the right amount in with the dyes, and the result was a beautiful flash that marked the acceptance of all the gratitude expressed that day. Excitedly, she made her way fireside and shed her tokens, coating them in a fistful of the nearest color. A bright purple sprang forth as she cast them into the heart of the bonfire, marveling at the the sparks and impossible hue as it charged upward and disappeared.

There was something cathartic about it, she decided as the aroma from the evening's feast mingled with the smoky residue of the gaatlok. She felt lighter, almost burdenless, for the cleansing of a clear night after a fantastically lively day.

The next bonfire over, a massive red tower of light rocketed skyward amid cheers, and from a pile of bracelets that big, Hawke knew it had to have been the Arishok's. She sat perched on the edge of one of the short walls, feet hanging above the ground with room to spare. A familiar gargantuan form blocked her firelight, and she snickered as he stopped to meet her gaze.

"Show-off," she declared.

The Arishok snorted as he sat beside her, relieved of his paper burden. "You have already incinerated yours."

"Yes, only just." She stretched her arms. "Mine was purple. And not nearly as ostentatious as yours."

"It was not done for the spectacle."

"I know."

They sat quietly watching the festivities, Hawke thinking all the while.

"Hey," she asked, leaning back on her palms. "Can I come back for this next year?"

His chest rumbled. "We hope to have vacated this vashedan excuse for a city by then." He rested his elbows on his knees, snow-white hair spilling over one shoulder. "If, however, we have not... you may."

"Thank you. I appreciate it." Hawke smiled, a lazy breeze carrying some of the fire's warmth, allowing the smell of charred cinnamon to roll across her skin.

"You know, I've been thinking." She shifted her weight to one arm to motioning with the other briefly. "About the reason why I'm so at peace here, and so quickly. By all accounts, I should be the most uncomfortable person in Kirkwall: I'm isolated from my comrades, my family, and everything familiar and placed in the middle of a culture that neither speaks my language nor follows the laws of the land. Hellish, right? But..." She gathered her thoughts a bit, flexing her shoulders and staring up at the stars. "I didn't fight it. I mean, I'm stubborn, but it didn't even occur to me to try to escape, or hole up in a corner somewhere, or battle my way out. So I started learning, and following, and blending into the rhythm of life here, and it was like all of a sudden, everything fell into place, you know? And it made me think of that verse."

She sat upright, gesturing as she spoke. "This is what the Qun means by 'there is no struggle,' right? 'Effort' and 'conflict' are different. That's not what it's talking about. Struggle is what we create for ourselves when we refuse to accept what's in front of us. If we deny reality, what simply is and is not, we cause so much unnecessary strife and lose sight of everything else, drowning in this fruitless attempt to change what can't be changed. If we accept, though, things move forward. We can focus on the other things, devoting time and energy to things that we can do rather than wasting it on things we can't. If I had resisted," she continued energetically, "just because this wasn't where I wanted to be, I wouldn't have gotten to see or do so many of the things that I have. And I wouldn't give them up for all of Thedas now, you know? So I just accepted where I am and what I can do with the power I have... and..."

She trailed off. The Arishok had lifted his head, listening to her ramble with great interest. She didn't know if it was the firelight or simply his natural intensity, but the way his expression changed quickly when she fell silent was telling of something.

"Or," she said quietly, "I could be completely wrong."

He studied her for a few uncomfortably long moments before standing.

"Come," he commanded, and she hopped down from her perch to comply.

They wound through the now-abandoned throughways of the upper area, the earlier coloration of the day replaced by blues and violets as moonlight re-tinted the world.

She followed the qunari leader into the compound's small meditation temple, used for teaching the viddathari and cleansing the mind. It wasn't much, simple and orderly, and the Arishok strode over to the bookshelf along one wall. Hawke wondered how he could see in the darkness, and moved closer to the tent wall, where the moon shone enough to cast everything in a pale glow.

He had withdrawn a small, multilayered box, and held it in such a way that she couldn't see the contents. After but a moment of fishing around purposefully, he placed a single, tiny object in his palm and replaced the container.

"What are we doing here?" she asked, flexing her hands nervously. "No one else is around."

Though she couldn't see his face well, there was a pleased tone in his voice as he spoke. "You have come to understand a core pillar of the Qun," he informed her, turning and holding up what he came for. "You will be recognized accordingly."

A single brass hoop glinted in the low light.

Hawke's heart pounded against its cage, and she backed up, only to feel her shoulders hit the back of the shelf behind her.

"But I – "

"Stay silent," he issued, twisting the earring open and advancing on her. "The pain is momentary and insignificant in comparison to the achievement it represents."

She didn't know why she complied, but she felt her body tremble as he turned her head and lowered her chin. She wasn't qunari. She hadn't even known that she'd understood anything correctly. But the Arishok had made it clear that refusal was not an option, and she would be marked whether she wished it or not.

"Cease your shaking."

"I don't think I can."

He grunted a brief noise of disapproval, and to Hawke's horror, pressed his body flush against hers, pinning her flat to the wood of the shelf behind them.

She could neither move nor breathe, and her heart now hammered as though it was trying to rip itself out. His skin was warm against hers, and as every sense awakened to a new level of heightened sensitivity, she could feel his scars pressing into her chest and stomach, even through her thin clothes.

A shot of searing heat in her groin made her shiver as his rough fingers traced the curve of her ear, testing the flesh beneath. Her blood caught fire, calling to him. His every movement, no matter how small or light, sent waves through her body, and it took every ounce of strength she had not to fall apart.

When she felt the pressure of one claw at the tender part of her earlobe, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

And he drove through her flesh like butter.

She didn't scream, though her lungs were begging her to. She didn't know if it was from the pain or pleasure or the fact that each led to the other, but the few seconds it took for him to set the ring in the new piercing were sheer torment. Each twist and vibration sent her nerves singing, and as he bent the ring shut, the half-step he took back was enough to regain the use of her lungs.

As she gasped and fell back against the shelf supporting her, the Arishok made no move to give Hawke any more space. It only took a moment for his brow to furrow in confusion, and he placed his palms on either side of her head as he leaned in. His warm breath fell dangerously close to her throat, and she tried not to reach for him as he pressed his head to her neck and inhaled deeply, the rush of air chilling her exposed skin.

Something that resembled a growl as much as it did a kind of aggressive purr reverberated in the qunari's chest, and the knowledge that his race had far superior sense of smell was no comfort to Hawke. She would have been mortified at her obvious arousal, if it hadn't been for one bronze hand snaking down to grip her throat, forcing her chin up and away and presenting her injured, vulnerable ear.

His horns brushed her cheek as he moved, his silver hair pooling in the valley between her breasts as he shifted closer.

When his tongue found the trail of blood running down from the fresh wound, Hawke's knees buckled, and as the rest of his mouth followed, she sobbed out a stifled moan.

His head snapped up, suddenly alert. He released his hold on her, and as her body protested, Hawke realized just how close to orgasm she had been.

When he had told her to "come," she doubted that this was what he meant.

The Arishok straightened and stepped back, pointedly turning his gaze away and setting his jaw. His breathing was labored, she saw, but returned to its normal rhythm with quick, practiced control.

"Rejoin the others when you are capable," he told her stiffly before closing the distance to the tent flap in a few quick strides.

"You are viddathari," he informed her as he paused at the entrance, "whether you choose to acknowledge it or not."

As soon as he was gone, Hawke slumped to the floor in a heap that vaguely resembled a human attempting to sit upright. The back of her head hit the wood behind her dully, the drum rhythms that vibrated through the ground and into her body matching both the throbbing of her swollen ear and the pulsing between her legs.

She took deep breaths, attempting to get whatever had just happened out of her bloodstream. And though she knew that with a few minutes' time she could clear the aftereffect from her body, her brain was another story.

There was no denying it now. She wanted the Arishok. A qunari, a warlord, a maker-damn tea connoisseur... And she didn't want him nicely, if that last exchange was any indication. She had been restrained, smothered and bleeding, and she had still been a hair's trigger away from climax.

She wondered what the qunari word for 'pervert' was.

"Sorry, Fenlin," she murmured aloud as she stared up at the ceiling. "Too late."

Ah, balls.

Chapter Text

A/N: FIRST CHAPTER OF THE NEW YEAR WOOO

Time for some BAMF!Hawke.

Also, time for a new story! I'm going to start posting chapters of my NaNoWriMo story, which takes place roughly three years after this story ends. (Because I can tell you now, the end of this story is just the beginning of their relationship. :D It ain't over.)

This new story is one possible future, if Hawke lets the Arishok take Isabela and leave. And it features one of my other favorite under-loved characters, Sebastian! (I'm Scottish. An excuse to write about a Scotland allegory? WELL OKAY IF YOU INSIST) Zevran also has an extended cameo later on. Give it a look if you like. I'm rather proud of it so far.

Anywho, enjoy this week's update. Keep your eyes peeled for everyone's favorite qunari word. :)

Day 32

Hawke's fingers twitched as an Ashaad hit the ground hard, a puff of dust and sand curling into the air.

The sparring arena was one of her favorite spots to work and read. Which was rather impractical, she admitted, as she inevitably abandoned her books in favor of watching the bouts.

There seemed to be a kind of unwritten schedule for these things, she noted. Mornings were hand-to-hand combat, afternoons were armed, and anything later was free use. Every once in a while she'd see a group match or training session, but the big events were usually those in daylight, and they were well-attended.

Watching the barehanded matches made Hawke especially twitchy. She had one of the best seats in the house on a slightly raised platform spanning half of one ringside edge, and though it didn't give her any real height (her feet touched the ground easily when she swung her legs over the side), it meant that no towering giants could stand in front of it and obstruct her view. Besides, she liked to keep her books clean and at least maintain the pretense of studying.

The two Ashaad in the arena at the moment seemed evenly matched, and Hawke turned from her notes to watch more closely. As expected, a lot of the qunari fighting style seemed focused on strength and precision, and she had to admit that it suited their physiology perfectly. They knew how to use their advantages well, and the knowledge that their race had devastated Thedas despite being comparatively small in number just reinforced Hawke's theories of study.

That same Ashaad went down again, but regained his posture quickly and sprang back completely unfazed. As the combatants wrestled for dominance, the lone human scanned the crowd. No sign of the Arishok – he was likely doing his weekly inspections of food stores, quartermaster's supplies, or whatever called for his attention at the moment – but the half-horned Sten stood not ten paces away, watching the proceedings closely.

What struck Hawke most of all was that there seemed to be no referee in all of this. The qunari simply knew when they were bested or victorious, and there was no foul play to be called out. It was the most civil display of violence she had ever seen, and she found herself just as intrigued by that as she was the combat itself.

Another thing that caught her interest was the way they reacted to one another after a match. At times, the participants acknowledged one another with a nod before rejoining their comrades on the sidelines, but more often than not, they lowered their horns and knocked skulls in what was a respectful but unmistakable headbutt. Sometimes they were gentle. Sometimes, when the adrenaline hadn't quite worn off, they were a bit more... enthusiastic. Always, though, it was a sign of acknowledgment and mutual respect.

In the face.

It explained a lot, she realized as she pulled her feet up to sit cross-legged on the edge of the platform. She'd seen the men headbutt each other when they came back from an assignment or accomplished something difficult, and if she was understanding it correctly, the gesture could be altered to mean anything from affection to congratulations, depending on the context.

The idea that the only physical affection the qunari showed came in the form of a headbutt was simultaneously unsurprising and hilariously entertaining. And fascinating. Hawke had never been headbutted in a positive way before.

She doubted most people had.

She watched as the painted Ashaad hit the dirt a third time, but instead of rolling upright again, he propped himself up on his elbows and huffed, nodding to his opponent, who offered him an arm up. There was appreciative stomping from the spectators as the victor lowered his horns to accept a friendly meeting of skulls. The match was decided, it seemed, and the arena was clear again.

Hawke stretched as the crowd buzzed and shifted, closing her books. Time to study fighting, not poetry. She had just begun to wonder who the next combatants would be when a large qunari bearing the infantry warpaint stood directly in front of her, his feet in the ring. After a moment, she recognized him as one of the karashok under the half-horned Sten's command, and one of the qunari who had first inspected her daggers during cleaning and maintenance.

Seeing him unarmed was strange, but marked him as willing to participate in the morning's bouts. Which made the fact that he was currently standing in the ring alone even stranger.

Before saying a word to the human, the Karashok turned to look at his commander. The half-horned Sten seemed to consider something for an oddly long moment, eyes locked on Hawke's seated form, then approved with a half-nod and an interested expression crossing his chiseled face.

All right, Hawke thought as she pulled her eyes away from the Sten, what did I miss?

"You," the Karashok stated firmly, "are able."

She blinked. "Able to what?"

He pointed behind him to the sandy arena, and a jolt of adrenaline shot through her as his meaning sank in.

Able to spar.

"If I'm given permission," she said carefully, trying not to get her hopes up but already feeling her body rolling her shoulders back and flexing her wrists, "then yes, I am."

He grunted in response, turning to walk to the center. When she didn't follow, he paused and looked back at her.

Well? that expression said.

Hawke straightened like an arrow, glancing excitedly to the half-horned Sten for confirmation, and when he nodded to her as well, a grin burst onto her face and she whipped off her overclothes, tightening the sash around the wide, loose pants and undershirt she wore beneath. A shallow hop later, and her shoes were left behind her on the platform as the arena sand filled the space between her toes.

She didn't need to be told twice.

She closed the distance between herself and the Karashok in a few quick strides, the anticipation and long-stifled energy bubbling to a rolling boil beneath her skin. Any stiffness she might have felt melted away as the familiar comfort of battle-state washed over her aching muscles. All she could think was how glorious exercise was going to feel and how incredible it was going to be to engage one of these martial giants in a training bout. She'd always wanted the opportunity, and now that she'd been outright challenged, there was no way she'd pass it up. So what if she'd only just been given the all-clear two days before? She'd been holding back for an entire month, for Maker's sake!

And now she had a month's worth of study to put to good use.

The warmth of the sand and the sun only magnified the thrumming that ran through her skin, sheer anticipation sending every muscle and nerve and her body singing in an energizing chorus.

She waited for the first punch to be thrown, narrowly sidestepping the powerful fist striking the air next to her shoulder as she turned just out of reach. She might not have been as strong as she was when fully healed up, but she was still fast. And she'd have to rely on that to get her through this.

The next few blows were cautious, testing, but strong. He wasn't swinging randomly, she knew, and as much as she was trying to get a good grip on her strategy, she knew she didn't have long before –

His knuckles grazed her jaw as she ducked away, but even that light catch was enough to send her neck reeling. She spun with it, regaining her balance a scant few paces away and springing against her heel to rush back past him, sinking her shoulders and elbowing him squarely in the ribs. It didn't do much, but it was enough to throw him off. Hawke cursed the Kossith's thick skin, the throbbing on the side of her face a harsh reminder of what kind of raw power she was facing.

As she passed under his arm, Hawke skidded to a stop and hooked her elbow around, this time hitting his lower back, right at his kidneys.

She struck gold.

The stifled groan and quick swipe at her head was all the confirmation she needed. It had affected him, at least. So he wasn't invulnerable. She just had to hit vital spots that didn't put her in his strike range. He swung again, and this time she rolled against the underside of his body, tracing a crescent in the dirt with her toes. A quick kick to the back of one knee sent him down, but he was up again just as quickly and without losing an ounce of momentum.

The trick, she realized as she swerved in a backwards zigzag to avoid the onslaught, was to get him down and keep him there. Which meant not only hitting the ground, but hurting when he did so. But how to cause pain? It was like punching a tree trunk.

Well, you don't take down a tree with one swoop, she mused, slamming one shoulder into his hip and ducking behind him as he staggered. You chip away at it first.

She struck the skin on his lower back, precisely where she'd discovered vulnerability before. Hard, and with both palms.

He hissed and rounded on her, his training in the Qun keeping him battle-steady but increasingly agitated.

Oh, I'm sorry, Hawke thought with a smirk as she sprang back, did that sting?

As she darted about like a fish, her long-neglected rhythms fell back into her limbs and brought an ease to her movements that made her feel more like herself again. Sidestep. Turn, slap.

Slide, roll, jump left and duck and slap.

Block, step in, heel to the inner thigh to kick him away and slap.

Slap. Slap. Always in the same places, and always fast and sharp. The Karashok's lower back had the makings of two red welts on opposite sides of his massive spine, and the more she primed, the faster he counterattacked. It was getting to be a problem, as all that ducking and weaving was taking its toll on Hawke's endurance. She felt the strength ebb from her legs and adrenaline taking its place, wondering how long it could last and if it would be enough.

Her fatigue betrayed her as a shoulder to the gut sent her sprawling into the sand, her reflexes tucking her head in to protect her as she rolled. He was strong, and she couldn't keep this up.

She grimaced as she rose to her feet, narrowly avoiding a leg aimed for her calves that would've had her tumbling again. She needed something, anything to give her an edge for one last, solid shot to finish off her hard work. But all she had was sand.

Her head shot up. No, that wasn't true. Thick poles stood at each corner of the arena, towering well over the heads of the Kossith. They looked sturdy, and that was something she could use.

A few calculated strides brought Hawke right into the Karashok's face, catching the bronze giant by surprise. She aimed at his sternum with shallow strikes, enough to send him back, but not enough to topple him. That was fine; she didn't need him on the ground. She just needed to maneuver him into her target zone and pray to Andraste that this worked.

When he took the final shuffle back toward the corner, Hawke set her hips and leapt, grabbing his horns and yanking him down enough to use his bent knees as leverage to propel herself over his shoulder and sandwich herself between his wide back and the pole. No sooner had she released him than she braced her feet against the dense wood, using the borrowed support to surge forward and drive her knees into the small of his back...

...right against the red, angry skin of her handiwork.

With a roar, the Karashok tumbled forward, the human's weight pressing down as he landed and skidded on his chest in the sand.

When the dust settled, Hawke was straddling his waist, palms pressing down into the backs of his shoulders, her chest heaving. Sweat ran down the sides of her face, and she left a trail of red from her warpaint-coated palms when she shakily dragged her hand across one cheek. Beneath her, the qunari stirred, and as he rolled to his back, Hawke's pulse quickened painfully. Adrenaline-high and exhausted, she scrambled away clumsily, gaining purchase and waiting with baited breath as he sat up. After a moment of quiet, he looked up at her with intense purple eyes and a careful, but unmistakable nod.

The tension bled from her shoulders, and a sigh of relief escaped her lungs. It was over. She'd won, barehanded, against a warrior twice her size. She was so wrapped in the fuzzy haze of her thoughts and exhaustion and the thunderous sound of the spectators' stamping feet that she didn't notice him stand and walk over until he was towering over her and had laid his hands on her shoulders.

She snapped out of it and turned her face up, and to her surprise, the qunari soldier gently-but-firmly let his lowered head fall against hers, her unadorned skull knocking against the protrusions of his horns in a slightly awkward but not at all uncomfortable way. A broad smile wound its way across her lips, and she gave pressure back, rolling her forehead a little against his.

So this is what respect feels like to the Qunari, she thought.

They straightened up, both nodding to the other and moving to return to their respective sides of the arena. Her mind spinning, Hawke laughed and took a few drunken-feeling steps. As she made her way to the sidelines, she was greeted with more congratulatory headbutts that she returned enthusiastically, ignoring the headache that was threatening to form as a result.

The half-horned Sten was smirking at her, arms crossed over his chest, and she groaned inwardly. Of course he would have criticism for her performance. Her spine wasn't straight enough. She didn't move correctly, she wasn't thinking like a qunari, she didn't utilize the space, or any number of things he could nitpick.

To her surprise, though, he didn't say anything at all. Instead, he simply lifted one hand and pointed to his left. Puzzled, Hawke turned to see what he was trying to –

The Arishok sat in his chair on the platform, staring down at her.

She swallowed hard.

"He's been there from the beginning," she said to the Sten, "hasn't he?"

"Yes."

"Hooray," she sighed, walking the suddenly long-seeming route over to the platform and sitting back down in the middle of the books.

"Shanedan," she called up. "Didn't see you there."

"Then you would do well to remain more aware of your surroundings," he declared flatly, eyes sweeping her exposed skin, scratched from the scuffle and the dirt. A frown creased his brows. "You should not leap so quickly at a challenge while weakened."

"Maybe, but I still won, didn't I?"

He snorted dismissively in response, and Hawke lay back on the platform, stretching her sore shoulder. "Worth it!" Suddenly, searing white-hot pain spasmed through her upper left arm and chest, prompting her to roll onto one side and suck in a sharp breath with a hiss.

"Still worth it," she managed though a grimace.

The Arishok watched her out of the corner of his eye. "If your foolishness leaves you incapable of walking, I will not carry you."

She snickered weakly, cracking one eye open to glance at him. "I'd rather crawl, anyway."

He growled something unintelligible, likely unflattering, and leaned on one elbow to watch the next match.

When the pain had subsided, Hawke sat up and massaged the aching muscles. Two karasten were circling one another in the arena, hands at the ready. As they grappled for control, Hawke worked some of the knots out and took to stretching in earnest. Watching them reminded her that she seriously needed to limber up again if she was going to get back to her usual standards anytime soon. Especially if she was going to keep sparring with giants.

Through that match, and the next three or four, Hawke pushed at her stiff muscles and tendons, the stinging and burning a welcome sensation. It felt so good to stretch and exercise and do something other than hunch over a book and drink tea. And now that she was cleared for exercise, she had an outlet for her more... recently developed frustrations.

Nothing was more cathartic than pounding someone into oblivion when you wanted someone to do the same to you.

She swore under her breath, trying not to look at the object of her thoughts. He was qunari, and the example of all things Qun. Physical affection was touchy here (she groaned at her inner monologue's word choice), and though she wasn't really clear on the role of sex under the Qun, she was fairly certain it wasn't a casual affair and was subject to just as many rules as everything else was. She bent at the waist to wrap her hands around her toes, feeling the backs of her calves and thighs protest and doing her best to distract herself with pain.

When she got out of here, the Blooming Rose was going to make enough to redecorate the entire damn manor.

She was so engrossed in her cockblocked self-pity that she didn't notice the tumbleweed that was two teenage elves rolling toward the platform. They hit the wood hard, sending Hawke toppling headlong over the edge and into the ring with an undignified squawk.

The boys stopped, unlocking their arms and coming to a temporary standstill as they looked at one another, then at Hawke, who lay on her back in the sand.

"You would do well," the Arishok repeated, leaning over, "to remain more aware of your surroundings."

That smug sonofabitch.

Hawke was going to have to ask Madame Lusine for the most condescending male whore she had.

"Well," she said, standing and brushing herself off, "now what?"

"Now," the Arishok informed her calmly, "you are in the arena."

Startled, Hawke looked to the elven viddathari, then back at the qunari leader. "Are you serious?"

He said nothing, but relax back into his seat.

Did I stutter? that look said.

Laughing, Hawke shook her head and cracked her knuckles. All right, you bastard.

"You heard the boss," she called to the short, skinny elves as she jogged to the center of the ring. "Rules are rules."

"But..." the red-haired one began to protest, and Hawke just waved a hand to cut him off.

"What?" she declared, hands on her hips. "Come at me, ladies. Both of you."

They hesitated, and Hawke tilted her head as she let loose another jab.

"I'll let you sit on one another's shoulders, if you like."

That did it. The boys grinned at each other and yelled as they ran at her, full tilt. Laughing, Hawke ducked and caught them both about the waist, spinning and hurling them each in different directions. The broad smile never left her face as she ducked and swerved, pinching rear ends and tousling hair, grappling with them in the dirt and getting sand absolutely everywhere. They'd taunt and try to distract her, but inevitably someone would end up getting bitten or tossed, and by the end, the elves were working as a fairly synchronized pair.

Hawke couldn't remember the last time she'd had this much fun sparring.

Eventually, she managed to wrangle the wiry teens into submission, sitting on their backs as they lay facedown side-by-side in the dirt. With a smack to their backsides, she helped them both up, and though their pointed ears were bright red with embarrassment, the boys' faces held grins as if they'd won. They insisted on headbutts, to which Hawke happily agreed, and she shook her head with a laugh as she walked to the ring's edge. It was strangely quiet, though, as the crowd's enthusiastic stomping had died off suspiciously quickly.

When she looked up, she immediately understood why.

The crowd at that edge had parted, and there stood Fenlin, arms crossed and looking peeved. He cleared his throat pointedly, tapping his delicate foot.

Hawke was in some serious trouble. She beamed at him innocently, hoping it would mollify him somewhat.

It didn't.

"Two days," he said dryly. "Mild exercise."

"Okay, there might have been two of them, but in my defense, they were little."

"Oh, like the Karashok?" He poked her in the chest. "My tent. Now."

Hawke sighed.

It was a full hour before Hawke was allowed to leave the healer's tent in time for the afternoon meal. Ten minutes had been a checkup, and the rest lecture.

Maker, the Qun must train people how to be disapproving.

The elf had given her a sachet of tea to ease muscle fatigue, but only after talking at length about the risks of reopening her wound so soon after the danger period had passed.

Hawke's pointing out that the so-called 'danger period' had "passed, right?" hadn't helped her case one bit.

In any event, Fenlin had eventually tired of berating her and shoved her out the flap, where she took in a deep breath, inhaling the fresh air of freedom. She could feel bruises forming on her arms and legs and back and everywhere, but it had been so very worth it. She was already feeling like herself again. Smiling, she turned her face upward and enjoyed the warmth of the early autumn afternoon sun.

"Do you wish to sunbathe or eat?"

She turned to see the Arishok standing in the alcove across from the healer's tent, partially obscured from view. Fighting down the hint of a smile, she joined him in the shadows and leaned against one cool wall. "That depends. Are you offering to carry me?"

"No."

"Thought as much." Wrapping her arms around herself, she smiled up at him. He studied her carefully for a moment, then nodded slightly.

"You seem pleased."

"I am," she said breezily, still beaming like a ray of sun. "Being in the arena, training like that again, felt so right. So honest."

He rumbled a kind of nonverbal agreement. "You were well-received."

Hawke shrugged, coming up off of the wall. "I gave it everything I had. Your men appreciate that."

"This is true."

"And I won," she smirked. "They appreciate that, too."

A half-snort and the stirrings of a small smirk were her response, and she felt some of that morning's frustrations ebb away. What was wrong with this? These rare moments with him, why weren't they enough? They carried so much more weight than a casual tumble ever could.

Just as she was reminding herself that physicality wasn't everything, his broad hands came up to rest on her shoulders, tugging her closer.

Her head snapped up, eyes wide. "Arishok?"

And without a word, he closed the distance between them, nudging her forehead with his.

Hawke pressed her lips between her teeth, attempting to will her heartbeat into submission as she pressed back against him, feeling him lean in further as well. She drew away briefly in order to tap back against him firmly, closing her eyes as she felt his palms slide up to the back of her scalp, holding her in place. She raised her arms to do the same, winding her fingers over his ears and into his hair, pressing her fingertips into the base of his skull.

And there was silence except for the sound of their mingled breaths, warm against each other's faces. Hawke rubbed her nose against his gently, their size difference not even registering in her mind at the moment. The ridges at the base of his horns brushed along her hairline, and the metal of his earrings were cold against her wrists.

When he spoke, his voice was low and quiet.

And proud.

"You did well," he said, "kadan."

Hawke didn't know what that word meant, but she knew she never wanted him to call her anything else ever again.

He released her slowly, straightening and moving toward the street. She, for her part, stood there with a flushed face feeling like a teenager who'd just been kissed. Laughing a little, she pressed her palms to her cheeks and neck in an effort to cool them before joining the Arishok in the sunlight.

"Hey," she called as she jogged after him. "Do that again!"

He kept walking. "No."

Chapter Text

A/N: This chapter has been lovingly referred to as "How Hawke Got Her Groove Back." xD I feel for Hawke in this chapter, I really do. Because lord knows the Arishok makes my ovaries explode.

Also, the Arrowhead now has art! Posted by my lovely, talented, ever-patient beta reader, Analect, on her writing blog here.

Preview size! Hawke in all her qunari warpaint glory.

Needless to say, if anyone has any art or other works inspired by this story, please feel free to send them my way! I'd love to see them!

Also, upon reviewing some of my chapter layouts, the rating for this story may need to change. Sorry! I'll put a warning in the author's notes before any chapters with sexual content, I promise.

Day 35

She couldn't even remember what had started the argument. But as she stalked through the walkways, fuming, Hawke knew what had finished it.

If she had it her way, the Arishok would slap on a yoke and plow a field like the thickheaded ox he was.

Whatever they had been talking about had devolved into an argument, like so much had in the last day or two. Maybe it was the month of sharing a living space. Maybe it was reciprocal culture shock. Or maybe the horns took up too much space in his skull to leave his brain big enough to handle anything other than the Qun.

The last thing Hawke remembered was demanding to be allowed into the weapon fighting matches, and the Arishok denying her outright, declaring that she was "in no position to demand anything." And then she'd spat something about how she had rights over her own body and actions that even the Qun must recognize, and he had shouted something about how outsiders shouldn't profess any intimate knowledge of the Qun and she'd pointed to her earring and he'd declared that knowledge was useless if stubborn, foolish humans refused to use it.

She hadn't asked for the earring, she had retorted, and he'd sneered that people should be rewarded when they don't ask for something they've earned and ignored when they childishly demand something idiotic. She'd then yelled for him to stop assuming he had any power over her, and snorting angrily in her face, the qunari had simply turned on his heel and left.

She had soon followed suit, storming out of his study tent in the opposite direction. Hawke usually loved a good argument, but they weren't arguments with the Arishok so much as throwing words at a brick wall. He was just as stubborn and rooted as she was, and that simultaneously endeared him to her as well infuriated the everliving fuck out of her.

She angrily yanked the flap of his personal tent aside as she ducked in, the autumn evening dusting a noticeable chill on her bare arms. She pulled a thick top layer of blanket from the enormous mattress behind the divider, returning to the main chamber as she wrapped it around her shoulders like a weighty, tumbling cape. As she fell backwards into the pile of stuffed cushions, the cowl of blanket around her neck fell forward, covering her head in a bowing hood. Her ears were warm, her fingers were warm, and as she toed out of her shoes, her feet were warm.

She had just burrowed deeper into the pooled folds when a cool gust and chime of earrings alerted her to the Arishok's entrance. Without a word, she watched as he deposited a tied bundle of scrolls on the table and rolled his shoulders back. When he finally turned to the reclining area, he hesitated, and tilted his head ever so slightly.

Hawke briefly wondered if he'd just thought her part of the pillows until he saw the small human face glaring out at him.

After a moment, he straightened, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"You look ridiculous."

Hawke prickled, fists clenching beneath her cover.

"Who are you to judge?" she retorted flippantly. "It's perfectly normal to use a blanket to keep warm at night. You, however, use a human bas."

He lowered his chin, sinking his shoulders so that he could lean in a bit and meet her irritated gaze.

"You deliberately seek to provoke me."

"You were the one who stormed out earlier."

"Yelling is pointless."

"I agree."

"There are more productive ways to settle aggravation."

Oh, the second you put sex on the table, Hawke thought, I'll let you win every goddamn quibble.

Instead, what came out was a repeated, albeit firmer, "I agree."

He seemed to accept what had to have been the first thing she agreed to all day, and gave a short nod.

"Then we will end this," he said, moving back to the entrance and pulling aside the flap. He paused, motioning to the carefully-wrapped bundle sitting on his shelves.

"Bring your blades," he commanded as he left, and Hawke felt her blood rise as she leapt to her feet, the rough canvas and waking lyrium singing into her palms as she followed him.

The sparring arena was sparsely populated, though no public bouts generally took place at night. Most qunari present were training or exercising in the general vicinity, and the thunking and hollow clocking of wooden weapons reverberated off of the high walls.

Hawke would've been interested to watch, but the Arishok barked out something short and loud and outside her vocabulary that very efficiently cleared the area.

As she turned to follow them with her gaze, she frowned and thumbed in the direction of the general exodus. "Why are they leaving?"

"This is a private matter," he stated as he began to shuck his armor and hang it on a nearby rack. His waraxe, too, was expertly clicked into a rack, and he crossed the space to a rack of a different sort.

"Come," he called, and Hawke hesitantly joined him.

They were standing in front of rows and rows of solid, sanded wooden versions of a variety of weapons. Wooden spears with wooden tips, wooden broadswords, wooden greatswords...

The Arishok gestured to the rows and rows of expertly reconstructed practice weapons with one long, sweeping motion. "Choose the most accurate representation of your own weapons in size and weight," he instructed, "and inform me when you have done so."

"Wooden? Not our actual weapons?"

He unhooked an enormous wooden waraxe. "The main section of your armor has been rendered useless," he reminded her, "and death is not the object."

"Right," she said, "just to pulverize each other until we work out –" She struggled for the word. " –tension."

He snorted an assent, and Hawke laid her blades on a nearby bench, unwrapping them to use as a comparison. They hummed at her touch, but remained dormant as she ran her fingers lovingly across their curves.

The Arishok kept an interested eye on them, she noticed as she shopped for a suitable wooden proxy. His gaze followed the glint of the steel whenever she moved, and she paused in her search to turn to him. She had learned early on that the qunari considered their weapons to be an intimate, personal part of their selves. He couldn't just ask.

So she offered.

"Do you want to see them?"

She held them out, hilt-wise facing him, and he reached for one, hesitating only a moment when he felt the vibration of the lyrium emanating from the blade. His inspection was thorough, and his appreciation evident. As he admired the curved edge, he tapped the hollow of one rune slot with a clawed fingertip.

"Runes," she explained. "They augment the lyrium. I took them out – they get unstable when not in use." She smiled despite herself at seeing her blades so respectfully handled, and the change in her tone didn't go unnoticed.

Amused, the Arishok lifted his chin to regard her curiously. "The promise of combat tames your tongue into civility."

"It does when my girls are involved. They're my pride."

"As one's weapon should be."

He handed it back to her, and both were tucked deftly away as Hawke pulled two rounded daggers from the collection of wooden replicas.

"These feel about right," she said, testing her grip. "I'm set."

He grunted acknowledgment, hefting his substitute axe over one shoulder and making his way into the center of the arena. Hawke followed, and the familiar sinking of the sand brought forth a conditioned response in her body as her adrenaline recognized the rolling, shifting surface's purpose.

As ever, the Arishok remained impassive in the face of beating the hell out of his houseguest.

The human didn't get within ten feet of him. The polished wooden axe cut through the air in front of her in a lightning-fast arc that sent her stumbling backwards, with no warning and no pleasantries exchanged. It was only a step or two, though, and enough to trigger her fighting instincts in earnest.

She flipped the daggers in her hand like the snap of a spring, setting her shoulders and hips.

And waited.

As the successive blows came, each narrowly missing her form, Hawke found herself wavering. She'd spent the last month keenly aware of his natural physical advantage, but it occurred to her that she'd never actually seen him fight.

And if fighting was like anything else in his life, he never did it by halves. Even when sparring.

She spent the next few minutes dodging and weaving around his advances, rolling out of the way when he charged and leaping to her feet in time to swerve out of the wooden waraxe's way. The glimpses she'd caught of his face and posture gave her chills, and each time she understood more and more why he was the Arishok.

He was bloody terrifying.

She tried to file that away as tactical information, but it didn't quite work that way. Instead, she attempted to focus on what there was to know that was useful.

There was no wild swinging, only precise, controlled strikes. And they were strong, and they were wide. The lower ones sent small waves of sand spraying into the air in their wake, but only at the fullest part.

How am I going to get close enough to strike, she wondered as he nearly hooked her foot with the curve of one blade, if he keeps me at a distance?

As her frustration grew, the Arishok growled and rounded on her, unleashing yet another narrowly-sidestepped slash.

"Do you intend to engage me," he said flatly, striking again, "or do you only seek to test my endurance?"

A light went off in the back of Hawke's mind, and the seeds of a revelation began to sprout in its wake. The warlord was getting irritated.

Maybe she wasn't doing so poorly after all.

That in mind, a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth as she daintily slid away from a slice aimed directly at her, and inched closer. He might have been fast, but she was faster. And much more agile.

She thanked the Maker for the amount of practice she'd gotten in since first being allowed to spar. If you're going to fight the lord of all giants, it was smart to try others of his species first.

The dodging and weaving, instead of wearing her down, felt wonderful. Exhilarating, like she'd been stripped of a heavy burden. Her peripheral vision blurred as she raced it, darting ellipses around her opponent.

Closer.

On one pass, she grazed his ribs, and the warmth of his skin told her that she'd reached her mark. She dug her heel into the sand, sending herself falling backwards at the abrupt stop, hooking her arm around his as she went down. As expected, her weight didn't so much as budge him, and she propelled herself upward with the crook of her elbow and toes digging into the belted sash at his waist.

The Arishok snapped his head around to face her as she rose to eye level, but too late. With a solid crack, Hawke struck him squarely in the jaw with the pommel of one proxy dagger, leaping down and away as he roared and stumbled back.

He shook his head as he regained his bearings, leveling his eye contact at her once again. A human had taken the first blow against the mighty Arishok.

Bet that stings, she mused as she switched her grip.

He lunged again.

All of a sudden, it seemed as though the world suddenly snapped back into focus. She hadn't even seen the fog she'd wandered in since her injury, but now that it had been cleared, she marveled at the difference.

She'd gotten strong again, she realized. Without noticing, without observing, without magic. Her body had repaired itself. Every aching, stifled muscle that had lain waiting, unused as though her chest wound had bound her hands and feet, had been pining for purpose.

She'd forgotten what her own abilities were like. She'd gotten complacent, too struck by being cared for to protest her functional imprisonment. Too captivated by the culture, the beliefs, the novelty.

Too enamored with the Arishok.

A well-timed dive sent her sliding between her assailant's legs, the head of his weapon nearly catching her ankles as she rolled up. Simultaneous strikes to the backs of his knees with the widest part of her daggers and weight of her body behind them sent the giant to his shins in the dirt, and she jumped onto his back to wrap her arms around his throat.

She was Mairead Fucking Hawke, and it was time to stop the pity party.

The next ten minutes were a battle-hazed blur.

As she ran from the latest onslaught, Hawke mentally steeled herself against her body's loud complaints. She was covered in scratches and bruises and was about half-certain he'd cracked at least one of her ribs. And she was bleeding from a few different places, the most troubling of which was her left ear.

Well, at least it wasn't getting in her eyes.

The Arishok had fared no better, and though he didn't let on the extent of the damage she'd dealt in word or altered fighting style, she knew he was hurting. She leapt at him again, grasping at his hair and horns to keep herself aloft as she dug her heels into his back and kicked at his spine.

If he was going to win this, Hawke swore that it was going to be a Pyrrhic victory and nothing less. She wasn't keen on letting her reclaimed skill be dismissed in any way, shape or form, even if it meant sticking this out until she was a bloody pulp.

Fenlin was going to rip her a new one.

She tried not to think about it.

"I do not understand," he hissed as he shook her loose and grabbed her, tossing her like a rag doll across the ring, "how you can be so willful in the face of your superiors!"

She spat blood, dragging a hand clumsily across her mouth and dropping a fistful of white hair into the sand. "Superior my sturdy-yet-shapely ass," she snapped back, rising to her feet. "You might be the Arishok, but this isn't Par Vollen. This is Kirkwall, and this is my home, and here we are equals."

The gold of his eyes flickered as he straightened, inclining his head as she dove for the replica dagger that had been lost in her flight.

"Then why," he asked calmly, "do you submit yourself to me?"

The hair on the back of her neck stood up and she rounded on him, crying out in indignant rage as she struck with a flurry of lightning-fast strikes. He deflected them easily with the staff of his axe, frowning at her anger.

"You respond to that which you do not understand with violence. Typical of your race."

He shoved against her and she fell back, skidding lines in the sand. She was absolutely livid, the way he talked to her as though he understood some cosmic truth that her pathetic little human monkey-brain couldn't possibly comprehend.

Why was he so good at getting under her skin? Why couldn't she just let it roll off, ignore him like she did the rest of Kirkwall's ignorant, slimy masses? What made him different? If this was just physical, just sexual attraction, then –

The next thought hit her hard, like the butt end of his axe if it were pressing into her sternum.

But what if it isn't?

"Oh, fuck."

In the middle of battle was decidedly not a good place to have this epiphany.

All it took was that moment of stunned silence for the Arishok to close the distance between them, clasping one massive hand around her neck and pinning her to the nearest thick boundary pole. His claws splintered into the wood as he raised her to his eye level, the other hand still tightly grasping the axe that it dragged.

Hawke kicked at him, and he moved his body closer to rid her of any space she could have used for leverage. Her hands dug in vain at his forearms, but he remained silent, waiting.

He wanted her to acknowledge his victory, she realized as her movements slowed. He wasn't constricting her breathing, but he wanted her to know that he could.

But this wasn't about winning, she thought as his eyes searched hers, waiting for a sign of surrender. It was about ending the chain of stupid arguments over nothing by getting everything out.

And now that she understood exactly what had been causing the friction, pushing them to drive each other crazy, that's exactly what she was going to do.

So for the second time in her life, Hawke wrapped her hands around the Arishok's neck and pulled him in to cover his mouth with hers.

He sucked in a sharp breath, snapping his head back. Like a frightened animal, his pupils had constricted to nothing, the golden yellow surrounding them bright.

"Why – " he began to demand, but she cut him off.

He jerked away from the second kiss as well, anger creeping into his features.

"Cease your –"

She kissed him a third time, and he pulled her away in order to slam her back against the pole, the back of her skull hitting the dense wood and sending spots across her vision.

He tightened his grip around her throat, and the anger in his face had been replaced with something else. Something she didn't recognize.

"Kadan," he warned.

It was no use. He was closer now, and she wound her arms around his neck and into his hair, pulling him in to claim him solidly. She felt him stiffen against her, but this time, there was no yanking away from her lips, no irate commands.

She heard the soft, cushioned thud of his axe being dropped into the sand, and a low growl vibrated against her chest.

He wasn't kissing her back, but he wasn't moving either.

It was some time before the fingers around her throat loosened, and she released him and slid down along the pole to plant her feet on the ground.

He was staring at her, a red smear glistening wet across his swollen lower lip. Hawke ran her tongue along the inside of her mouth, tasting the tang of her own blood.

Twice she'd kissed him, and twice she'd come out bleeding.

She said nothing as she walked away, throbbing ankle threatening to cripple her into a limp. Gathering up her daggers silently, she went to leave, but hesitated. She turned to see the Arishok hadn't moved, still facing the pole with his back to her, lost in thought.

"Arishok," she called, and he inclined his head, but did not turn.

He was listening.

"You were wrong. Don't think that anything's resolved between us."

And she left him there alone and rooted in place, suspecting that he, like her, was trying to process what she had just done.

She lay on her side in the bed they shared, thick blankets pulled up over her sore and suffering body. When she'd returned, what felt like hours ago, she hadn't bothered to light the lamps, just slowly and achingly peeled her clothes from her skin in the dark.

Between low visibility, exhaustion and stiff fingers, she could only hope that she had tied her nightclothes correctly.

Whatever. She was covered. And the enormous bed was easy enough to stumble into.

She'd been staring at the wall since then, watching the silhouette of the moon travel and hearing the occasional shuffling of sentries on patrol.

Sleep would not come easily.

Just as the moon's filtered beams reached to cast light on a statuette in the corner, she heard the telltale rustling of the entrance flap and the heavy but deliberate clacking of armor being settled onto its stand. The jostling of fabric was accented with sharp breaths and muttered qunari curses, which Hawke sympathized with all too well, having suffered through them when she'd done the same earlier.

He pulled aside the partition to the sleeping chamber, and at his hesitation, she turned to look.

The Arishok was staring down at her, the bunched curtain still resting against his hand.

"You returned here," he observed, a note of surprise in his voice.

"I wouldn't run," she replied, running a hand through her hair gingerly as to avoid the sensitive welts on her scalp. "I'm no coward."

After a moment, he stepped inside and let the partition fall shut behind him.

"No," he agreed slowly. "You are not."

The ensuing silence was heavy and awkward as he finished undressing. Despite the tension, however, Hawke couldn't help but smirk as the fearsome qunari leader groaned like an old man as he sank onto the mattress. She'd gotten him pretty good more than a few times.

"You," she began, "are telling Fenlin in the morning that this was your idea. I'm not taking any blame for this."

She felt the bedding shift as she rolled over to watch him settle in.

"You accepted my terms," he stated, sinking his horns into the heavy pillows. "You are equally responsible."

"Either way, we're both getting ripped a new one."

He frowned at the phrase, foreign idioms one of the many things she knew that he found vaguely unpleasant about the common tongue.

Silence blanketed them again, his gaze on her face unwavering, but his usual intensity seemed less threatening, more pensive. Hawke wondered if she'd ever really seen the man blink when he did that. It was unsettling.

After a few moments of thought, the Arishok spoke.

"Your attachment to me is strange."

She snickered. "Not as strange as your attachment to me."

She felt the hot breath of a snort and a rumble in his chest as he agreed.

"This is true."

Chapter Text

A/N: Fenlin gets a little spotlight in this chapter, I'm happy to say! And Hawke finally starts to learn how to read the Arishok when he's something other than pissed.

(In unrelated news, my Starkhaven story now has art. Super excited!)

Day 37

"No."

"No?"

"No."

Hawke frowned, settling her hands on her hips. "Why not?"

"It is not your place," the Arishok informed her, not slowing down to speak to her as he oversaw preparations to dispatch the unit of men to the mountain. "You are not under my command." He snorted. "As you remind me daily."

"I know, I know." She jogged to keep up. "But still. Every scout you've sent out there hasn't come back, so you're sending your men in blind. I know that place like the back of my hand."

"You have no usable armor," he reminded her, eyeing a passing karashok.

"Then I won't fight. Just guide."

Her only reply was a dismissive grunt as he turned away.

"What, don't believe me?"

"No."

Hawke set her jaw, trying to think of some other convincing argument. She didn't want to go out and battle everything in sight because he thought of her as some sort of loose cannon, she just wanted to help the men she'd bonded with and come to know during her stay in the compound. And taking into account the fact that the Dalish weren't too keen on the qunari and vice versa, she doubted that any attempts to scale Sundermount's treacherous slopes would end well.

"Look," she said, "I know the Keeper of the clan at the base of the summit. If nothing else, I can make the men's passage through the camp much more... bearable."

That seemed to catch his interest, but he remained unconvinced.

"We do not need the permission of the elf clan to collect rock," he declared, looking annoyed by her insinuation that his men were incapable of subduing a motley crew of tiny, skinny people in green.

"No," she replied, "but they're notoriously sensitive about their hunting grounds. Which, I might add, I have been through repeatedly."

"So you have said."

"And you have ignored." Exasperated, she dragged her palms down her face. "It's simple! We go to the mountain, I talk to the Keeper, show the men the caves you want, we pick up the minerals you need, and we're back before the day is out." She took a step toward him, glaring. "You do realize that if you deny me this, I will do nothing but complain loudly and in my most grating voice until the men return."

Ah. Now she had his attention.

"And now that I'm healed up more," she warned in a low, dangerous tone, waggling her fingers to demonstrate, "it's going to be a hell of a lot harder to keep me in that chair."

The tiniest sliver of a smirk flitted across the Arishok's mouth at the implied challenge, but quickly disappeared.

"You will stay in the compound," he commanded flatly, turning to resume his pace.

"What?" Incredulous, Hawke continued to follow him. "You have no reason for me not to go!"

"I have no need to justify my decisions to you."

They stepped into his tent, the human hot at his heels. "But I –"

He rounded on her sharply, seething. "You will not leave my sight," he barked angrily, "and that is final."

Hawke's mouth snapped shut as that last exchange clicked gears into place in the back of her mind. This wasn't about the men, the Dalish, or the Arishok merely asserting his authority. She'd learned to read him on an exponential curve since her first days in his company, and his choice of words was telling.

Not 'you will not accompany the men,' nor 'you will not go to Sundermount.'

No, it was 'not leave the compound.' 'Not leave my sight.'

If she didn't know better, Mairead would have thought him afraid of her bolting like an arrow once she was past the gates.

She bit her lip, trying to gauge his reaction as she spoke.

"What if," she asked quietly, "I gave my word that I would come back?"

There was a flicker of change in his expression as he straightened, eyeing her curiously.

"Not kicking and screaming," she clarified. "Of my own free will. The healer wants to keep me here for observation for another three weeks. And I said that I would stay."

He didn't push her away as she stepped closer, but watched her like a falcon. She reached up to lay her palms on the sides of his neck, guiding him down to press her forehead against his, bonelike ridges dully hitting her skull.

She had not kissed him since that night in the sparring arena. Her message had been clear; there was no need to do it again.

At the headbutt, she felt him relax a bit under her hands, and she gave a gentle nudge. "I won't do anything idiotic like start a fight because I'm irritated or wake a sleeping dragon hatchling to try to ride it. I just want to be of whatever help I can and come right back."

The Arishok was quiet for a long while, and she felt his warm, even breath across her face.

"This will give you satisfaction," he growled. "And prevent suffering."

He didn't say whether he was talking about the qunari scouts, the Dalish, or himself.

"Yes."

He snorted and pulled back, narrowing his eyes down at her. "I will allow it, under my terms."

Hawke's hope brightened. "Name them."

He crossed his arms. "You will pacify the clan, and you will serve as a guide to the caverns. Anything more will not be tolerated."

"Agreed," she said cheerfully. "When do I leave?"

"See to the kithshok. Inform them of your purpose."

"Understood." She smiled up at him brightly, which only seemed to make him more tense. "This is going to be fun!"

He snorted, watching her dart around like a minnow, pulling on bracers and boots and what little remained of her armor. A growl escaped his throat, however, when she reached for her daggers.

"What?" she piped up innocently. "Just in case."

Marethari had been surprisingly helpful in describing useful caves where the mineral deposits grew. Though, Hawke mused, it was probably because she wanted the bronze giants out of her camp and not making her clansmen uneasy. Her directions were accurate, sure enough, and Hawke promised her that the Dalish wouldn't even know the Qunari were here.

She could tell that Marethari was a bit confused by her newfound companions, but Mairead hadn't yet sorted out how to quite explain it properly in less than an hour. So she just smiled brightly and went on her way, squadron of massive scouts and their collection baskets in tow.

The first few collections went by without incident, save for the occasional territorial spider rearing its ugly fangs and promptly being smashed into ooze for its insolence. And Hawke hung back each time, reminding herself of the promise she had made.

Make nice with the elves and point the way. Keep it simple.

As the woven baskets filled with the glittering yellow formations, Hawke wrinkled her nose. They smelled familiar, and she wasn't sure it was in a good way.

"What are you collecting, exactly," she asked as another rock laden with the cloud-shaped substance was tossed into a basket. "And what is it for?"

The Kithshok heading up the expedition had an impressive grasp of common, though he didn't seem too keen on answering questions. "It is the crystallized remains of animal urine," he explained gruffly, pushing aside leaves with a spear to check beneath them for deposits.

"Lovely." It reeked, and she was glad she wasn't one of the ones with the collections on their backs. "You can do something with it?"

"The qunari can."

Hawke felt the aroma of the concentrated residue sting at her nose, and as it burned, recognition came with the familiar sensation.

"This is a component of gaatlok," she stated, only half-asking. The alarmed snap of the men's eyes to their leader confirmed it, and she could see the Kithshok strain as he looked to his men, then studied her intently, clearly debating his answer.

"Yes," he admitted finally, and Hawke knew enough not to press for further details.

Stale piss crystals can be used to make explosives, she mused as they continued down the dim tunnels, lit only by the glow of bluish-white spiderwebs overhead. File that tidbit away for future use.

As the men's loads grew heavy and the beams of light in the main caverns grew dimmer and dimmer, it became apparent that they would be returning soon. Hawke was congratulating herself on her good behavior when she noticed deep gouges in the cavern walls.

Big ones that stretched from the floor up a good fifteen, twenty feet.

She swallowed hard as she remembered what had made those marks.

So this is that cave, she realized, swearing under her breath. No wonder it looked familiar. But maybe those are old, maybe it stayed dead the last time we -

A crunch beneath her boot caught her attention, and she saw a viscous slime stick to the sole as she pulled it up from the pile of teeth and fractured skull she'd crushed.

Still gooey. It was fresh.

And they needed to get out of there. Now.

She ran to catch up to the Kithshok as the men descended a rickety set of steps that led into another wide, open cavern covered in leaf litter and lined with stalagmites.

"We have to leave," she said quickly in a hushed, sharp tone.

He frowned, not stopping. "Our task is not yet finished."

"Staying alive is more important."

"You are a guide," he told her flatly. "You have no authority to command me."

"I know, but..." she pleaded, keeping apace, "it's not a cave spider or a bear or something you can just ignore. I should know, I've killed it twice."

"If it has been defeated," came the calm reply, "then there is no cause for concern."

Hawke watched as she joined his men foraging along one wall, shuffling loose stones and leafy shrubs to fill their quota. Gooseflesh patterned her arms, and she quietly snapped a set of runes into place on her daggers, stirring them into a gentle shimmer. Maybe if they were quiet, they could grab their malodorous rocks and get the hell out without this thing ever knowing they'd been there.

Still, better safe than sorry.

She caught the Kithshok's arm, yanking him toward her. She ignored the indignant expression written so plainly across his face and gripped him tightly.

"We need," she hissed, "to get the fuck out before the thing that lives here realizes that it has guests."

He frowned. "You have slain it. It is no further threat."

"You don't understand." She kept her eyes locked on his, desperation starting to set in. "This creature doesn't ever die. It just keeps coming back. It's ancient, it's huge, it's dangerous, and it's – "

A gust of wind sent the dead leaves scattering up into fluttering whirlwinds, cavern walls reverberating with the sound of six pointed feet slamming into the ground from above. The varterral cracked its joints into place not a hundred paces away, turning to stare at the intruders on its domain.

"Awake," she finished, sighing. "Of course it is."

Its quick, predatory gaze fell on her immediately. Lyrium always made her a walking target, she mused as she locked stares. Especially to elf-made monsters.

Hawke's eye contact with the beast didn't waver as she spoke quietly to the qunari. "Get back to the main chamber," she said slowly. "I can stun him long enough to get us out, but fighting outright would get us all killed."

"Understood," the Kithshok replied without question, quietly issuing orders to his men in their native tongue as the gravity of the situation overtook them.

A quick roll sideways and through a pile of noisy, crunchy plants was enough to distract the spiderlike construct of skin and bone from the warriors silently escaping his nest. A monstrous glob of spit splattered against the rock to her left, sending poisonous goo across her upper body.

Deal with that later, she thought, swearing loudly.

Hawke slashed at the spiked legs that stabbed into the ground beside her, taking advantage of the pained screech to slide beneath the tiny, vulnerable underbelly of the now-stooping guardian. Sparks sprang from the lyrium in her blades, dancing along the monster's leathery skin in the split second before the steel dug into his flesh.

Lighting coursed through the daggers and into the varterral's abdomen, the rush of borrowed magic and its tortured scream flooding Hawke's senses as her body tried desperately to compensate for the sudden flood of energy. Withdrawing the blades was a struggle, and the bolts continued to crackle through its flesh and limbs as she fled the creature's collapse inward.

She only hoped it was enough as she bolted up the rotting stairs, the echoes of voices in a distant tunnel ahead promising.

The tingle in her hands began to fade and her muscles loosened their grip on her lungs, but with every step, the human knew something wasn't right. Slime oozed down her arm, though the telltale tingle of venomous saliva wasn't what worried her.

She'd just electrocuted a monster at close range with no armor and no protective wards. Maybe that had something to do with it.

Not my best idea, she thought hazily, but I've done worse.

She stumbled to a nearby wall and retched, briefly pausing to roll her forehead against the cool, rough surface of the stone. Her blood thundered in her ears and temples, arrhythmic and pained.

Her heart. That was what refused to come back down.

She could almost picture the spiderwebs of electricity surrounding the organ and pushing it into overdrive inside her chest. She didn't have time to stop and breathe deeply and consider the danger of her predicament. There were other things to worry about, and right now, she just needed to make it to the surface.

No sooner had she passed through the tunnel than she vomited again, head swimming and any sense of balance gone. Her hands and feet felt heavy, numb, and the nauseating push of adrenaline, fear, and residual magic made running torturous.

The varterral was no longer screaming. Hawke could only pray that it wouldn't follow.

Her gait was scrambling and lethargic as she crossed the final antechamber, a dozen horned warriors snapping to attention at her appearance.

"Is this everyone?" she managed as she collapsed against a slanted boulder, unable to focus her eyes enough for a head count.

"Yes," came the reply, and a massive arm hooked around her back, hoisting her up and carefully avoiding the viscous yellow fluid coating her clothes.

"Good," she burbled as she was half-carried toward the exit. "Then let's get the hell out of here. I've got bad news for Marethari."

The wet air of the Sundermount descent was a blessed, soothing relief. Hawke never thought she'd be so grateful for the autumn cold as the squad re-entered Kirkwall, having calmed down enough in the cool temperatures to have regained most of her ability to walk. She was still watched with several sets of wary eyes, however, and the instant that they set foot back within the compound's gates, the Kithshok called for a healer.

Fenlin came running in the hazy blink of an eye. Hawke, leaning against a stack of crates for support, glanced up at his arrival and tried to look appreciative.

"That was fast," she said.

"I expected something like this," he admitted, checking her eyes and pulse. "It is you, after all."

She sighed petulantly. "I find your lack of faith disturbing."

He called for an ashaad to help her walk in his tinny, Fereldan-colored qunari, and the firm hand around her ribs was a reassurance. Fenlin knew enough that she'd never consent to being carried, so he took what he could get.

Her helper was dismissed as soon as she'd been settled onto a low-backed stool in the healer's tent. Hawke inhaled deeply, the sight and smell of poultices and herbs feeling almost homelike by now.

"Tell me what you can feel happening inside," the elf instructed as he helped undo the ties on her belt and overshirt. "I can try to help you from there."

"My heart." She winced as a particularly painful double-timed flutter beat against her ribcage. "It won't – I think it's stuck."

"Stuck?" He pressed a pointed ear over her breast, one hand reaching around her to press into the opposite side on her bare back. "Has it been seizing?"

"No, just far too hard and fast. It's better than it was, though."

"This is better?" he asked, incredulous. "Hawke, your heart is injured and running at twice its strength right now. What in Thedas happened?"

"I will also hear the explanation," came a deep voice from the door.

Hawke squeezed her eyes shut as she heard the Arishok's footsteps cross over to them, knowing he was standing right next to her.

And very likely glowering.

"I can explain," she sighed, leaning back to allow Fenlin greater access to her chest. "I will have you know that I kept my promise not to fight just fine until we got to the final cave."

"An oath broken is an oath not kept."

"I had no choice."

His voice dripped with disdain. "There is always choice."

"Will you just listen to me?" she exploded, bolting upright and startling her nurse.

"Your heart!" Fenlin scolded, shushing her as he urged her to lie back. "Calm down. You're not helping."

Neither is he,she thought bitterly, but refrained from saying it aloud.

She ignored him, her body submitting itself to his fussing as she continued to glare up at the Arishok. "As soon as I realized that what was in the cave was alive, I warned the Kithshok to leave. By the time he understood, it was too late, and it found us."

"The ashaad and karashok alone would have sufficed. There was no need for you to engage the creature."

"They would've died in seconds, as would I." She held up one arm, the sleeve covering it slowly dissolving as though being eaten by invisible moths, acrid smoke rising from the edges.

"You can't kill those things," Hawke continued, sucking in a sharp breath as a scrap of venom-laden linen dropped onto her skin, and Fenlin immediately pulled it away with tongs to hold it up for closer inspection. "So I electrocuted it to buy us some time. But the kickback won't leave, and now my heart thinks I'm permanently falling off a cliff."

The Arishok snorted in disbelief, sneering at her story. "There is nothing in this world that cannot be slain."

"It's not of this world." She flinched when the healer ripped the sleeve from her arm. "It's ancient. Elven. And immortal."

At the mention of his heritage, the elf snapped to attention. "From Elvhenan?"

"A varterral," she explained, rubbing tender skin. "It guards Sundermount."

Fenlin's enormous eyes widened, startled. "A varterral," he managed, "here?"

Without taking his eyes off of Hawke, the painted giant spoke. "You know of these creatures."

"Only from stories." He looked at the venom creeping across the scrap of cloth he'd removed. "It's as she says – monstrous. And immortal. They just come right back."

Validated, Hawke wiggled two fingers. "I've 'killed' it twice now. Enough to know of a weakness or two, but not how to keep it down for good."

The Arishok simply stared down at her then, and she could see his eyes narrow slightly as he considered her testimony, now confirmed by one of his own.

"Look." She sighed. "I shocked it and ran, buying time for the others to scatter. Everyone else got out without a scratch. Virtually no fighting at all."

After a moment, she added meaningfully: "We're all safe."

Something low and agitated rumbled in his chest as his gaze flickered on her burning clothes and prone seated position. "I disagree with your definition of the word, kadan."

Fenlin's ears twitched at that, but his hands didn't falter in their work.

Hawke smiled weakly. "You disagree with almost everything I do."

He crossed his arms, leaning back against a pole. "Perhaps not this."

"Greater good?" she prompted, and he gave a short, acknowledging nod.

He watched in silence as Fenlin carefully peeled away the remnants of shirt and cleaned the saliva-coated skin beneath, slathering salve on the angry-looking patches of flesh. The patient made no motion to resume arguing her innocence, instead closing her eyes and hissing at the stinging of her burns as they were cleansed and treated. She had long stopped caring what degree of nakedness she was in at any given time in front of either man present.

When Fenlin turned his attention to her heart, the Arishok rose and straightened, turning to the door.

"Reflect and comply with the healer," he instructed as he left, his departure marked with Hawke's long exhalation of relief.

"Well," she said brightly, "that went better than I'd thought." The healer was assembling some sort of sachet of herbs, snickering at her tone. Watching him, something suddenly occurred to her, and she leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees, breasts bare to allow for the salve to do its work.

"Hey," she called, "that word. Kadan. I've looked for a translation everywhere, but I can't find it."

"And you won't," he said as he pulled down some elfroot from the pins overhead. "It's one of those words that has no equivalent in Common."

"But you know what it is."

"I do."

She waited expectantly, and at his ensuing silence, she prodded him a bit with her foot. "Care to share?"

He thought a moment before speaking, absentmindedly plucking the leaves off of one brown stem. "I suppose the closest translation would be something like 'person of importance' or... well, 'where the heart lies,' more likely."

If possible, Hawke's heartbeat became even more irregular. "I see."

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, watching her expression quietly.

"So?" he asked.

"So?" she replied.

"So," he said with something of a wry smirk, "I take that to mean that you've taken my warning and thrown it out the proverbial window."

"Hey," she protested, "defenestration of well-intentioned advice aside, he was the one who said it."

"Mhmm." That face. That was his 'unconvinced' face.

"Well," she admitted, "I might've kissed him after we beat the hell out of each other the other night."

He burst out laughing at the confession, scattering a pile of dried leaves as he doubled over, forehead on his desk buried in guffaws.

"I know," she groaned, face in her hands. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"Oh," he said, wiping his eyes, "you weren't. I know you weren't. But maybe that's a good thing." He shook his head, still chuckling. "Single-handedly taking on a varterral and kissing the Arishok? No wonder you're so famous."

"They always leave the altruism out in the retellings," she complained halfheartedly as she watched him work, seeing his nimble fingers tear and shred and crush with precise, practiced movements.

Truth be told, she'd been a little surprised when he knew what a varterral was. She knew that the Dalish placed a lot of importance on history and lore, but she wasn't sure how it was among city elves in the alienages.

She mentioned the first of these thoughts aloud, and he shrugged.

"We were told stories about them as children," he said, "but more as a warning to behave. I never thought for a moment that they still existed in Thedas."

"This one's extra-friendly," she told him, resting her chin in one hand. "I can introduce you sometime."

He raised an eyebrow, but smiled.

A few more moments passed before Hawke's curiosity got the better of her.

"Hey," she asked, "why did you convert?"

"What do you mean?"

"You were from Denerim, before the Blight. City elves in the alienages usually have arranged marriages once you come of age, if I remember correctly. Why didn't you choose that life?"

The healer hesitated before crumbling a reddish-brown flower into his mixture. "Alienage marriages are arranged for the sake of procreation," he said calmly, "and for someone like me, who is incapable, it's not worth it."

Hawke's face fell. "Oh, Fenlin, you don't have to – "

He waved her off. "No, it's all right." A reassuring smile wound its way back onto his thin lips. "It was a long time ago." He turned back to the plants, tossing the useless stems and seeds into the refuse basket. "I was castrated by a nobleman I worked for as a punishment for speaking to his daughter out of turn."

Hawke seethed. "As a –!"

"Said it made me more docile," he continued. "But I was just bitter. After that, to the elders, it was like I had no use. I was largely ignored, then pushed off as a servant to a traveling healer the first chance they got." He waved a blossom-covered twig demonstratively. "He let me study a lot about herbalism and medicine, really learn." He smiled warmly. "He was a good man. I had a lot of respect for him."

From the look on the elf's face, Mairead had a strong suspicion that it was much more than just respect, but said nothing.

"We moved around a lot," he said, shaving bark with a narrow knife. "And when we were studying tropical herbs in Seheron, we were given permission to live alongside the qunari. My master was practically giddy in his study of the language, and so we were constantly exchanging ideas and knowledge. They showed us how to harvest and prepare a lot of their more dangerous and fickle plants, and soon he and I were tending to their soldiers as they passed our hut coming back in from the jungle."

Hawke swallowed hard as she asked her next question. "Where is he now?"

"He died years ago," Fenlin said, as she knew he would. "He was an older man to begin with, but when he was bitten by a snake on an expedition, there was no way he could recover." He shook his head. "I was a mess. Didn't leave the house for weeks. Finally, one day, a kithshok showed up at my door, dragged me into the city and pointed to their sick. Suddenly, it was as if I remembered the purpose I had been given. By both my master and by the Qun." He indicated his row of earrings. "I was viddathari within a week. I kept my name for outsiders to use, but otherwise go by my title under the Qun to the qunari. And I've been qunari ever since." He snorted. "I was actually assigned to this faction because it was supposed to a fast mission."

"Surprise! Kirkwall ruins everything."

"Don't I know it." He pulled the drawstring on the pouch he'd been filling. "I still have classes to teach!"

Hawke snickered as he handed her the leafy concoction.

"It relaxes your muscles," he explained, "so brew it as a tea and prepare yourself for a nice, long sleep. And if that doesn't work, we'll see if a saarebas can do something about the magic."

"Understood, O Wise One Who Saves My Ass." She bowed with a flourish, standing and leaning in to plant a kiss on his temple and hug him around the neck, the both of them laughing when her bare breasts smacked into his face.

"Sorry," she offered. "Varterral ate my shirt."

Hawke, having since donned a replacement shirt, ducked into the Arishok's tent with a full steaming kettle in one hand and herbs in the other.

He was in his usual spot, book in hand, already devoid of his armor for the night. She could feel his gaze upon her back as she prepared the tea, straining it delicately and pouring herself a generous, aromatic cup.

"You are medicated," he observed from his seat.

"For now," she replied, taking a sip and feeling the tip of her tongue numb slightly as the hot brew coated her throat. "If this doesn't work, he's going to have a saarebas look into my chest and see if he can pull out whatever leftover magic is still lingering around." She winced. "But I'd rather it just dissipate naturally."

He nodded an agreement, watching closely over the spine of his reading as she emptied the cup and poured herself another.

"On the bright side," she continued, "we got to the venom before it could do any damage. I'll just have a rash for a week or two. Happened last time too – it's not so bad."

That stare again. That calculating, curious look on his face when he was trying to do what Hawke could only imagine amounted to profoundly complex mental arithmetic.

"You had encountered it before," he began, keenly interested, "knew its strength and power, and still did not hesitate to engage it."

"I do what I have to."

"Hn."

She interlaced her fingers around the curve of the cup she held. "You would have done the same."

"I would," he agreed slowly, "I am the Arishok. You are not. You are not even of the Qun."

"No, I'm not."

"Though you are closer than you will admit to being."

"Maybe. Maybe you're reading too much into it." He said nothing, and she emptied the second cup, the roof of her mouth and back of her throat delightfully slick and tingling.

"Well," she said, setting the ceramic down next to the teapot, "I came back, as promised. But you're not getting an apology for the other bit, you know."

The ghost of a smirk briefly traced his lips. "I had not expected one. You are human. You are Hawke."

She grinned as she pressed a few fingers to the pulse point in her neck, tracing it quietly. "Looks like I might not need magical intervention after all," she said, "just to rest well."

The Arishok set his book aside, summoning her over with a shallow hand gesture. Though somewhat unsure of his intent, she complied, standing between his bent knees.

His hands found her waist, and before she could protest, he leaned forward and pressed an ear to her heart, holding himself tight to her breast.

"What are you –"

"Be silent."

And damned if she didn't let him, letting her eyes wander and wondering if he could actually hear the crackle of electricity pricking at her heart.

A few seconds stretched into a minute, then perhaps two. Long enough that Hawke had to wonder. Her heart was still acting strangely arrhythmic, but not enough to warrant such lengthy attention.

She craned her neck to look down at the top of his head, at a loss for what to do in this situation, or even what the situation was, exactly.

"Arishok?" she called gently.

She felt him rumble against her chest.

"Humans are too fragile."

The anxiety and awkwardness melted out of Hawke's posture, and she curved against him, sliding her arms around his head, hands threading through his hair and running along the ridged surface of his horns. She felt his hands crawl up her back, gripping her tightly and pricking her skin with his claws.

Even in his gentlest moments, she mused, the Arishok was still the Arishok.

She wouldn't have it any other way.

"I'm fine," she murmured, shuddering at the rush of air that brushed her skin as he inhaled deeply against her. "Humans are like cockroaches. You can never kill us off."

His amused snort warmed her stomach, and some of the desperation left his fingers.

"The comparison to vermin is fitting."

"Couldn't kill me if you tried."

Chapter Text

A/N: Sorry for the late update, folks! This chapter was particularly difficult to write. For various reasons.

Life has been hectic in the last few weeks, and I have some good news/bad news.

Good news: My aunt (who is more like a second mom) just got the results back from her second round of radiation therapy. The cancer in her lungs hasn't progressed a single bit, and her brain tumors shrank! So she's decided that now, while she has a window of good health, she's going to come visit me in Japan. We're probably going to spend a week here, and then a week or two in Singapore/Hong Kong!

Bad news: This means that while she's here, I won't have much time to write. This might be the last time I see her alive, so I'll want to spend every minute I can with her (Lord, that's an awfully morbid thought, but there it is.) There will probably be a three week hiatus on the Arrowhead. Starkhaven is pre-written, so that'll update as normal, but for something like this where I write new each week, it'll be tough.

I won't leave you hanging, though – next week's update is going to be a modern-day Hawke/Arishok oneshot that I've been sitting on for forever!

Please wish my aunt luck and think good thoughts for us – and see you in a few weeks!

(Also, almost 100 reviews and 100 subscribers? SO MUCH LOVE FOR ALL MY READERS.)

Day 39

Hawke sat soaking in one of the massive tubs in the bathing area, gingerly massaging a bruise on her shoulder in an effort to encourage it to dissipate. She was a walking tapestry of purple and yellow-green blotches, and often spent half of her daily meditations trying to imagine what they resembled. As of that morning, she had a dwarf riding a horse on her calf, two nugs glued back-to-back on the inside of her lower arm, and the outline of Merrill's head on her thigh.

Taking blows was a hazard of sparring with anyone, never mind soldiers of a race twice her size. And though the bruises became less frequent the more she learned how to fight the qunari, it didn't make them hurt any less when her opponents did land hits.

She hissed as the pads of her fingertips pressed into the sore muscle beneath her discolored skin. With all this training, did the Qun not have a word for 'masseuse?' Even the clumsy workers at the Rose, with their oiled-up hands and lack of real training, would be a welcome relief at this point.

Still, being able to fight again was worth it. She would just grouse to herself once in a while, knowing full well that she'd just be back in the arena the next day.

Some people never learn. Hawke was one of them.

And just as that thought passed through her mind, the Arishok walked through the entryway partitions.

She leaned her head back over the edge of the bath, smiling at him weakly as he approached her tub. "Shanedan, Arishok."

"Hawke."

"Need me for something?"

He grunted an affirmative, and she stood, sighing with the effort of shoving herself out of the blessedly hot water and into cool air. At the base of the tub steps, she pulled a towel from the rack and dried herself, fully aware of his gaze following her as she did so.

She cleared her throat. "You know, it really doesn't help me get over communal bathing when you stare like that."

"My presence is irrelevant." He pointed one clawed finger at her forearm. "What manner of beast possesses three claws, not four?"

Something sharp and sour bit at Hawke's gut. My scars, she realized. He was looking at my scars.

Perfect. Absolutely peachy.

"A drake," she answered flatly. "Reptiles have three claws. Everything else around here – mountain lions, wolves, squirrels – has four. And a female dragon's too big to leave marks. She'll just tear your arms clean off." As she began to dress, she shrugged. "The big girl's corpse is still there by the mines outside of town. If your men can stomach the smell, they're welcome to scale and bone."

"It is not their kill." He lifted his chin, studying her in that way of his. "You have slain a dragon."

She smiled a wry smile, tightening the sash around her waist. "Yes. Jealous?"

"Few are privileged enough to engage such a creature in their lifetimes," he replied.

"It wasn't a privilege," she snapped. "It was a pain."

"Then you do not appreciate the honor in being its death, kadan."

Hawke stiffened at the use of the term. "Do you need something from me, or did you just pull me out of the water to see if I would obey?"

She could hear him inhale slowly at the tone in her voice. Her recent attempts at putting a modicum of distance between them had not gone unnoticed, though whether he agreed or disagreed with her actions, he hadn't remarked on the subject.

"Come," he commanded, passing her by in long strides. Sighing, she tugged on her slippers and jogged after him.

Distance, she reminded herself. Harder than it sounds.

It wasn't more than a few minutes before they were in the armory, the smell of leather and half-tanned hide mixing with the fires and stinging at Hawke's nose in a familiar, almost comforting way. She'd never actually been inside, and as she followed the Arishok in, her eyes darted all over the place.

Stands and racks were covered in the traditional qunari armor, brick-red and in various states of repair. Scorch marks and tears covered some, while others were half-finished or brand new. The wall of tools was immaculate and perfectly-organized, and something told Hawke that if she so much as touched any of the equipment, she was in for an earful.

Keeping her hands at her sides and her feet in a straight line was a challenge in such a warrior's wonderland.

The smith nodded to her in acknowledgement when she greeted him, and exchanged a few short words in qunari with his leader before dragging a massive chest out from behind a workbench. After positioning it in the center of the room, he pointed to it meaningfully.

What that meaning was, however, wasn't immediately clear. Hawke looked between him and the Arishok with a puzzled frown, reaching forward for the latches.

It was empty. And they were staring at her.

Was there supposed to be something in it? Was the chest a gift? Was she supposed to put something in it?

"[Climb,]" the armorer instructed, though the suffix of his command wasn't quite clear. She pointed to the chest. He nodded.

Okay, she thought, and even the voice in her head sounded very confused. Still, the qunari never did anything without a point, and the last thing she wanted to do was start a major incident because she had refused the Bucket of Peace.

So, without protest, Hawke slowly crawled into the chest and closed the lid.

It was dark, as expected. And silent.

After a few moments, the top creaked open, and she lifted her head to see the Arishok crouched in front of the trunk, one hand holding the lid up.

"Hawke," he said, staring into the container. The implied "why are you in the box?" came through loud and clear.

She blinked owlishly at him. "[Climb in,] he said. Though I have no idea why."

Understanding flickered across the Arishok's face, and a smirk followed in its wake.

"You do not question. Commendable." He stood. "Your language skills, however, are not." A step back was enough to allow her to extract herself, and he crossed his arms over his chest.

Looking thoroughly entertained, the armorer pointed to the trunk again and repeated himself. This time, she caught the suffix clear as day.

Climb on the box, she realized. On.

Hawke's ears flushed red as she hopped onto the paneled top, mindful of the brass fastenings more to distract her eyes away from the two qunari she'd just made a fool of herself in front of rather than to keep from tripping. After all, falling on her face would be nothing after that last bit.

She was instructed to remove her overdress, and after stripping her down to her underclothes (despite a few choice words of protest), the smith disappeared behind a partition and returned, full-body stand in tow.

There was armor on it.

Human-sized armor.

Hawke's breath caught in her throat as the leather skirting was clasped around her hips and thighs, and she eagerly shoved her feet into a pair of braced boots with wrapping tightly wound around the arch of each foot. The chestpiece stretched from just below her breasts to the fullest part of her hips, and she was floored to see the trademark qunari red gracing her abdomen. The metal collar plate from her old armor had been salvaged, repaired, and attached to shoulder guards that resembled tiny, flexible versions of the Arishok's enormous pauldrons.

She willed herself to stand still as the buckles were pulled taut and the leather straps trimmed of excess. The snugness and reassuring support of the armor felt like an old glove, perfectly molded to her body. Qunari leather – flexible as birch, strong as steel. And it was tight and firm and glorious.

She strapped her bracers to her forearms, the straps of Carver's armguards treated and smoothed like she'd never had time to do. When she felt the click of a rack snap into place on the back of her chestpiece, she reached over her shoulder to feel the metal's polished surface.

The grips of her daggers greeted her, and the wave of emotion that came over her at having them attached to her again, feeling whole, forced a stifled sigh out of her throat. Hawke bit her lip as the smith adjusted the height to her reach, then held out her utility belt. She wrapped it around her hips, buckling it into place and pulling her strikers out to tug over her fingers.

And she was fully armored.

Qunari armor was, like their weapons, made individually for the wearer. Someone had clearly put a lot of thought into this – her fighting style, her weapons, the way she moved – judging by the way it fit her body and was cut to allow for more acrobatic maneuvering.

She turned to the smith, extolling his skill and craftsmanship as best she could in his language, but he had looked satisfied the moment his armor had rendered the noisy whirlwind of a bas speechless. He didn't excuse himself as he left to tend to his other duties, abandoning her alone with the Arishok... who had clearly been the one responsible.

Hawke ran her hands down over the chestpiece, over the smooth ribbing of woven hide and the thick sash at her waist. Her fingertips tingled at the sensation through her gloves, and she flexed her toes inside what promised to be excellent boots for dodging and weaving. As she tested each muscle, each tightly-bound limb inside their new confines, she was uncharacteristically silent.

She didn't know how to thank him for something like this.

He stepped closer, on eye level with her borrowed height. Inclining his head, he tugged at the edges of the major pieces, sliding a claw along the seams between armor and thin clothing and eliciting a shiver from the human they adorned.

"It is sufficient."

No, she thought. "It's incredible," she whispered.

She wasn't just talking about the armor. The fact that anyone watched her enough to know the intricacies of her body and fighting preferences was mind-blowing. Regardless of the fact that he was the Arishok. He had designed armor specifically for her. To shield her. To empower her.

He could've told her he loved her aloud, recited a sonnet, gotten down on one knee and proposed and it wouldn't have had anywhere near this significance.

Distance, she reminded herself, dousing the rolling waves in her chest with icewater. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other before speaking again.

"Arishok, I..." She considered her words carefully. "I don't know how I can ever repay you for this."

He frowned, withdrawing his hand to cross his arms across his chest. "Do not die foolishly."

She laughed a little despite herself, laying a hand over her heart in a mock vow. "I promise to seek an honorable death, so long as I'm wearing it."

His amused snort was nearly lost in the sound of tools from the next room over. The sound was one that could either irritate her more than a swarm of fire ants or make her smile like a daydreaming child, and at that moment, it served as a marker of how far she and the qunari warlord had come: from two-word conversations and stoic disapproval to extended philosophical discussions and dry humor.

From being far below him at the base of the steps to eye level and within arm's reach.

To the void with distance right now, she told herself as she buried her fingers in the nape of his neck and pulled him in press her forehead firmly against the base of his horns. She squeezed her eyes shut, inhaling deeply and leaning into him with as much weight as she could muster.

He caught her pressure and met it, the appreciative rumble in his chest a gentle hum against her skull.

Maraas shokra, the Qun echoed in her head.

There is no struggle.

After a short lecture (and some note-taking) from the smith on how to take care of her new equipment, Hawke eagerly found a seat on a crate within view of the arena, new armor in hand. She pulled a short, soft-bristled brush and polishing rag from her satchel, along with a bottle of lavender-tinted liquid. It wasn't difficult work, by any means, and soon the leather beneath her hands reeked of the perfume specific to the Gorgon Heart's aggressive blooms. Bodahn had brought it down when Merrill had finished the batch of serum and tested it, and Hawke was all too happy to try out the fruits of her labor.

Not an hour later, she had mounted her new armor on a training dummy and attracted a crowd. As she tightened the leather straps, the half-horned Sten came up behind her, watching intently.

"Your purpose is unclear."

She grinned up at him as she lit up her daggers. "It will be in just a moment. Back up."

The crackle of magic drew more curious bystanders, especially qunari who had seen her blades dormant and looked confused at her description of their capabilities. The steel and bone glowed bright in her hands as she thumbed the lighting runes snapped into place while walking in a straight line away from the mannequin. Fifteen paces. Twenty. She drew a circle around her target, years of handling teaching her that no matter how practiced you were with it, the bolts had a will of their own.

With the onlookers safely behind the line, Hawke inhaled deeply, calming her excitement. The daggers turned in her hands, almost on their own, and as her fingers found their well-worn grooves, she snapped her wrists.

Two shocks of white-hot light shot forward, catching dead-on despite stray tendrils grasping at the sand as they passed over. Her eyes never left the armor as sparks danced across the surface, tongues of lightning licking at red and black and brown turned iridescent where the shock hit coating. Within seconds, the dying webs joined together in one final shivering sigh across the chestpiece, then flickered out completely.

Hawke cautiously approached, toeing at glassy clumps of sand in the ground where the wayward sparks had hit. The Sten followed close behind, his nose crinkling at the smell of residual energy in the air.

A broad smile crossed Mairead's face as she saw the results of her experiment. Not a singe, not a scorch, not a burn. The armor was immaculate, as was the sawdust-stuffed occupant. Though both were warm to the touch, there was no other evidence that they had weathered a storm.

"Impressive," the Sten observed, leaning closer to inspect it and letting his thick braid hang over one shoulder.

"It'd be more impressive if I was actually wearing it," she said, undoing the latches and sliding the pieces off. "But no one else can handle the girls. Especially not with something as unpredictable as magic involved, and lightning's the worst possible one to try and control. Unless you've had years of practice, this whole place could go down. So while I'd happily go ahead..." She shrugged. "This will have to do for now."

The qunari beside her straightened, a thoughtful expression on his face. "It is unsatisfactory."

"Tell me about it."

After a moment, he turned down to look at her. "I have a saarebas in my command."

The word was familiar, though not entirely. "A mage?" Hawke asked.

"Yes. Mage." He glanced over the armor. "If you have the confidence, I will send for it."

She hesitated. "This saarebas – it's one of yours?"

"Yes."

"Then I trust your men as I trust you." She grinned. "Let's do this."

Hawke could count on one hand the number of times she'd encountered qunari mages. The experiences were always brief, and she'd never directly killed one, but Bethany had remarked once how much raw power was behind their spells. This was a good opportunity to get to understand them outside of battle, she thought as she adjusted the ties on her armor. And she had to admit that she was curious – she'd never really gotten a good look at one before. Though if they were anything like their brethren, they were bound to be intimidating and reticent.

Intimidating turned out to be the right word, though she wasn't sure if it meant the same thing.

Firstly, the saarebas didn't walk on his own out to her. He was walked. On a chain. And though he didn't strain at it, Hawke found herself more than a little unsettled by the sight.

Still, she made an effort to smile. "Shanedan," she greeted.

Nothing.

She looked between the Sten and the qunari holding the other end of the chain. "Did I say it wrong?"

"No," the Sten informed her. "It does not speak."

"An old injury?"

The Sten turned to the chain-holder. "Arvaraad," he commanded, "imava saarebas."

Obediently, the other qunari – now named as an arvaraad, whatever that was – tugged the chained mage down by his high collar, displaying his face clearly to the human.

Upon seeing the sutures crisscrossing his lips, Hawke recoiled. "Maker," she swore, "what in the name of – what is that?"

"This is your first time seeing saarebas," the Sten noted.

She couldn't pull her eyes away. "I've fought them, but only at a distance and why is his mouth sewn shut?"

"It is saarebas."

"So their mouths are sealed?"

"Yes."

She gaped, now noticing for the first time the severed horns and thick cuffs at his wrists. "This," she stammered, "this is how you treat magic."

The qunari leader crossed his arms as he stared her down, apparently intrigued by her outrage. "They are shown compassion under the Qun."

Compassion. Still in utter awe, Hawke snorted in horrified disbelief. "Oh, this I have to hear."

"Magic is a burden," he told her calmly, lifting his chin to indicate the saarebas. "It is willful, difficult to master. The arvaraad are their masters, easing the torment by removing all elements of distraction."

She blinked up at him, his frank statement of belief hard to take in. "By removing their free will," she said slowly, making sure that her understanding was correct, "you are helping them?"

"Correct."

Her world spun as she pressed a hand to her forehead. This was absolutely unfathomable. These mages did not move an inch without a handler nearby to dictate their every action, and she could only imagine how disobedience was punished. Though worst of all, she had a strong feeling that they would never disobey, even if given the chance.

And that made her sick to her stomach.

"You bind and command them, like dogs." Images of Bethany's mouth stitched with jagged laces flashed in her mind, and her hands shook. Anders in chains. Merrill in a thick mask over her tiny frame. And her precious baby sister with a smile like the sun, bound and mute. "This is unwarranted and savage!"

"You would prefer to kill them as soon as their abilities came forth," he suggested, and she could feel her fingers ball into fists.

"Death might be preferable to this kind of life," she seethed, and he gave an acknowledging nod.

"The choice is always theirs. The path of saarebas, or death."

Some choice that is. "And if they were ever separated from their master?"

"They would have been vulnerable to corruption, and destroy themselves. By doing this, they remove the danger they would pose to others; such a death is an honorable one."

There were no words. Hands cupped over her nose and mouth, Hawke stared at the saarebas in front of her, the rise and fall of his chest clinking the links of his chain together gently. This was how mages here lived. Never knowing freedom, never knowing anything other than restraint and obedience. Contained like a vessel for magic, a husk used as a weapon.

At her silence, the Sten posed a question. "How many abominations have you killed?"

More than I care to count, she thought bitterly. "Too many," she said.

"We have not lost a saarebas to corruption in your lifetime," he said plainly. "You have no such results with which to defend your system."

Balking, she waved her hands. "No, our system is bad, true, but yours is... horrific."

"Is it?" He inclined his head. "Which is crueler: leashing one who violently strains against his bonds and suffers, or leashing one who understands and willingly submits? Your Circle is the former, forcing the volatile into servitude against their will. There is no force under the Qun, only education and acceptance."

"But to teach them nothing but submission to this," Hawke protested, "just because they were born this way?"

The Sten pointed to her body. "You were born human, and female. This dictates your life, as being born with magic does theirs."

"You equate magic with hair color, race, gender?"

"It is fact. It is unchangeable."

Mairead locked her eyes on his impassive face. How does one argue, she thought furiously, with someone with so much conviction and so little interest in anything else?

The differences between them were stark against the backdrop of their developing acquaintance. She had known that there would be many. But this, this was...

Light glinted off of one golden horn band as he straightened his posture. "Would you entrust an unfamiliar mage of your Circle with the task of striking you?"

"Of course not!"

"Yet you accepted my offer of saarebas immediately." He lowered his chin, pointedly meeting her eyes. "This is more telling than you know."

A stone sank in Hawke's stomach, weighing down her innards and sending waves of nausea through her entire body. For all of her indignant rage and human fury, he was right. She didn't know if it was shame or anger that coursed through her, but she knew that whoever faced her tomorrow morning in the arena was in for some suffering.

At her silence, the Sten passed orders to the arvaraad. "We will proceed as planned," he informed her. "There is nothing further to discuss."

For now, Hawke thought crisply as she clenched her fists. But you're a fool if you think this is over.

Another circle was drawn in the sand.

Hawke stood in the center, daggers sheathed and hands clasped behind her back. She'd been zapped a few times before, but never full-on. This was going to be an experience she'd always remember as either the moment she withstood a bolt of lightning or died from overconfidence.

Though she always had a hunch that that's how she'd go.

She nodded to the Sten, who signaled the arvaraad. The saarebas' hands flickered with light, and Hawke averted her eyes, though not out of fear of the incoming bolt.

It was amazing how she could be so brave in the face of death and still such a coward in the same breath.

She heard the crackle of lightning, and the bark of the command to strike. Taking a deep breath, she braced herself for impact...

...though she wasn't expecting it to come from her side.

She was sent sprawling in the dirt as the bolt passed above her and hit the wall behind, dissipating on contact. She struggled to right herself as the red-and-black blur that had shoved her aside glinted with steel and slammed into the arvaraad, flinging the saarebas out of the way like a ragdoll with enough force to crack the wall it landed against.

"Saarebas!" she called, scrambling to her feet and running to its side.

"Do not touch him," the Arishok's voice thundered, and as she stopped in her tracks, she understood why. Energy still crackled around his fists – the spell had been interrupted, and the magic had not yet calmed. As Hawke took a step back, she turned to try and understand what had happened.

The Arishok knelt over the arvaraad, greatsword at his throat.

"Explain," he growled, eyes narrowed.

As she imagined what the scene must have looked like to the Arishok from a distance, it didn't take much for Hawke to realize that there was some grave misunderstanding going on.

"Arishok!" she called. "It's all right! This was my idea."

His eyes shot her a long, calculating look before he released the mage handler, standing cautiously and crossing over to her in slow strides, blade still drawn.

And he looked furious.

There was no personal space to be had as he towered directly over her, breathing evening as he glowered. "What,"he began, "is this?"

She took a deep breath, trying to remember if she had ever seen him this truly, deeply angry before. No. No, she hadn't.

"I used the serum from the Gorgon Heart on my armor," she explained. "The saarebas was here to help me test it, nothing more."

"And you did not think to inform the Arishok," he bellowed angrily, "before attempting!"

At his outburst, Hawke reacted the way she always did: she yelled right back. "I didn't think you would nearly kill a saarebas just for obeying orders! Which your people train him to do without question!"

"Orders I knew nothing of and did not give!"

"You didn't even ask!"

"Question delays action, and you would be dead from your idiocy!" He stepped closer, livid. "I am the Arishok," he shouted, "and I act as the situation dictates!"

"You are the Arishok," she retorted, "and always assume rational explanations for everything!"

"Not when you are involved!" he roared. "Never with you!"

In that instant, the red bled from Hawke's vision. She swallowed hard, looking up at his flaring nostrils and eyes burning with fury.

"I'm not rational," she asked, much more quietly, "or you don't think before defending me?"

It was as though she had punched him in the face. There was a split-second of confusion followed by renewed anger, and then... nothing. A quick snap of his neck seemed to shake any distracting thoughts from his mind as he slid his sword back into place across his back, and he turned from her stiffly.

"I have no intention," he seethed, "of discussing this further."

"Fenlin," Hawke called as she pulled aside the flap to the healer's tent. He sat at his workbench, sorting bandages.

"From what I hear," he said, not looking up, "any bruises you get, you deserve."

Andraste's golden buttcrack, this man knew everything.

"And earn them I did. But I'm not here about that." She pulled up a stool, inching closer as she sat. "I need your expertise."

"Oh?" He turned to her then, resting his head in one hand. "If I may hazard a guess, about our fearless leader?"

"Exactly." She hesitated. "He scared me today."

The elf raised an eyebrow. "With good reason."

Hawke waved her hand dismissively. "No, no. Not the yelling. I'm almost to the point where I like the shouting matches." She ducked her head, earnestly worried. "I've never seen him act without thinking before."

Fenlin stared at her then, lost in thought as his gaze traveled across her face. He was quiet for some time before shifting his arms, folding his hands neatly in front of him.

"It sounds," he began slowly, deliberately, "as if he's losing focus."

"Focus," she repeated.

"Yes." He sighed. "The thing you have to understand, Hawke, is that the Arishok is one of three qunari who serve as the avatars of the Qun for this generation. He is the Qun. If he loses focus, he loses sight of his reason for existing."

"Because of me." She leaned her elbows on her knees, sighing deeply. "How can one little human cause an existential crisis in the paragon of the Qun?"

"It's precisely because you're human," he answered quickly. "The Qun teaches us that we live for the greater good, that our own personal desires are unimportant. Because of this, the qunari understanding of wanting something is just a..." He gestured with his hands as he struggled for an analogy. "Flicker. A candle flame." A weary smile tugged at his lips as he met her eyes. "Hawke, you want like a forest fire."

Her lips tightened into a straight line, the rest of her features just as tense to suit, knuckles white where her fingers intertwined.

Fenlin laid a sympathetic hand on her arm as he continued, and she was grateful for the contact. "And if you follow that image, he's burning right now. And he doesn't understand. How, why, any of it. The only thing he knows is that you're at the center of it all."

She flicked her eyes up to his, bringing her clasped hands up to rest in front of her mouth.

"If something doesn't change," she said quietly, "we're going to destroy each other, aren't we?"

"I wish I could tell you otherwise."

She inhaled a long, shaky breath. "What can I do, Fenlin?"

He thought a moment, then brushed some of the hair off of her shoulder. "Study the Qun," he told her. "Find your place in our world. His world. Otherwise..."

She held up a hand. He didn't have to finish that thought.

And she didn't want him to.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the saarebas from earlier laid out on a mattress, his arvaraad beside him. With a glance to the healer, she tentatively walked over, sitting at the foot of the bed.

The chained mage turned his head to watch her, as did his handler.

She didn't know how to apologize. It was her fault. All of it was.

So that's what she said.

Hands on her knees, Mairead made a shallow bow at the waist, intended to both qunari. "[I assume full responsibility.]"

The arvaraad studied her carefully, glancing sidelong at his saarebas.

Yes, I'm speaking to both of you, Hawke thought, not a little sourly. Deal with it.

To her relief, he replied with a short, acknowledging nod. "[Your task was not completed.]"

"[No, it was not,]" she confirmed, the usual joy at being able to answer in his own tongue overshadowed by the role he fulfilled in the barbaric practice she was expected to accept without question. "[I intend to ask the Arishok for permission.]"

He grunted his approval, turning back to his saarebas. "[I do not hope you die.]"

Hawke smiled a little at that despite herself.

The Arishok's study tent was dim that night, barely enough light to read by.

Not that any of the thick volumes in front of him were open.

He rested his head on one hand, slouching to the side as he stared at the tent wall across from his desk. As Hawke entered, he didn't move, sparing only a quick glance at her from his peripheral vision.

He didn't kick her out, though, which she took as a good sign. Silently, she moved to take the familiar seat opposite his, the memory of bindings and the taste of leather rising to her skin and tongue as her fingers found the polished wood.

Ah, she remembered with an inward sigh, the Chair of Shame.

Fitting.

She folded her hands in her lap. "I'm sorry for what happened earlier."

Silence.

His eyes glowed dully in the low light, a glossy and haunting reflection of their usual fire. His gaze didn't travel, nor waver, instead keeping with his pattern of unabashed, piercing study. She might grow to find it flattering, someday. Fascinating. But right now, she wasn't sure she wanted his insight any deeper than her skin.

"Say something," she prompted.

"I simply wait for the qualification behind your apology."

She shook her head. "No, no qualifications. As is, honest truth." Sighing aloud, she slouched in her seat. "I should have consulted with you first. Which is why I came here." She gestured to the air, trying to encompass the entire compound with one sweep of her hand. "This is your domain, your men that I potentially endangered. Nothing should happen without your knowledge. You are the Arishok."

"I am the Arishok," he repeated, voice low and even.

She nodded, and there was a moment of quiet before he continued.

"But," he added reluctantly, "there are times, with you, where I am not."

Hawke let her eyes flutter closed as his words washed over her like a warm surf. She understood. She understood, and she knew what he was saying, and she wanted nothing more than to drown in his admission over and over and let the tide take them both. But she knew. And she understood.

"That can't happen," she told him.

"No," he agreed slowly. "It cannot."

The last remaining light in the tent flickered, their shadows jumping and merging erratically as if echoing their masters' silent struggle.

Hawke spoke first, smoothing her nerves and steeling the ache in her chest when she saw the signs of weariness on his face.

"I want to try the test of armor again," she said firmly. "But only under your supervision."

He considered her for a moment more, then replied with a short nod. "Acquire a saarebas," he instructed. "Clear the arena."

It was later, as she stood in the shifting sand under the bright stars, that Hawke realized another fundamental truth.

A safe span away stood an arvaraad, saarebas, their Sten, and the Arishok. She saw the violet pulse of lightning crackle between the bound mage's hands, and as the bolt took form and lunged at her chest, she caught a last glimpse of the warlord's face.

He would watch this. As the Arishok, and from a distance.

The divide between them was clearer to her than ever after tonight.

And as the lighting ravaged across her but found no foothold, Hawke mused that there must be some meaning in it somewhere, but failed to grasp it before the last vestiges abandoned her for the sky and dissolved.

Chapter Text

A/N: So, no visit right now from my aunts. The aunt in question had a trip to the ER, and her doctor delayed her all-clear to travel. They still plan on coming, they just need to put it off for a while. I'm pretty bummed, but she needs to do what she needs to do for her health.

This does mean that I should be updating still, albeit kind of irregularly for a while – my husband's uncle passed away, and Japanese funerals are big, complicated affairs. I don't know what's going to go on with that, so you'll have to bear with me for now. (When it rains, it pours, right?)

A big thank-you to all the love and support that came last update – you guys are amazing and I adore each and every one of you. Seriously. Lovelove.

Mild smut warning this week! Just some colorful sexy language for now. But still might get you in trouble at work. :)

Be warned, though – in the next few chapters, I'm bumping up the rating on this bad boy.

Day 43

"Hawke."

She turned away from the weapon rack in the armory to greet her friend. "Sten! Shanedan." She put her blades down on their wrappings. "I was about to see to my weapons."

"I assumed as much." His gaze fell on her blades. "Your daggers are well cared for."

She beamed with a hint of pride. "Thank you."

"And what of your other weapons?"

Blinking, she looked around. "Other weapons?"

He closed the distance between them, letting his eyes roam her body from head to toe in a way that made her pulse quicken. "Your hands," he said, tilting his head as she flexed her fingers self-consciously. "Your feet, spine, waist, hips. Are they not equally important in victory?"

She swallowed hard at the look in his violet eyes, bright in the light from the roaring fire.

"And how," she began, mouth dry, "do you propose I take care of my hips?"

He answered by claiming her mouth, wrapping clawed hands in her hair as he delved into her with his tongue. She pressed back against him hungrily, fingers fumbling over his broken horn to scratch at his scalp and drag her nails down his chest. He growled against her throat, nipping a path down to her collarbone and backing her up toward the massive, fire-warm anvil by the hearth.

"But," she managed between gasps, "the Qun says –"

"The Qun instructs that we must tend to the needs of our instruments, so that they may be honed for battle." He pulled the sash from her waist, spinning her and pressing her chest into the worn metal of the anvil. "Oiled," he said, reaching around to grip her throat with one hand as the other yanked down her smalls, "taut, aligned. You are a weapon, Hawke..."

Stars burst across her vision and a throaty moan escaped her lips as he sheathed himself in one long stroke.

"And you will be shown due diligence."

Hawke sat upright like a bolt, sweat beading on her forehead and sheets clutched in her fingers. As her breathing evened, she took in her surroundings. Tent partition. Check. Bed. Check. Giant, rumble-snoring warlord.

Check.

She groaned, bringing her knees to her chest and burying her face in them.

Not again.

She whipped the blankets off and pulled on overclothes. Morning meditations to clear her head. A bath to wash the smell of sweat and desire off of her skin. Fenlin for her daily all-clear to fight.

And then to the sparring arena for the stress relief she so desperately needed.

Seriously, she swore as she stepped into the blessedly bracing morning air. This has got to stop.

"He bent you over an anvil?"

"Hey!" Hawke glared at the healer over the steam from her tea. "I don't decide what goes on in these dreams!" She grimaced. "And this makes ten in the last week alone."

Fenlin smirked as he refilled his own cup. "And being allowed into the weapon sparring bouts has done nothing to alleviate this particular kind of tension?"

"Not yet." She sighed blearily. "But a girl can hope."

"Well," he offered, wrapping delicate fingers around the heated ceramic of his cup, "look at it this way. There are a limited number of qunari in the compound for your subconscious to ravish. You'll run out eventually." He smirked as he took a sip. "Perhaps you'll have the good fortune to see me in one of them someday."

"Already have," she said nonchalantly, deadpan as he promptly choked on his tea.

"What?" he sputtered.

"Yep." She refilled her cup. "Been there, done you."

The elf doubled over, clutching his sides and laughing so hard she saw tears at the corners of his eyes. His trilling guffaws filled the otherwise empty tent, and Hawke frowned at his display.

"You laugh," she told him over his occasional hiccup, "but it was the best one yet."

"Oh?" He wiped his eyes as he regained his composure, albeit maintaining his wildly entertained expression. "Was it my rippling muscles? My deep, masculine voice?"

"Actually," she admitted, "it was your hands."

"My hands?" Now he was interested, and she cursed the unconscious flush that she felt warming her ears and throat at the specifics of that particular dream.

"Mm." She stood, reaching on her tiptoes for the jar that held more of the tea leaves in an attempt to keep herself from staring at the appendages in question. "You have... nimble fingers."

She heard the scrape of a stool and a low, warm chuckle as something pressed against her back. Already a bundle of nerves from sleeplessness and tension, Hawke whipped around at the contact.

Fenlin's hands were on the tabletop on either side of her, trapping her between him and the workbench. And she paled at the mischievous smirk on his face.

"Tell me more," he prompted, large elven eyes focused on hers intently and glittering wickedly.

Fire suddenly flooded Hawke's veins, and she laughed nervously. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

"No?" He moved closer, his hips pressing her backside into the edge of the table. "You once told me that interesting ideas are seldom good ones."

"Did I say that?" She bit her lip and willed her heart to stop pounding as his chest flattened against hers, bending her back slightly. "I don't remember it. Or... or the dream, now that you mention it. Not a thing."

"Your face says otherwise," he murmured, and she felt an insistent tug at the sash around her waist. The heat pooling between her legs was torturous now, and her eyes were glued to one skillful hand as he raised it to his face. Was this another dream? This had to be a dream. There was no way that Fenlin, of all people, would –

She whimpered as he took two fingers into his mouth in one long, slow motion, coating them thoroughly...

...then unceremoniously stuck his wet index finger into her ear canal.

He released her as she exploded with curses and swatted at him angrily, laughing at his triumph.

"Son of a bitch," Hawke spat, furiously wiping her ear. "I can't believe you did that! I can't believe I fell for that!"

"Sexual frustration makes you far too easy a target," he smirked, crossing his arms. "Consider this training."

She glared as she fell back into her seat. "So this was for my benefit."

"Of course," he replied innocently. "It's what I do."

"Right." As she watched him shake fresh tea leaves into the pot, gears started turning in her head. Mairead Hawke never let shenanigans go without attempting to give as good as she got.

So he wants me to get over my frustration, eh? She smirked, but quickly schooled her features. Let's see how he deals with this, shall we?

Just as the elf replaced the jar above her, Hawke reached for him, ignoring his startled yelp as she pulled him into her lap. His thighs settled on either side of hers, and his confused expression was delicious as she ran her thumbs in idle circles over his hips.

"But now we have a problem," she said, lacing her voice with heady want. "You got me all worked up for nothing."

Unfazed, he crossed his arms. "You fell right into it."

"And look where you fell into." She pulled him up further, sliding her hands under his shirt and tracing the warm skin there with her fingertips.

He arched one thin eyebrow. "You're acting like a child."

"Am I?" She smirked, lifting her knees to knock him off balance and sending him tumbling forward, his hands catching the back of her chair and his pointed face very close to hers.

"I doubt a child," she murmured as she brought one hand to the back of his neck, "would be thinking the things I am about you right now."

As she slowly brought him closer, Hawke smugly waited for the inevitable jerk away and irritated scolding. And the nearer his face came, the sweeter her victory would be when he was unable to match her bluff.

So when he abruptly closed the distance between them and covered her mouth with his, her eyes snapped open and she sucked in a sharp breath. His hands held her firmly in place as he pressed downward, kissing her soundly.

And winning.

As he leapt off her lap, Hawke sputtered.

"Damnit, Fenlin!"

"You're a hundred years too early for that game," he said with a self-satisfied grin. Picking up his herb collecting basket, he headed for the door.

"You're killing me," she whined as he walked away.

He waved a hand. "Peace is in the Qun," he practically sang over his shoulder as he left, and Hawke slumped down in her seat with a groan.

The unflappable elf, that smug bastard, was decidedly Not Helping.

If nothing else, her frustration served as an excellent source of battle rage.

As she full-on tackled an ashaad, sending both him and his spear into the dirt, Hawke had to admit that being constantly on edge had at least one advantage.

She was like a coiled spring, waiting to leap at any and every weakness she could prey on. The second an opponent showed the slightest opening, she lunged after it with a ferocity that rivaled a half-starved mountain lion.

And she knew that he was watching her.

The Arishok watched many of the weapon bouts, as did his immediate subordinates, but Hawke saw the way his eyes caught light whenever she stepped into the arena. And though he never gave himself away in word or deed, never moving a muscle nor so much as shifting posture, she was always keenly aware of the way he looked at her when she was engaging a challenger.

There was something akin to buried hunger in that singular focus of his, and her ruthlessness earned her a quiet but obvious appreciation from the avatar of the Qun. And above all else, respect – for her abilities, her weapons, her body.

His presence at the matches made her something of an exhibitionist, she had quickly realized. With every strike, every sharp turn, every leap and somersault, she felt his eyes following each snap of her muscle.

And she wanted him to see it.

Watch, she thought as she pushed her knee down into the ashaad's chest beneath her. Watch as I wipe the floor with each and every one of your men. Wearing the armor you commissioned, using the body only you are allowed to see at rest.

Her toes dug into the sand as he struggled to roll, but failed.

Watch my feet...

Her fingers wrapped themselves in his hair and yanked his head back, exposing his throat.

...my hands...

Her blade pressed against the vulnerable skin, cool against the artery hot with rushing blood.

...my victory.

The ashaad yielded to her dagger at his throat, and she pulled him to his feet amid the thunderous stomping of the onlookers. Grunting, he met her with a rough headbutt of admiration, and she knocked her skull against his just as enthusiastically. It was a good bout; she'd had to work for her win. And her knees were going to be sore for days.

She walked back to her usual seat on the platform, sliding her blades back into place as her long strides crossed the blood-spattered sand. It must have been fresh; the arena was cleaned daily. She briefly wondered if it was hers and did a quick mental check of any injuries before sitting.

No, no bleeding. But the day was still young.

She greedily emptied a dipper of water from the basin, dragging the back of one hand roughly across her mouth.

"His peripheral vision is riddled with blind spots," she said, not bothering to turn around as she spoke. "If he's a scout, isn't that a problem?"

The Arishok rumbled an agreement from behind her. "He is unaccustomed to battling one so small."

She snorted, leaning back to glance at him skeptically. "Ah, so that only leaves him vulnerable to humans, elves, dwarves, large housecats... pretty much anything not a kossith or a bear. Very reassuring."

He met her gaze pointedly. "You have been allowed to engage in matches for the purpose of providing such training. You asked for a role; I have given you one. Are you dissatisfied?"

"No, no, not at all." She waved her hands. "Not looking a gift horse in the mouth."

He frowned at the idiom, and she clarified.

"I'm not ungrateful. I'm happy to fight at all." She scooted back over the platform until her shoulders leaned against the base of his seat. "Though I have to admit that I was surprised to be allowed to do so. Aren't women barred from fighting under the Qun?"

The Arishok adjusted his posture, resting his jaw against one hand as his gaze quickly swept the ring to assess the next pair of competitors. "Females are educators. You are here to teach. This is unexceptional."

At his mention of her role, Hawke toyed with the idea of presenting him with what had been on her mind since the incident with the saarebas. Fenlin had advised her to find her place in the Qun, and she had to admit, she was more than curious as to what would be waiting for her in Seheron or Par Vollen.

The first time she'd given it thought, it had been as a novelty, nothing more – about as meaningful as wondering how she would look dressed in the Orlesian empress' coronation gown, and about as likely. Now, though, she was genuinely interested in what part she might play in the world the Arishok and his men came from.

And there was no time like the present; they were on topic, she'd just won another bout, and when discussing fighting or the Qun, the Arishok became much more receptive to questions, almost chatty.

"Hey," she called up, letting her head fall back against his chair so that she could look at him properly. "What would my role be if I converted? Went to Seheron? Put before the priests, all that."

He glanced to her briefly out of the corner of his eye before returning his attention to the beginning of the next match. "Speculation is pointless and a waste of effort."

She shoved his leg a bit with her shoulder. "Humor me."

"It is irrelevant."

"Not to me."

He turned to face her then, interest clearly written across his severe features. "You have... contemplated this."

She tilted her head as she met his gaze, completely earnest. "Haven't you?"

The Arishok made a kind of throaty noise, studying her face as he silently deliberated. She could see the gears whirring behind sharp, focused eyes as he considered his answer carefully.

"Were you of the Qun– " he began, then stopped abruptly. After a moment, he spoke again. "I am no tamassran, and I do not claim to be such. I know of their ways and the Qun enough to understand simple absolute truths, nothing more."

"I accept that."

He rumbled acknowledgment, leaning back in his seat.

"You would not be a soldier," he stated first.

Hawke felt as though she shouldn't have been surprised, but she prickled slightly anyway. "Why, exactly?"

"You are female," he answered flatly. "You would not be trained for the antaam, nor any positions it contains."

She sighed, folding her legs in front of her. "I suppose I already knew that, in a way."

"Neither would your abilities be disregarded," he continued, and her ears perked up. "The Qun does not waste. You would subject to assessment and be assigned appropriately. Roles such as task units or personal guard are presumable, though never the antaam."

"Sounds acceptable to me," she said brightly, gladdened to hear it. His next words, however, had the opposite effect.

"You would also be tasked with bearing offspring."

Hawke stiffened.

"What?"

The Arishok didn't acknowledge her surprise, instead going into further detail. "Females are not warriors under the Qun," he explained. "Those with battle prowess are rare, valued. You would be paired off as a mate with the strongest, most proven male in an effort to produce adept progeny."

As his words sank in, Mairead's throat went dry. Strongest, most accomplished male.

"Meaning... you."

"Unless another is deemed worthy."

From his skeptical tone, she took that as a 'yes.'

"And mates are permanent? They don't switch around as needed?"

"The initial pairing made is the optimal one," he frowned. "There is no need to improve it."

Unlike humans, who switch around at the drop of the hat, Hawke heard woven with disdain into that sentence.

She balked. "And you wouldn't be bothered by being assigned a human as a mate?"

"You would be qunari; race is irrelevant," he responded calmly. "The resulting offspring of the Arishok and a dragonslayer would bring great advantage."

"Interesting," she murmured. "So I would be expected to teach when not on assignment, and when doing neither of those, contribute to the gene pool of the strongest army in Thedas."

A low rumble came up from his chest. "Your simplification is shallow, but accurate."

Leaning her elbows on her knees, Hawke rested her chin in one hand, facing the arena but not really watching. Her thoughts on this new revelation monopolized her mind, and she stared blankly into the ring as she attempted to wade through all the new material she had to process.

Her absorption did not go unnoticed. After three subsequent bouts narrated by her uncharacteristic silence, the Arishok spoke.

"This information displeases you."

That snapped her out of it.

"No," she replied honestly. "I'm just... giving it some thought, is all." She took in a deep breath, trying to encapsulate one of the major emotional reactions she'd had to his prediction. "It's surprising to hear that I would be valued, I suppose." She glanced up at him over her shoulder. "And that's where you find worth in me, as a leader of the Qun? Teaching, fighting, breeding?"

He didn't answer. Two bouts with no reply later, and Hawke had turned back around, almost giving up on him doing so at all. He seemed to be paying attention to the current match taking place, so when he spoke to her without turning, he caught her off guard.

"There is worth to be found," he told her slowly, "in arriving home to one who is pleased by your return."

Hawke's breath hitched in her throat, but she made every effort to disguise it. He was glad to come back to a tent where she was waiting, looking up from her book with a smile and a pot of tea ready on the table. The fact that he found solace, of all things, in her was simultaneously mind-boggling and heartwrenching. Especially given the air between them over the last few days.

When not next to the arena, discussing the fights or tactics, things had been about as awkward as one might expect.

Maybe not 'awkward,' she thought as she looked down at her hands. 'Hesitant.' That's a better word.

Whenever they were alone together otherwise, the acknowledgment that there was something below the surface that was no good for anyone involved hadn't really been the elephant in the room so much as a small rodent actively gnawing at the both of them. Not that the Arishok was ever uncomfortable – he was just distant, largely silent, and meditating more than ever.

His admission just then had only served to shake Hawke up when her guard was down. Her hands clenched into each other in an effort to keep from reaching for him.

She wanted to touch him so badly in that moment.

Instead, as usual, she opted for violence to distract herself. She slid off the platform and brushed herself off, waiting for the end of the match and the inevitable challenge that would come with it. And as an axe-wielding kithshok nodded to her from across the arena, she felt the knots around her heart and stomach loosen just a bit.

She'd get through this the same way she always did.

Afternoon meditations would have been a welcome relief from the Arishok's presence if it weren't for the fact that the purpose of the time was to leave her alone with her thoughts.

Hawke shifted on her cushion in the tent designated as the meditation temple, straightening her spine and inhaling deeply as the wind caught hold of the chimes hanging outside along one wall. It was a gentle, pretty sort of music, and one she tried her best to focus on instead of... well, everything else.

She liked to see people squirm. It was a personality quirk as well as a not-so-hidden talent. Some of her fondest memories involved going to the Rose for drinks, just to sit at the bar and briefly chat up the familiar, important faces of Kirkwall as they emerged from the seedy little dens of their own debauchery. "Good to see you! Small world, eh? I see you went with Jethann – good choice! Very good with his mouth, am I right? Drink? No? See you at the Viscount's later? Good talk."

But when she was the source of genuine suffering, that was an entirely different story. Especially when it was entirely unintentional; she had an unfortunate tendency to act first, think later, and that led to a lot of unforeseen consequences. And not just for her.

She hadn't thought about what her affection might do to the Arishok, one so wholly removed from non-qunari culture. It was almost like he was naïve – or better yet, that this kind of emotion was some human disease that the qunari had no resistance to.

And Hawke hadn't thought twice about exposing him to it.

At least she'd had the good sense to hold back. ...Somewhat.

Fenlin had told her once that qunari did form emotional bonds and love. That much was clear. But the relationships were quite different and, when pressed, he didn't seem to have much of an answer for the details. How did they handle these attachments, the desire to connect with another individual in a culture that prioritized the greater good, the whole?

"Perhaps it's because they're both qunari," the healer had offered, "that they're confident enough in their way of life and devotion to the Qun to process what they feel together."

At the time, that answer had frustrated her. 'They just get it' wasn't remotely helpful to an outsider who found herself deeply attracted to one of the Qun's most devout. Now, however, sitting in the middle of a place for contemplation and study of one's world, those same words rang completely differently. Like as if, instead of the wind tossing around the chimes outside, it was a sandstorm. And each grain whipping into the metal was a half-formed thought.

There was suddenly a lot of noise buzzing around in Hawke's head.

The main thought, the singular point of that moment's clarity, was that the Arishok was and always would be the Arishok. He would never fit into this muddy world of disorderly, difficult-to-understand motivations and reasoning. Everything here was messy to him, confusing.

And that included Hawke.

Well, she thought as she stood, determination in her limbs, let's make things abundantly clear for him, shall we?

Hawke strode into the Arishok's study tent, resolve emanating from every muscle. He didn't bother to look up from the reports he was reading, by now quite used to her comings and goings.

"Hey," she called. "You."

He raised his eyes upward to glare; the Arishok was neither accustomed to nor pleased by being addressed as 'you.'

She paced a little, her fiery conviction focusing downward into agitated jitters. He watched as she crossed in front of his desk in either direction repeatedly, but said nothing.

Frustrated, Hawke ran over the dozen or so mini-speeches she'd composed on the walk over in her head. While they seemed like oratorical fireworks at the time, they seemed to fall flat of what she was trying to convey. Or what she aimed to, anyway. Her eyes desperately scanned the room, searching for something to better drive the point across than a misdirected and winding rant.

The simpler, the better, she reminded herself. Make it clear.

Her eyes alighted on one meticulously-organized bookshelf, and before she could work out the details, she walked over and pointed to the identical red leather-bound volumes spanning what seemed to be a series.

"This," she began, "is you and your men. Everyone follows a certain order, has a spot to fit neatly into. Nothing out of place – this is the Qun."

The Arishok lifted his head, and she knew she'd caught his attention with the image. So far, so good.

"And this." She pulled a thin green book from its place two shelves over. "This is me. And this is me trying to fit in here." Taking the spine in her hand, she roughly jammed the oversized book into the tightly-packed, perfectly organized collection of smaller red ones. The crowding caused the line of books on either side to bow out, and as she forced the Hawke-book home, the Qun-books burst from the shelf like a clunky explosion. As they tumbled to the floor, Hawke turned to the Arishok.

"With me so far?" she asked weakly.

Make your point, his expression read as he frowned disapprovingly at the pile on his floor.

"It doesn't do anyone any good," she said. "But..." She rifled around in the pile, emerging with a book in each hand. "Things would be very different if I just copied the information from this one," indicating the green book, "into one of these," a red one, "right?"

The qunari leader's head snapped upright, bright eyes suddenly focused on her intently.

Hawke backpedaled a bit at that. "Now, I can't outright convert," she said, raising her hands and the books they held defensively. "I can't abandon my family or my fellows. Not to mention that the way I am now, I'm not sure if it'd be something I want or just because I want to be with you. And that's disrespectful. To them, to you, and to the Qun."

"Yes," he agreed flatly. "It is."

"But I'm also not here to make your life hell."

He rumbled, low and impatient. "This has yet to be seen."

Hawke huffed then, sitting on the desk in front of him and placing her feet on either side of his knees.

"This is your domain," she stated, putting the books down beside her. "And I will respect that."

The Arishok eyed her warily, but turned to face her head-on nonetheless. She looked into that face, that curiosity, that skepticism, and took a deep breath.

"I will live by the Qun while I'm here," she declared, rushing to expand upon it before he could process that for what it was. "But you have to meet me halfway," she continued, leaning in accusingly. "Explain things. Don't expect me to understand everything immediately. There are no tamassrans here to teach me, so your men – and you – are my only hope." She leaned back, spreading her palms. "What do you think?"

His gaze was calculating, but something akin to a pleased shade of curious. "You will obey the rules set forth within these walls," he said after a few long moments of thought, "for the purpose of ease and assimilation." He gave a throaty noise. "Interesting."

"You gave me the role I'd have in our earlier discussion," she told him, "and I'll follow it – the teaching, the fighting – with one exception." She met his stare firmly.

"I will not have your children."

If that one blatant, sharp condition had affected him in any way, it didn't show. He simply continued to appraise her thoroughly, gears in his head churning away in silence. Her feet nudged at his thighs on the sides of his chair, and she twirled a stick of ink between her fingers as she waited patiently for his decision.

After what seemed like an eternity of watching the charcoal-like strip spin and tumble along her knuckles, a few clawed fingers reached forward and plucked it from her hands.

"Your proposition is acceptable," he announced calmly. Hawke was thrilled, and about to tell him so when his next words stopped her.

"The healer will conduct daily lessons along with your inspection."

She paled. "Fenlin? But..."

The Arishok frowned. "You agree to follow the Qun and immediately refuse instruction."

"It's not that," she protested, but sighed as her shoulders slumped. "It's just... he likes seeing me suffer and calling it 'learning.'"

A smirk tugged at the corner of the Arishok's mouth. "I approve of his methods."

Hawke kicked him a little out of spite, which he ignored. "You would."

First order of the Qun: re-shelf the books she used in her demonstration. Several times. Until the Arishok was satisfied.

As she emptied the shelf yet again, Hawke wondered if perhaps this would be a tiny bit more difficult than she'd imagined.

That evening, after dinner, the Arishok put his books aside to indulge Hawke's barrage of questions about the Qun. Drinking tea and watching her flip through her notes, his answers weren't nearly as monotone or dismissive as Hawke would have thought.

On the contrary, he seemed pleased, almost eager to engage her in philosophical discussion. For each situation, each potential problem that arose in her mind, he had an answer and, more often than not, a second question to counter hers and lead her forward into the next logical step.

She almost wished she could tuck this one conversation away into the depths of her mind, committing every syllable to memory and reliving it at any moment.

Hawke also realized over the course of the night that the Arishok was, and always had been, more receptive and relaxed when she did or said things that mirrored their qunari counterparts. The headbutting, the armor, the sparring, kaava setash – everything that had ever led to him opening up to her in the least had come from the Qun.

She could only imagine the ways she would come to understand him, and vice versa, in a world where they were on level ground.

When he'd had enough of her pestering, the Arishok silenced her and took her notebook away.

"We will sleep."

"But," Hawke protested, the words tumbling from her mouth under the command of a mind that didn't want the night to end, "we were still talking!"

"The Qun will exist into the morning. My patience will not."

And while she did obediently strip down to her sleeping clothes, she objected loudly every step of the way.

"Parshaara," he growled, tugging her down to the bed by the waist of her pants. "Your purposeless noise is irritating."

"If it's irritating, then it's fulfilling its purpose," she responded, tumbling down into the mattress and enjoying the ease with which they fell back into their more intimate routines after days of forced distance. "I have days of annoying you to make up for – I could do this for hours."

"Sleep,"he commanded.

"But – "

"I care not for your restlessness." His arm hooked around her waist, pulling her body tight to his in an inescapable grip of blankets and bronze skin.

"Sleep," he issued again, as if scolding a rambunctious child.

The air rushed out of Hawke's chest as she lay there beside him in the darkness, the familiar comfort of the Arishok's warmth lulling her into a gentle calm. She settled into her pillow as his hold loosened, closing her eyes to the feeling of his breath against the back of her neck.

She'd need the sleep if she was going to have to deal with Fenlin every morning from then on, anyway.

Chapter Text

A/N: Springtime for Okinawa! And the Arishok, apparently. xD

Welcome to Smutland. Have a T-shirt.

(No, seriously. Smut warning for this chapter. Maybe not such a good idea at work.)

PS – That crazy, modern Arishok/Hawke oneshot I mentioned a while back? Totally up today as a bonus update! From the blurb:

"Hawke and co. are happily situated in NYC, going about their lives together - except Hawke's relationship with a certain diplomat keeps her in the tabloids. His solution is simple. Isabela suggests a tiara and bodyshots in response. Modern-day oneshot."
Go enjoy. It's for all you awesome readers.

Day 44

A stack of books hit the table in front of Hawke with a loud, intimidating thunk.

She leaned forward, frowning at the tomes of varying thickness and size. "So," she said slowly, carefully, "this is the Qun?"

"No." Fenlin pulled the smallest book from the center of the neat stack, sending the rest tumbling into a pile. "This is the text of the Qun."

She breathed a sigh of relief as she took it, no bigger than the heel of her palm to fingertips and only two fingers' breadth thick. "Thank the Maker. For a second there, you had me thinking that I would have to read all of those."

"Oh," he said brightly. "No, you do." At her horrified face, he smiled benevolently. "These are resources from those who have gone before. Journals, philosophical texts and observations from humans who have converted."

"So they're..." She looked up at him hopefully. "Optional?"

The healer-turned-tutor laughed. "In the same way that anything else is 'optional' here."

"Oh, you mean 'mandatory.'"

"Exactly." He snickered to see her slump theatrically onto the tabletop. "Don't worry," he said, patting her head patronizingly, "I'm here to help. I promise."

Hawke wasn't sure if she trusted his definition of 'help.' She cracked one eye open to glance at him warily, but sat back up nonetheless.

"Speaking of which," she began, curious, "why are you the one teaching me? Aside from the fact that you speak Common."

He sat down across from her gracefully, holding up a single finger. "Lesson one," he replied. "The Qun branches into three distinct parts: the Arishok leads the military, the Arigena leads the craftsmen and skilled trades, and the Ariqun leads the philosophers and priests. Healers fall in with the teachers in the last of these, so as your senior under the Qun, it's part of my responsibility to help educate you."

That made sense, and Hawke was about to tell him so when something else he'd said caught her notice. "Wait," she said. "The Arishok is the head of..."

Understanding, Fenlin leaned in. "The entire qunari military." He managed a sympathetic smile at what she assumed must have been a horrified look on her face. "Yes. He's not just a general, he's The General."

Leaning back roughly, Mairead stared off blankly into space a bit. "Andraste's flaming sword of merciful fuck," she swore. "I thought –"

"As do most of your kind," he agreed. "He's actually rather humble in that way."

Laughing in disbelief, Hawke shook her head. "Explains a lot."

Grinning, Fenlin gently rifled through the pile and plucked out a blue-and-brown bound volume. "Well, he's the man you've set your sights on," he said brightly, "so you'll need to work hard."

She snorted, crossing her arms. "You make me sound like one of those farmers' daughters in the bannorn who go out a-man-huntin'."

He stared at her then, an oddly pleased look on his face, and she glared back.

"You're picturing me in braids and a bonnet, aren't you?"

"Maybe." As she rolled her eyes, he smiled warmly. "For what it's worth, you look adorable."

"I'll keep that in mind next time I don full armor. Slap a frilly bonnet on over my cowl."

The elf shook his head, but chuckled nonetheless and handed her a few books, marked with strips of bright cloth at certain passages. "Be a good little girl and read this, this, and this for tomorrow morning. We'll start your lessons from there."

Hawke raised an eyebrow at the use of the term 'little girl,' but decided to let it slide.

This once.

Early afternoon usually found Hawke intently watching or participating in the sparring bouts. If she had books with her, they were often ignored or casually leafed through. This time, however, she had all but devoured her assigned reading in an enthusiastic frenzy.

The way the converted humans' journals were written had a kind of infectious energy, as though the writers were excited beyond belief. The amount of detail, their observations, their intense interest in the world around them as they moved from their respective homelands to Par Vollen and Seheron – all infused Hawke with a drive to consume as much information as she could get her hands on.

The writers had their difficulties, true enough, but as Mairead followed their progress through notes and essays and even sketches, she felt as though she was gaining some kind of understanding of her own situation by 'watching' theirs. And, entertainingly enough, the vignettes spanning their interactions with the Kossith often mirrored her own in different-yet-hilariously-similar ways.

Another thing that struck her was the fact that no matter where they ended up – Par Vollen, Seheron, Rivain – the adjustment period was a matter of days. They always, always had a place.

Before she realized it, her feet were carrying her to the sparring arena, where she knew the Arishok would be supervising. There was a bout that had just finished, and Hawke took a running leap onto the platform, flinging her hands into the air excitedly.

The Arishok turned slightly, frowning at her exuberant display.

"Kadan."

"The Qun is the same everywhere!" she declared proudly.

He stared.

"Correct," he said slowly, still regarding her curiously.

"No matter where you go," she continued rapidly, "qunari are qunari. You have a culture, a role, a home. You fit in everywhere!" With a vague hand gesture, she outlined a circle in the air. "You can show up on the other side of Thedas, find other qunari, say 'I am an ashaad,' and they say 'great, here is your job and where you live!' It's mind-boggling!"

"Your lesson this morning was productive," he observed, equal parts irritation and amusement flickering across his face.

"Fenlin gave me a lot of reading," she explained. "I might not have moved for the last three hours."

And with that, she turned and left just as quickly as she'd come. Clearly entertained by her little outburst, the Arishok turned back to the matches with a smirk curling his lips.

Dinner that evening was accompanied by Hawke's animated chatter. She noticed that he seemed more tolerant of it now, likely because the subject of her excited rambling was the Qun and all she'd learned in one day.

"Your enthusiasm is promising," he had told her. "See that it does not wane."

Well, she thought, at least that's better than 'shut up and give me ten minutes' peace.'

They sat in a comfortable quiet for some time after the meal, Hawke having returned to the familiarity of the poetry anthology as the Arishok slowly sipped at the wine that had accompanied dinner and buried himself in his own thoughts. She knew better than to pester him when he had that look on, and so had pulled out her translation notes and writings to continue her work. Each piece was like untying a ribbon around a package – word by word, she tugged at it a bit more until the ties came unraveled and she could see the poem as a whole. She rather enjoyed it at this point, and her grasp of basic grammar progressively made each verse less of a grueling slog.

She ran her eyes over the last finished piece, putting aside her handiwork to read it over in its entirety.

A whisper, the brush of a leaf

Beneath all notice, strikes like an arrow

A welcome stumble, falling forward is progress

There is strength in willing submission

A voice, a push, a pull, a net

To lay down arms; to not resist.

Something about this particular piece struck at her in a way she wasn't sure she understood. For all she knew, it could have been about combat or strolling through the jungle or cleaning, for Maker's sake.

But it reminded her of the Arishok, she realized after a moment of thought. How all it took was a word, the touch of his forehead to bend her like a pliable spring branch. And she really had no desire to change that, only... she needed to figure out how to not snap.

Hawke was laying sprawled out on the rug when a qunari came to the tent. She didn't think anything of it, but watched out of the corner of her eye as he deposited one of the covered baskets next to the Arishok, who acknowledged him briefly, but said nothing.

As the guard left, the Arishok refilled his wine and took a long, drawn out swallow before leaning forward, hands on his knees. He regarded her silently for a moment before lifting his chin.

"Hawke."

She adjusted in place, gently nudging her books aside with her fingertips. "What is it?"

"Disrobe," he instructed.

She was about to snap back with a sarcastic retort, but she noted the freshly-delivered basket beside him. Clothes, she assumed, shutting her mouth and standing. Thank the Maker. She'd requested new ones, with a few modifications to the sizing this time. In the coming cold, even the least bit baggy meant drafty.

Accustomed to changing clothes in front of, well, everyone at this point, Hawke made no effort for modesty as she stripped to her smalls. Her old clothes in a pile by her feet, she toed them in a halfhearted attempt to neaten the crumpled fabric.

And she would've been fine, standing there wearing next to nothing, if it weren't for the intense stare the Arishok had fixed on her body. The next word out of his mouth, however, sent a jolt of unease through her mostly-naked form.

"Fully."

Hawke stiffened. His gaze held hers intently as he waited.

And waited.

She suddenly had the urge to cover herself with her arms, self-consciousness flooding her like it hadn't since her adolescence. This was different from the baths or a routine garment swap. It was just the two of them. And he was staring.

She hadn't moved in over a minute, she realized with a start. And he had given her a command that she hadn't followed. The Arishok apparently sensed her discomfort, though, and to her surprise, he stood.

Even more surprising was the slight tension in his limbs as he reached down for his wineglass. His eyes swept her body carefully from his sidelong glance, and he turned to focus instead entirely on the vessel in his hand as he raised it to his lips. He emptied it in one long, deliberate swallow – almost as if bracing himself – and placed it back on the table slowly.

Now he was making her nervous.

When he looked at her again, there was a resolute determination in his features she'd never seen directed at her before. Not that she'd known how to read him before her stay, but she was fairly sure that they were both venturing into new territory. As he closed the distance between them, Hawke's blood started to crawl toward a rolling boil.

"You hesitate," he observed as he reached forward to pluck at her breast band with one claw.

"So do you," she said, her hands finally deciding to function again and reaching up to unhook the tight fabric. As the wrapping fell away, he frowned.

"The Arishok does not hesitate."

"Oh, my mistake." She cringed mentally at how strained her voice sounded. "I just thought that ordering me to get naked would have had a point."

"There is a purpose. You are stalling."

With that, his patience had apparently reached its end. He reached around her comparatively small frame, hooking one arm around her thinly-covered backside and pulling her up over one shoulder as he was wont to do.

Hawke protested as he carried her, all too aware of her bare breasts pressing into the warmth of his bronze skin. Her voice grew a bit quieter, however, as he pushed the partition to the sleeping chamber aside, and she yelped as he dropped her onto the mattress.

"One of these days," she glared, "you'll learn how to ask me to go to the bed nicely."

"I will ask," he replied calmly, kneeling at her feet and yanking her legs toward him by the ankles, "when you learn to obey."

Hawke was flat on her back now, the Arishok's knees between her thighs as he stared down at her. His gaze flickered from her face to chest to navel, lingering when he noted the thin fabric stretching from hip to hip and covering her crotch. She propped herself up on her elbows, but a short shove sent her back down against the furs.

She sat up again.

He firmly pushed her back down.

She sat up a third time. "Hey! You still haven't said what the hell is– "

The Arishok cut her off, unceremoniously grabbing her wrists and yanking her arms out from under her. The breath left Hawke's lungs in a rush as she toppled back, landing pressed between the soft furs and the massive, unyielding bulk of his chest. He hovered over her, gathering both her wrists in one clawed hand and pinning them above her head. Her pulse drummed in her ears as she felt his hips press into the backs of her thighs, which were a place she'd never thought they'd be. Imagined, perhaps, and promptly shoved down, but never really thought...

She stared up at his face, inches above her own, and felt the gentle graze of claws along her ribs as he adjusted the arm he braced his weight on. Warm breath ghosted across her nose and cheeks and mouth, and she found herself arching her back ever so slightly as her nipples brushed the skin of his chest. Even the tiniest movements from him vibrated into her skin, making the sliver of shared space between them feel all the smaller.

Hawke bit her lip. He was so close, he had to be able to hear her heart pounding. She could've tugged free of his grip on her wrists if she wanted. Shoved him away and stopped whatever in Thedas he thought he was doing by torturing her like this.

Except she didn't want to. And damn it all to the Maker if she couldn't will herself to do anything other than shift her hips against his weight and fight to keep her breathing even. Warmth radiated from his skin, soft fur stroked her back with every tiny movement, and as a jolt of heat shot from her heart to her groin, Hawke knew she would stay there as long as the Arishok wanted.

He drew back, but only slightly, and with a faintly curious expression.

"I did not restrain your mouth," he murmured, "yet you fall silent."

She didn't respond, and he closed his eyes as he inhaled deeply. After a moment, his eyes cracked open, and a kind of smug understanding crossed his face.

Hawke knew exactly what he had smelled in the air. Damned kossith and their ludicrous sense of smell. Damned progressively-soaked underthings.

"You enjoy submission," he stated.

She tugged at her hands a bit, and when his grip tightened, a spike of desire flooded from the contact point downwards. Another tug earned her a push down into the pillows, and the resulting jump in her heart rate just proved the qunari warlord right.

"Sometimes," she said in a low voice, "it's nice to relinquish control." The words of the poem flashed through her mind as she spoke, and she made deliberate eye contact. "And I lose none of my personal power by giving in to you of my own free will."

He made an appreciative noise in his throat, then released the grip on her hands to sit back on his knees. "A surprisingly intelligent insight."

"You learn a lot about yourself when studying someone else," she admitted, and as his hands pulled her hips higher up on his lap, she felt him shift to cross-legged. Her knees hooked over his thighs on either side of him, and the way her view of what he was doing was obscured only made her feel more exposed.

Her breath caught in her throat as he curled one finger under the wet crotch of her smalls, his knuckle brushing her damp folds as he yanked the last piece of clothing down over her thighs. She pulled one leg back to assist, returning it to exactly where it was as the offending scrap of cloth was discarded.

And she was fully naked, legs spread as she was sprawled in his lap.

Shockwaves flooded her system as his calloused fingertips began their careful study. Her thighs were pushed apart further and hips tilted upward as the Arishok calmly explored everything on display to him.

"This is," she managed between stifled gasps and shudders, "your first time touching a human this way?"

"Yes," he answered, and as his probing fingers found a particular spot, he watched her body's involuntary jerk with interest. "The similarities to kossith females are numerous. Including this."

"Good to know," she half-muttered, half-hissed as he dipped one finger shallowly into her opening. It was a kind of humiliating-yet-delicious torture, lying still while the man she had craved so badly touched her in such an intimate fashion so clinically.

She let loose a string of expletives as he slid one thick finger into her, his face impassive as ever as he pushed farther, rubbing against her walls deliberately as he went. Sucking in a breath, she felt him press one palm against her abdomen to hold her down as he withdrew, then returned just as deeply. Sure enough, she bucked at the prick of his claws, but the flash burn quickly turned into a low throb of pleasure at the contact.

"You have no barrier," the Arishok noted, removing his now-slick hand for inspection. "I was informed that human females may possess them."

Hawke pressed her palms into her eyes, snorting at the surreal world she found herself in. "You were checking to see if I was a virgin?" She laughed despite herself, and the taut muscles of her stomach protested. "You could've just asked."

He rubbed the pads of his fingertips together, smoothing her fluids between them as he watched the rise and fall of her chest.

It was all too much. Hawke half-expected a unicorn to come streaking across the sky, singing the Chant of Light and making it rain sovereigns. Shaking her head in disbelief, she allowed herself to be pulled upright against him, straddling his lap.

"Arishok," she asked point-blank, "what is going on here?"

He cupped a hand at the apex of her thighs, pressing one digit up into her. She fell forward against him, clenching at his shoulders as she willed her body to hold still.

"I wish to better understand your body's limits," he explained, adding a second clawed finger. "Demonstrate."

She felt him suck in a sharp breath as she clenched around him. "Don't say shit like that," she hissed.

"Then comply."

Oh, for fuck's sake, Hawke swore to herself as she settled her thighs, knees pressing into the thick blankets below them as she lifted her hips, then lowered herself back down onto his waiting hand. No one had ever made her do this before. And while there was no denying that it was a... new experience, the evidence that she was turned on like a madwoman was spread slickly over the fingers that slid into her with each rise and fall.

She was working herself on his fingers, sitting on his lap, getting herself off. Like some kind of perverse, voyeuristic masturbation.

"Your body clearly responds to mine," he said in a low, even voice on one rise. "And mine to yours."

She wasn't sure what he meant by that until she seated herself on his fingers again, and this time, noticed the very imposing hard-on under the loose cloth of his pants.

Oh.

"There should be no further impediments," he concluded, a note of satisfaction in his voice.

Hawke shivered as his meaning hit her. This was an experiment, and a successful one if his body's reaction was any indicator. And the thing he'd been testing was their physical compatibility.

"Impediments," she managed, "to..."

Oh, Maker, she realized. Even if a child wouldn't result, he still planned on mating.

He understood her silence. "Not this night." He shifted his hips beneath her. " It was your decision to follow the Qun. This is your role. Anticipate what it entails."

As he began to stretch and test her, flexing his fingers and curling and thrusting against her, she surrendered to a moan and wrapped her arms around his neck, digging into his scalp with her blunt nails and grabbing at fistfuls of his hair in her attempts to find purchase in him. A warm growl reverberated out from his chest, and his free hand reached down to roughly grab her hip, forcing her down on his hand harder. His mouth found her throat, and his tongue dragged one long, wide lick from her clavicle to ear before alternately nipping and lapping at the tender flesh between jaw and shoulder.

That's when it started. At first, Hawke didn't notice. She was too wrapped up in the sting of his teeth and the grind of his tongue to feel it, but soon, there was an unmistakable thrumming noise vibrating in the air and against her chest. It was stronger the more she pressed into him, scratched him, bit him. And she could feel the tension and anxiety drain from her body as it permeated muscle and bone.

If she didn't know better, she'd have sworn that the Arishok was humming.

She didn't get a chance to find out, however. She was on her back in an instant, away from him and the mystery sensation had faded. His fingers, however, were still continuing their work, and she felt her body desperately begging her to reach down and stroke herself to just get that one push over the edge. It wouldn't take much, just–

Her head fell back in a silent scream as she felt that rough, thick tongue join his hand in his ministrations. His licking strokes, while centered on the one spot that had been begging Hawke for attention, seemed experimental, as if the action had simply occurred to him to do. She was sure her reaction had been telling, not to mention the fact that her hands had shot down to grip at his horns as she shuddered beneath his touch.

She came with him bracing an arm across her hips to physically hold her down, her hands flying up to crush fabric and overstuffed pillows in an attempt to not injure him with the violent throes of her climax. Not that she need have worried – he was the Arishok, after all – but he simply watched as her body wrenched itself into a trembling arch, taut like a bowstring until a final few shivers signaled the calm after the storm.

He withdrew, the sensation of the cool metal of his earrings brushing against her inner thigh almost enough to make her choke back a sob. There was the rustle of fabric, the heavy swish of the tent partition, the shuffling of feet and then... silence.

Dazed, Hawke stared up at the ceiling.

What.

That one thought repeated itself over and over as she was blissfully alone in the sleeping quarters, finally mustering enough energy to reach for the nearby towel and clean herself up some. Her legs wobbled a bit as she stood and pulled on an overdress, tying it shut before walking out into the main area. The Arishok sat in his usual place in the cushions, not looking up from his book as she fell into place beside him. Expression blank, she reached for the sole wineglass on the table – the Arishok's – filled it halfway, and slammed it back. The burn that scoured her throat was a welcome punch in the face from reality, and she relished it.

After a moment, Hawke spoke, still staring straight ahead.

"What," she began slowly, "just happened?"

He cast a brief sidelong glance at her before returning to his book. "You require clarification?"

"No. Yes. No?" She frowned, and a thought occurred to her. As she leaned forward and craned her neck, she could look around the Arishok to catch a glimpse of the basket from earlier. If it wasn't clothes, then what was...?

Several leatherbound volumes still sat in the woven container, the rest of their fellows having been moved to the table.

Books?

She crawled over to him, peering down at the open page.

A human anatomical diagram. It was well-labeled, precise, accurate... and female.

"You're studying?" she asked, dubious. "What is this?"

He shifted, exhaling sharply from his nose. "Meeting you halfway," he said flatly.

Hawke sat back on her heels, a broad grin creeping across her face as the events of the night suddenly made a lot more sense. He was handling the relationship with a human the only way he knew how – extensive research.

She chuckled as she rested against him, pressing her forehead to his.

"What," he growled defensively.

"I never thought I would use the word 'adorable' to describe you."

He snorted dismissively, but still allowed her to rest against him as she took up her poetry book again. She smiled, content, as she found her place and curled her bare legs beneath her.

A welcome stumble, falling forward is progress

There is strength in willing submission.

Chapter Text

A/N: Hello, lovely people!

Mild gore warning for this chapter. Nothing too graphic, but if you're easily squicked, you might want to just skip a few little choice bits.

Day 46

A clamor came from the gate.

Hawke heard shouts and saw dozens of kossith pelting full-tilt to the compound's front entryway, and the adrenaline that transferred as they ran past shot downwards into her legs and commanded that she follow. She hastily dropped her satchel by the Arishok's dais as she darted by, heading for the purposeful flurry of limbs that occupied the dusty audience arena at the base of the steps.

Blood littered the sand.

Hawke caught a few words from the short, commanding barks and clipped debriefings,: 'Tal-Vashoth,' 'coastline,' and 'casualties.' The last of these sent ice down her spine. She may not have known each of the men personally, but they had become her companions here, and the idea of having lost one of the Arishok's precious few was harrowing.

Several qunari peeled off from the main group, and Hawke hung back to see the injured being supported or carried to the steps. A flash of blue-black hair and pointed ears flitting purposefully from one place to another indicated that Fenlin seemed to have everything well in hand. A few of the healers-in-training, almost solely elven converts, had set to removing the armor obstructing wounds, and there seemed to be a process by which those at risk were evaluated. The injured qunari would be stripped bare, Fenlin would assess the damage, and either send the subject to the healer's tent or clear him for saarebas.

The Arishok stood watch, issuing orders when necessary but largely letting the well-oiled machine do its job. He waved his hand as a pair of poles supporting a hammock gurney were rushed into the thick crowd.

Fenlin appeared briefly, dragging a hand across his forehead to wipe away sweat and stray hair. "Hawke," he barked, and she jumped at the startling tone in the normally gentle voice. She sprinted across to him, covering the distance in an instant.

"How can I help?" she asked, hands at the ready.

He motioned for her to follow, never stopping even for a moment. "You're with me."

She froze at that. "What, you mean healing?" As he turned to give instruction to a red-haired pupil, she protested. "But I don't know the first thing about kossith anatomy or even basic triage past 'lick it and tie a scarf around it!'"

"I need another set of hands," he said, still working as he spoke. His tone was urgent, his words clipped. "Your skills rely heavily on your finger dexterity; I can use that. Also, as an educator and my student, within these walls, you take orders from me. Understood?"

The change in him was unsettling, but more than that, it was impressive. Hawke shook off the dumbstruck and rolled her shoulders. "Tell me what to do."

Fenlin started up the stairs, and she made sure to keep up, feeling the Arishok's eyes on her as she went.

"Those with clean lacerations can have healing magic right away," the healer explained as they wove around the throughways and strode into the medical tent. "But there are those who need work before we can close them up. This one in particular is pretty bad, and I'll need you to do exactly as I say." He gathered up a tray of intimidating-looking metal instruments, thrusting a bowl of water and washrag into her hands. "We don't have time for questions."

He shoved aside one of the recovery beds with his foot, clearing room for the gurney. He knelt as the front flap opened, and called for the scouts carrying the wounded man to put him down in the empty space.

Mairead had backed out of their way to give them space, but now darted back in to get a better look at her charge. As her eyes fell on his face and markings, though, her blood ran cold.

The half-horned Sten.

Her stomach churned as she saw the extent of his injuries. His entire left shoulder had been shredded down through his chest, exposing pectoral muscle and bone. Whatever had done the damage had left dozens, if not hundreds of jagged, splintering slivers of wood jammed into the exposed flesh, soaking up blood into the deepest grains, and she could see them prick and shift with each haggard breath the Sten drew.

"Hawke." The elf's voice called her back to her senses, and she looked down to see forest-green eyes staring up at her darkly. "You still with me? I don't want you here if you aren't."

She immediately sat down opposite him. "I've seen worse," she said. "Show me what you need and I'll do it."

"Good girl." He handed her a pair of pointed tongs and a tray. "Pull them out in the direction they went in. If there's too much resistance to do it neatly on the first try, move on. We'll get those later. Start with the smallest, as they can disappear if we're not fast enough."

His deft hands plucked the first shard from the Sten's gaping wound, and the qunari beneath them snarled and began to thrash. Fenlin calmly withdrew and called for the guards standing by, who braced themselves over the involuntary jerks and gnashing teeth and grasping claws. Though they held their leader down admirably, Hawke's vision of the target area was now severely limited.

She took a deep breath as she flexed her fingers. She could do this. If she could take advantage of the moments between spasms, she could see her marks and strike. Just like picking a pocket.

She reached in, hands steady. One splinter. Two. Three. Half a dozen turned into twenty, thirty. Blood-soaked wooden shrapnel piled up on her tray, and as the metal of the two sets of tongs flashed over the Sten's chest like a pair of dueling hummingbirds, Fenlin sent for a saarebas.

"All right," he said, motioning for her to hold back. "Last one's the worst."

He wasn't kidding. A huge chunk of wood, thick as a broom handle at its widest and still polished in some places, twitched from its position jammed into just below the Sten's shoulder joint. It was, by far, the largest remnant of what looked to have been a staff at one time. And it was in the worst place.

"The bar next to you," he instructed. "Put it in his mouth."

Hawke set her jaw as she reached for the dense block of wood, cramming it as compassionately as she could into her friend's mouth as it was pried open by his fellows. She knew what was coming next.

"Get close," Fenlin called, and the saarebas' hands crackled with green light. "We have to pull out anything this leaves behind before the skin closes."

Hawke picked up her tongs again, curling her toes beneath her. "Understood."

He nodded, wrapping one hand around the fragment.

"Now!"

He ripped it out in one strong, skillful yank, and the Sten roared in absolute agony as the saarebas laid energy-laden hands on his skin.

Adrenaline took over at that point. Nearly blind from the green glow of magic, Hawke heard the thunk of the bloodied wood hitting the ground and the clacking of two sets of hands working at a furious pace. She was only vaguely aware of her lightning-fast motions as the debris was cleared, and she watched the muscles of his chest knit themselves together and the skin begin to creep across the gaps to close.

"Done," Fenlin called, sitting back on his heels and wringing his hands. "We're done. He's clear."

Hawke doubled over, letting out a long breath that felt like her chest was caving in. Her hands shook as she tucked them between her thighs for the pressure, and she rocked a bit back and forth before moving to the nearest wall in order to let the men carefully move the comatose Sten to a bed.

They settled him into the mattress, holding his torso up long enough to be properly bandaged before laying him flat. Hawke watched his chest rise and fall unevenly from the corner of her eye, barely noticing when Fenlin sat beside her.

"You did well," he said, offering a tired smile. "And he's safe. He'll be out for a few days or so, but he's not really in danger any longer."

Hawke didn't say anything, just stared at the now-slack face of her friend as he lapsed into unconsciousness. As he saw this, the elf placed a hand over hers and squeezed lightly.

"It must have been rough," he observed. "I know the two of you are close."

She snickered weakly at that. "Jealous?"

"Terribly."

"For what it's worth," she offered as she leaned back, "I haven't kissed him."

"Yet."

Hawke paled. "Don't even joke about that."

Chuckling, Fenlin patted her leg.

It was, Hawke discovered, customary among the qunari to keep watch over unconscious comrades. The first shift went to one of the half-horned Sten's ashaad while Hawke assisted Fenlin with some of the other injuries. When the risk for all had passed and the compound had calmed, Hawke took her place at the foot of his bed, adjusting the blanket covering his battered body.

An hour of her vigil had passed uneventfully when she heard the tent flap open and the Arishok's distinct footsteps and gait approached her from behind. She'd learned to recognize them anywhere, even camouflaged among others of his kind.

He sat cross-legged beside her, studying the Sten's condition in characteristic silence.

She'd learned to recognize those as well.

"He's out of danger," she explained, understanding without verbal prompting. "We removed about a hundred pieces of broken staff – almost two pounds of it. But it's all out, and he'll need to sleep it off for a day or two."

He rumbled an acknowledgment, inspecting her hands from his peripheral vision. They were solidly covered in dried blood well past her wrist, everything up her forearm smeared and beginning to flake. The front of her clothes, too, had taken the brunt of the spatter.

After a moment, the Arishok spoke. "You assisted, though you have no experience as a healer."

Beggars can't be choosers, she thought bitterly. "Well," she mused aloud, "I used to patch my younger brother and sister up when were harassed in Lothering." A wistful smile momentarily tugged at her lips. "And when we attacked each other, too." She looked down at her rust-colored fingers. "But I'd never done anything like this."

He made a noise in his throat, and if Hawke didn't know better, she'd have thought he looked mildly pleased.

"And yet you accepted orders to do so. Why?"

She got the distinct impression that he was asking solely for her benefit, as though he already knew the answer. "Because I trust Fenlin," she replied firmly.

"As he trusts you." The qunari leader turned back to his wounded subordinate. "As do we all, within our roles. The sten is trusted to be the sten. The healer is trusted to be the healer. This is the principle on which the Qun is based, and within it, we thrive upon one another as a society."

Something profound resonated within Hawke, and she straightened as her mind rushed to process the wave of linked connections that washed over her. "Because I pushed aside my doubts," she began, "because I trusted Fenlin. That's why we were able to save him."

"You did not hesitate," the Arishok told her. "He did not die. These are not unconnected."

A short time passed, quiet enveloping them both. The qunari stood and turned to leave, but Hawke caught the edge of his sash. He inclined his head to look down at her, and she schooled her features.

"Arishok."

"Kadan."

She gripped the red fabric a bit more tightly than was necessary. "I want to stay with him, like the others."

The Arishok considered this for a moment, and she could see the gold in his eyes flicker as he studied her from above.

Eventually, he gave a short nod. "I will permit it."

The Sten didn't wake up that day. Nor the next morning, nor that afternoon.

Hawke had been occasionally relieved of her duty to wash the blood off of her skin, change clothes, eat, and take a few brief naps in one of the nearby infirmary beds. What little sleep she allowed herself came to her quickly and rendered her oblivious to the goings-on of the world for a scant few hours. One of the karashok had been thoughtful enough to bring her the satchel of books she'd abandoned in the earlier chaos, and she lay them open nearby, but only occasionally could bring herself to leaf through them.

It occurred to her that she had been in a similar position not two months before, and she acutely recalled two things she was desperate for when she awoke: a bath and food. The latter would go bad quickly, but the former was something she could do.

He was still mostly clad in his armor and caked in bloody dirt. It wasn't going to be easy, but Hawke knew what it was like to wake up covered in blood and grime. It was something small she could do to make him more comfortable and, by the Maker, she was going to do it. She dashed out to fetch supplies, returning with them as quickly as possible and setting them down alongside her charge.

She rolled up her sleeves as she set to work, pulling his blanket aside. She lifted and tugged to pry his armor loose, a none-too-easy feat with a giant's worth of dead weight, and amassed a neat pile accompanied by muttered swears and groans of effort. The shoulder pauldrons and leather straps came undone easily enough, as did the sash and armor at his waist, and soon he was down to stained and torn pants.

Hawke hesitated. She had a pair of fresh pants folded next to her, but the logistics of how, exactly, she was going to bathe and change that particular half of his anatomy hadn't occurred to her. Resolution strengthened her, however, and she reached for the ties, tugging the filthy garment off in one strong yank.

And despite her best efforts otherwise, she couldn't help but get an ample eyeful before quickly averting her eyes anywhere else.

Maker, she swore mentally, keeping her gaze glued to the ceiling as she quickly took a washrag and towel to the lower extremities. That dream hadn't been close to generous enough.

When she was satisfied that he was clean and dry, she hastily pulled on the new pants and waited for the warmth in her face to fade as she moved on to his chest and arms. These were by far the worst; the bandages needed to be changed, and smaller scratches had left behind dried blood pools that were resistant to scrubbing. As she rinsed and wrung out the washrag in the bowl, the water dripping from her hands grew darker and darker.

Finally, though, she dried him and re-wrapped his chest with Fenlin's help. It was as she stared down at his deep, peaceful sleep that she suddenly realized what seemed off about the Sten. It wasn't the lack of armor, the slight pallor in his skin, nor the fact that he was unconscious. She'd never seen him without his warpaint before, and she had had to scrub it off with the evidence of his wound, the dye swirling with the blood in the bowl beside her.

It was eerie. But she still had work to do.

Hawke propped up his neck and picked up a small, rough-bristled brush and set to his horns, first scouring them of dried flakes before dousing them with water and soap. She scrubbed the coarse fibers into the pitted grooves and lines, working up a thick pink-and-brown-tinted lather. Grooming a qunari had never been on her list of things she ever expected to do, but the strange intimacy of it gentled her expression and movements. She doubted she would need to do this again, but the idea that she could care for her friend in such an uncharacteristic way – for the both of them, really – was humbling.

She slid a wide, shallow wooden basin below his raised head as she set to his hair. It was a challenge to even unbraid the fine white strands amid the dried clots, but she eventually managed to do so and carefully poured a pitcher over the undone plait. She massaged soap into his scalp with her fingertips, delicately finger-combing through the blood and debris the further she went. After it was rinsed and dried enough, Hawke sat cross-legged behind his head with a hint of a smile. Nimble fingers separated his waist-length hair into three sections, and as she re-braided it for him, she was grateful for all the times she'd been begged by Bethany to do the same for her. Of course, this was before her baby sister had outgrown braids as a young woman, and at the time, Hawke had been glad that she would never have to twist another braid again.

Well, no matter. She was used to eating her words; the Maker seemed especially hell-bent on making her feel as ridiculous as possible as often as possible. And she doubted the half-horned Sten would insist on enormous yellow bows. Hawke was useless at bows.

She settled his head back down onto the pillows and pulled the blanket over him, unwrapping the twin swords that lay beside him. Unsurprisingly, they were equally filthy, something the Sten would likely fuss over more than the near-loss of his shoulder.

The thought made her snicker aloud, and she reached for cleaning oil as she pulled the first weapon onto her lap.

Night fell, and Hawke had long since cleaned up her tools and bloody bandages. A few hours after dusk, Fenlin had brought her something to eat, and she had been grateful for the thought.

Now, as she shifted an open book in her lap, Mairead realized that it had been nearly two days since she had last seen the Arishok. Last heard the disapproving tones in his deep voice. Last seen the frown that seemed to crease his entire face. Last felt his warm breath on her skin, seen him completely at ease beside her.

She groaned inwardly, leaning forward enough to hit herself in the face with the book in her lap. Being emotionally involved with the Lord of the Angry Giants was turning her into a sap who actually thought in prose. It was, in fact, the exact opposite effect of what she'd thought any relationship with a qunari would have. And it was embarrassing.

She was so preoccupied with reassuring herself that she was a paragon of manliness that she almost missed the sounds of the Sten stirring in his bed.

At his muffled groans, she quickly shoved the book aside and crawled over to him. "Sten! Don't tax yourself."

He sat up roughly, movements jerky and clumsy as he gripped her wrist. His claws pricked into her skin, and his voice was hoarse.

"My weapons," he croaked. "Where–"

"Here," she said, pulling away the canvas to show the glint of steel. "They're here."

He released her, the relief evident in his shoulders. "Yes," he rasped. "I would not be here if they were not."

Hawke recalled him telling her once about the punishment for those who lost their weapons, the extensions of their own flesh. It was not one they would survive.

"I'll get you some water," she told him, and he flexed his left hand as she fetched him a glass. He emptied it in one long drink, coughing gruffly as he set it down. As he looked back up at her, he frowned slightly.

"Why do humans cry? It is an inefficient waste of fluids."

Hawke's hand flew to her face. She hadn't even realized that she'd teared up a little at his awakening, and hastily wiped away the moisture gathering at the corners of her eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Hm."

As she sat down next to him and folded her legs, she watched him try to lift his injured arm, the wince translating into a scowl across his face. As the pain subsided, he inspected the limb thoughtfully. "What is the healer's assessment?"

"Your left arm might not be what it was," she informed him, "but it can be close with careful healing and training. I can help with that last part, when you're well enough."

The Sten turned to regard her with interest. "Your honesty is appreciated."

Hawke shrugged, drawing her ankles in closer. "I was there when you were brought in; I saw for myself how bad it was. No sense in hiding it."

He snorted. "You assisted the healer, and I yet live." A smirk tugged at his mouth. "Surprising."

"Hey," she retorted, pointing a finger toward the medical tools hanging on the wall. "I pulled chunks of wood out of you. I can just as easily put them back in."

An entertained rumble escaped his throat as he surveyed his surroundings, eyes falling on the gleaming polish of his swords. He reached over to tug the last of the wrapping away, studying them carefully.

"You cared for them."

"I like to think of it as babysitting for children whose mother fell ill." When he was silent, worry pricked at her stomach. "Should I not have touched anything?"

"You have done nothing wrong," he stated, leaving them exposed. "I am grateful." His gaze swept the rest of the area around him, pausing at the books and empty plate from dinner, as well as the telltale crumpled blankets of the mattress beside his.

"You kept watch."

"I did. As did the others."

"But mostly her," piped up Fenlin as he re-entered the tent. "You've been sleeping for nearly two days straight. She refused to leave unless absolutely necessary."

Hawke desperately tried to shush him, though the Sten seemed more curious than annoyed.

"I am clean and clothed," he observed.

"Also her handiwork," the elf told him, and Hawke sighed.

"I was worried," she explained. "I saw your bones, for Andraste's sake. Wore your blood like paint. I couldn't just walk away from that."

He inclined his head a bit. "Again you mistake me. I am grateful."

Smiling like the cat who ate the canary, Fenlin quietly stepped away to sit at his workbench. Hawke glared at his back, but the malice was gone from her face as she turned back to the Sten. "Can I do anything for you? Fetch you anything?"

The Sten turned tired violet eyes to hers, nodding an approval. "Go. I am awake, and the Arishok waits for you."

Hawke felt as though the floor had been pulled out from beneath her. She fought the urge to grip something, anything in an attempt to alleviate that particular wallop of panic.

"You know?" she managed.

Snorting, the Sten arched an eyebrow. "He does not attempt to disguise his affection as you do," he said calmly. "You are confusing. He is not."

"Does everyone know?"

"Many, yes."

Dumfounded, she couldn't help but shake her head a little in an effort to clear it. "And your men don't think it's foolish, caring for a human?"

"Why go against what you cannot change?" he answered simply.

"The implication there being 'we don't think he's stupid in this, we think you are?'"

"Yes. This surprises you?"

She sighed. "No, sadly." Laughing despite herself, she knew he was right. She stood, brushing off her clothes. "Well, this human is going to go stop being stupid now."

He smirked. "I look forward to the improvement."

Smart mouth for someone who was half-dead yesterday, she thought as she straightened.

"Hawke."

"Yes?"

He reached up with his good arm, pulling her to bend down to eye level, where he pressed his ridged forehead to hers.

"I am alive," he stated.

"And a good thing," she responded, smiling warmly as she wrapped a hand around the back of his neck. "Otherwise, who would constantly criticize me?"

"Everyone."

Wiseass.

As she stepped over the threshold into the Arishok's tent, Hawke dropped her satchel of books onto the floor.

The Qunari leader had been reclining against the cushions, facing the ceiling, but turned to level his gaze at her when she came in.

"You return."

She gave a tired smile. "The Sten's awake. Told me to leave him in peace."

The Arishok snorted, and Hawke looked to the table in front of him, upon which sat one of the monstrous teapots.

With two cups.

Some of the ache eased from her shoulders at the sight, and she took her usual place as she refilled his cup before pouring hers. Sighing deeply, she wrapped her fingers around her cup and leaned against his side, the warmth of his skin a simple intimacy that she relished.

He turned his head to look down at her, studying her in silence for some time before speaking.

"The Sten's condition distresses you."

"Mm. I mean, he's awake, but his arm..."

To her surprise, he reached for her. She barely had time to put her tea down on the table before she was pulled into straddling his waist, his broad hands supporting her lower back.

His earrings chimed as he shifted to accommodate her, horn bands glinting in the light. His face, as severe as ever, sought to hold her gaze as he spoke.

"Take comfort in me as you wish."

Hawke stifled the urge to double over with laughter. It was so awkward, and he looked so serious about it. She couldn't keep down stifled chuckles, and the Arishok growled a warning.

"I'm sorry," she said, covering her mouth. "I really am." She smiled warmly at the glaring warlord. "I would seek comfort, Arishok. Thank you."

She leaned forward against him, threading her fingers into his hair and pressing a kiss to his brow before resting her forehead over the ridged skin. He rumbled quietly as one clawed hand came up to pass over her ear, trailing across her neck and settling to dig lightly at her nape. The other arm wrapped around her waist, tightening appreciatively as she ran her nails through the hair at the base of his horns.

"This is all that you require?" he asked, skepticism lacing his low voice.

"Just being with you is helping," she admitted, relaxing a bit more into his hands. "Sometimes that's all it takes."

He murmured an approval, leaning back further and taking her with him. "Your growing attachment to the men is pleasing."

"It was inevitable," Hawke replied. "Everyone here has to trust one another, almost always with their lives. If someone fights alongside you, you have to be able to depend on them. Everyone strives to protect their brothers here." The faces of her friends flashed across her mind, and she briefly wondered what she would tell them when she saw them again. There was some... explaining to be done.

"It's the same with my companions. We're an odd family – bizarre, really – but we're a family nonetheless."

The Arishok turned his head to brush his nose along the side of her throat, warm breath on her skin eliciting a soft sigh from the human.

"That," he told her, "was but one strength that raised you above others of your kind. It was... unexpected."

"Don't sell me short," she smiled against his ear as he slid claws up along her scalp. "I'm sure I did plenty of other things to get your attention."

She felt the vibration of an amused rumble through his chest.

"Your methods of doing so leave much to be desired."

"I regret nothing," she declared, "if it brought me to you."

The Arishok hissed in a breath as she ran her teeth along his shoulder, and his grip on her tightened as she gently bit down, full of warm affection.

She had meant every word.

Chapter Text

A/N: Hi, everyone! I'm trying to write again. I have a job now (two, technically), and life is exploding all over the place. But getting out and doing something is getting me out of my writer's block, so I can't complain!

(And, you know, getting paid...)

Since I last updated, there have been two new pieces of art for the story! (Change underscores to periods, since FFnet refuses to let me post links.)

The first, an adorable pair of Arishok/Hawke chibis: (by the awesome fuckyeahvarric)

And if you remember this little exchange from Ch. 17:

~ "Grinning, Fenlin gently rifled through the pile and plucked out a blue-and-brown bound volume. "Well, he's the man you've set your sights on," he said brightly, "so you'll need to work hard."

She snorted, crossing her arms. "You make me sound like one of those farmers' daughters in the bannorn who go out a-man-huntin'."

He stared at her then, an oddly pleased look on his face, and she glared back.

"You're picturing me in braids and a bonnet, aren't you?"

"Maybe." As she rolled her eyes, he smiled warmly. "For what it's worth, you look adorable."

"I'll keep that in mind next time I don full armor. Slap a frilly bonnet on over my cowl."" ~

WEAR THE BONNET, DAMNIT!  (by the amazingly talented serenity-fails)

All the love for Fenlin, troll that he is.

Anyway, smut warning for this chapter! Not at work, kids.

Day 50

Hawke stirred, and as she rolled her shoulder back, a hiss forced its way out from between her clenched teeth. The muscles stretching from her ear and spiraling downward to mid-back and upper arm protested and stung and burned. A dull, insistent throbbed in her skull, like the Maker had stretched his divine hand down from his heavenly throne and struck her with a hammer.

The itch just above one collarbone was the irritating icing on the cake. Arm stiff, Hawke reached up to scratch it absentmindedly, only to have her fingernails blocked by cloth. She'd wondered why the sensation hadn't registered. She explored the foreign square, running her fingers along the edges, and when she made out the shape of a bandage, recognition hit her like a charging bull.

Oh.

As she inhaled deeply, the air in her lungs only served to wake up her sleep-hazy brain and allow it to explain how, exactly, the specifics of her current situation had come to be.

She shifted, feeling the bare skin of her back brush against the Arishok's chest as his deep, even breathing went undisturbed. One of his arms was wrapped around her waist, the attached hand lazily brushing the underside of one naked breast with each rise and fall of her chest. She tried not to wince as that same arm rubbed against rows and rows of angry-looking claw marks running the length of her ribs.

As gently as possible, so as not to wake him, Hawke delicately disentangled herself from his limbs, pushing herself to sit upright as her back seized painfully. She lifted the blanket to better assess the damage from the previous night, sighing inwardly at the welts and deep, regular bruises along her skin.

If they were going to keep doing this, there was definitely some work that needed to be done.

He didn't kiss her.

He didn't need to, really – it seemed like a formality that neither of them wanted to bother with at this point. Fingers tangled in his hair, still damp from the baths; his claws pricked through the fabric of her clothes in their path. She couldn't remember why she'd bothered to re-dress after her soak. Every night since the Arishok's hands-on study had become a waiting game; a matter of not 'if,' but 'when.'

They hadn't even made it through a single cup of tea between them before she was roughly yanked away from the table, tumbling to the floor and pinned under the Arishok's bulk as he ground his hips into hers, reaching between them to loosen the knot that held her overdress closed. There had been no warning, no conversation. This was the order of the evening, and he would execute it with all of his characteristic conviction. And Hawke would rise up to meet him with all of her strength in return.

A sympathetic throb between her legs sent a shiver up her spine at the memory. Judging from the light (or rather, lack thereof), it was still at least an hour before dawn, when the Arishok would normally wake. So, Hawke had a little much-needed time to herself before re-entering the world. She wanted to think. To process.

She turned to look down at the Arishok as a staccato snore sent warm puffs against her hand. A smile wound its way across her lips despite her attempts to fight it down. She had never been much of a post-coital snuggler, usually preferring to clean up immediately and set about doing something productive. If she did share a bed with her partner afterward, it was usually at a distance out of the desire for personal space after surrendering it in such a way.

She hadn't been given an option with the Arishok. Though she doubted it was out of intimacy and more practical in nature – she could be monitored for injury this way. A valid point, she had thought to herself as she'd conceded her usual impulses.

Her fingers drifted to run through his silver-white hair, her knuckles dragging along the ridges of his horns.

Hands gripping at horns as he pulls her undershirt down, exposing breasts to cool air and then to the sharp heat of his teeth–

Hawke took a deep breath and withdrew her hand.

She needed to get out of there.

Calling upon every second of stealth training she had ever studied in the entirety of her colorful young life, Hawke slid quietly across the mattress to shift the padding as little as possible. She would rather have woken an angry bear than alerted the Arishok to the fact that she was slinking hurriedly away from his bed before the morning light. She knew what it looked like (and, in all actuality, probably was), and couldn't imagine it would be met well.

Even though it was dark, she dressed in the shadows along one wall. It was pointless – the room's only other occupant was asleep, she wasn't doing anything that needed hiding, and the light difference was barely noticeable – but it made her feel somewhat more secure in its familiarity. As she tried to remember where her shoes had ended up, she stumbled across a crumpled pile of woven leather and latches. The Arishok's outer skirting, she realized, lying in a heap on the floor near the sleeping chamber's entrance flap.

She didn't care if she did structural harm to the tent. Collateral damage was to be expected when either the Arishok or Hawke was involved, as all of Kirkwall was well aware, so the two of them together should have theoretically destroyed an entire district on their current course. Fortunately, the only casualty was a pile of scrolls sent tumbling to the floor as Hawke launched herself at the half-naked painted giant, her nails leaving red streaks in the skin of his stomach as she desperately worked at the buckles of his heavy overskirting.

He pulled her through the partition with an impatient growl, letting the armor fall to the ground where he had once stood. Other articles of clothing soon followed in their wake, leaving an impatient trail.

Her hands sought out the shirt she'd abandoned to the floor, slipping her arms into the sleeves and wrapping the tie around her waist tightly. It was taking a lot of self-control to not strip and run back to the warm bed to rouse her partner for another round. The urge to run her hands across his chest and wake him to the feel of her body might have been tempting, but the throbbing of scrapes and bruises was a constant reminder of how bad an idea that was at the moment. She'd come out of ambushes looking better than this.

Maker, she swore as her calves burned at her wobbly attempt to put on pants. Next time, I...

Next time.

Ah, she sighed, fuck.

Hawke straightened and pulled aside the partition flap. For a moment, she had the strange feeling that he was awake, watching her from his place on the bed, but didn't turn around to check as she left.

Fenlin let out a long breath as he rose from his bed, pulling away the blankets from his legs. A few quick, efficient stretches worked the sleep from his limbs and he stood, pulling on his clothes.

The sky was a soft blend of orange-pink as he walked the empty paths to the healer's tent. What promised to be a bright sun lingered just at the edge of the horizon, beginning to warm the chilly autumn morning air. He often rose at daybreak for the chance to collect plants while they were still soaked in dew and easy to pluck, well before the sun had the chance to dry them up to nothing. He also enjoyed the quiet – it was a nice, peaceful way to begin the day, surrounded by birdsong and cool breezes.

A quick duck into the tent netted him his pocketed apron and a large collecting basket. He emerged, tying the straps of the former around his waist, only to look up and see a weary-looking-yet-cheerful Hawke perched on the half-wall in front of the door, holding an identical basket in her lap.

"Want company?" she offered with a wry smile.

His sharp green eyes quickly snapped to the bandage on her neck and the welts on her arms, noting that she looked a bit like she'd lost a fight.

It didn't surprise him. One look, and he knew exactly what had happened.

"Means twice the ugly flowers that smell like rotten eggs," Hawke prompted, waving her basket a little. Please, her expression read.

So much for birdsong, the elf thought with a sigh. With a chuckle, he motioned for her to follow him, taking stock of the slight limp she carried as she hopped down.

"I expect you to pull your weight," he said nonchalantly over his shoulder. "Don't think that I'll go easy on you because of a few bruises."

Hawke saluted.

"Yes, sir!"

The sun had fully risen by the time they made it outside the city walls to the staggered foothills surrounding Kirkwall's harsh architecture. Patchy fields dotted with bursts of color covered the uneven terrain, and at the approach of autumn, many of the flowers were going to seed and ripe for harvest.

Knee-deep in feathery grasses, Hawke plucked a drum-shaped bloom and shook the dried seeds into a collecting pouch. She and Fenlin hadn't talked much en route, and while she had come to the healer with a specific purpose, it was an awkward conversation to start.

I just had sex with the leader of your people and the number one man most Kirkwallers want dead. Now what?

"So," she began, twirling a reddish-tinged fern between her finger and thumb, "what does this one do?"

Fenlin looked up as he pinched the roots off of whatever he was holding. "Haren's Bloodfeathers."

She took a closer look at the delicate, curling stalks. "I've never seen you use it before."

"Haven't had to," he replied. "First time I've needed to prevent pregnancy when traveling with an all-male army."

A puff of pollen rushed into Hawke's lungs, sending her into a well-timed sputtering fit. The healer merely watched with his hands on his hips, smirking.

"You know everything," she wheezed.

"There's that," he confirmed casually, "but the patch was really what gave you away."

Her hand crept to her neck.

Foreplay had only been as long as deemed absolutely necessary. His hands and tongue were efficient, working the most productive expanses of skin and flesh to their fullest advantage. Amusement flashed across Hawke's face when she realized that the Arishok fucked like he fought – but a jolt of mixed pleasure and pain shot up from her nape as clawed fingers claimed a fistful of wavy hair. Hot breath warmed her throat as a gasp escaped it, followed by a deep inhalation to undoubtedly enjoy the effects he'd had on the smell of her skin.

The pace his fingers were keeping between her legs sped up slightly, and as the rough thrusting of his hand curled her spine like he were winding it, Hawke dug her nails, tiny blunted claws that they were, into his shoulders. That earned her a hiss – long and low – and the snap of his mouth at the junction of her throat.

Kossith teeth are very sharp.

It was shallow and stung and throbbed, but Hawke eagerly pulled at him as he lapped at the bite, determined to get a rise like that out of him again.

"I hardly felt it," she recalled aloud. "The first one didn't even bleed."

"Kossith tend to do testing bites when mating," Fenlin explained. "As far as I know, it's a subconscious process to see how much force is required to break a new partner's skin. Otherwise, they risk doing real damage when they actually bite their new mate."

Hawke winced. "I suppose I'm grateful for that, but..." Suddenly, a tiny red flag stood at attention in the front of her mind. "Wait," she backpedaled, "did you say 'pregnancy'?"

The elf flattened his ears briefly against his skull, frowning a bit. "Well, what did you think would happen?"

She paled, pressing a palm into her forehead. "I didn't even think about that," she admitted. "I told him before I started all this that I wouldn't give him children–"

"And he and I agree with your judgement," Fenlin interrupted, "which is why I'm making you a very important batch of tea when we get back."

Temporarily relieved, though still confused, Hawke resumed her herb-gathering. "When the Arishok put you in charge of my education, did you also talk about...?"

"Yes," he answered, "we sat down in his study tent and stayed there nearly all night discussing every potential issue that we could foresee and pin down exactly what that arrangement would entail."

That must have been fun, Hawke mused.

Fenlin shooed a grasshopper from one leafy twig before wrenching it from its main stalk. "When he declared his intent to follow the Qun lifestyle down to the letter, including bedding you, I had my doubts. But he thinks as I do – that while you might live as the Qun dictates, no child should be produced from it. No tamassrans here, hence, no children here."

Something didn't quite sit right to Hawke, and she laid down her basket. "But when I told him that I wouldn't bear him offspring, I thought it meant that we wouldn't be 'mating' whatsoever. After all, the role of sex in the Qun is for breeding." She waited, and Fenlin confirmed it. "But if he has no intention of procreating," she continued, "why have sex at all?"

"For the semblance of normalcy," he stated matter-of-factly.

The pseudo-viddathari let out a frustrated breath. "That doesn't… I don't… I like clear lines."

"Good," he replied brightly. "Then you'll love the Qun." At her silence, he looked up and couldn't help but chuckle at the exasperated expression on her face. "This is only as complicated as you make it, Hawke."

She ground her teeth a bit, studying a dried-up lanternflower in her palm as she tried to organize her thoughts.

"He's going to hold me to the Qun in every way possible," she said slowly, considering her words as they made their way into the air, "except for the one way that is contradictory to it."

"Precisely."

I guess that'll have to do, she said to herself, the voice in her head sounding at least passably resolute. It did make an odd kind of sense, given some thought, and as she lost herself trying to align his logic with hers, she was distracted enough that she wrapped her fingers around a thorny stem without thinking.

She yelped, watching bright red droplets roll down her fingers and pool in her palm. As the blood clumsily tumbled over the creases of her hand, their path became a familiar one.

He didn't seem to care that she'd made him bleed. Her blood-smeared hand shot out to grab a nearby washcloth, pressing it to the gouges she'd made along his lower ribs. The blood she'd collected in her palm ran down her forearm, leaving rust-colored smudges on her stomach and the underside of one breast as she moved.

Digging in had been her body's involuntary reaction to intrusion. He hadn't been gentle; the fact that kossith weren't built to do anything to humans other than slaughter them was evident. He'd hilted in one long stroke, setting her nerves on fire and lighting up every pain sensor from her navel to her knees. Hawke felt it in her skull, her spine, her fingertips. Even now, as she reached to block the flow of blood from his side, she could feel a second pulse of searing hot sensation radiating from the inside out. He wasn't moving. It just ached.

The Arishok spoke volumes with his silence. He didn't demand that she accept him and stop this idiocy; he understood her enough to know that she was submitting with everything she had. The pain was not mental, merely physical. And so could be overcome.

The crumpled rag fell abandoned as he rolled his hips once, twice. The scalding burn flared, but underneath it, desperately trying to surface, was an equal-yet-overpowered spark of pleasure. The fight between the two was killing her. And if his tight breathing and dark eyes were any indication, the Arishok was equally conflicted about the need for restraint.

Her palms flew up, at first outstretched as if to beg him to stop, but then they settled on either side of his thick neck and grasped at him for comfort. Something in him changed at the contact, and while one massive hand stayed at her hip to steady them, the other slid behind her nape and lifted her a bit as he lowered his chest to meet hers.

There it was again – the low, constant, bone-deep thrumming. It vibrated from his throat and chest and seeped into her muscles like the heat from an open fire. Her arms wrapped around him as she felt everything taut in her body gradually slacken, and instinct told her to soak this into her skin like water in a desert.

And this time, when he started to fuck her in earnest, it was all she could do not to black out from how goddamn perfect it felt.

"Hey," Hawke called over to Fenlin, who stood not ten paces away. "Can I ask you about something... odd? As a healer?"

"As long as it's not 'does this look infected to you?'"

She ignored him. "About the Arishok. Whenever things got too intense, he would make this..." She crinkled her brow, making vague gestures in the air around her torso. "...Noise. Thing."

Fenlin inclined his head a bit. "You mean the humming?"

"Yes," she breathed. "Exactly. Do they all do that?"

"Kossith? No, just the males." He put down his basket to draw a circle on his chest with one gloved hand. "They have an intrinsic way to deal with kossith females, who get a little... excitable during mating. And when 'excitable' comes with horns and claws, it can get dangerous to their partner, nearby objects, architecture..." He took a few steps closer, regarding Hawke with keen interest. "Though I'm surprised to hear that it triggered with a human."

"And thank the Maker it did," she sighed, shaking her limbs loose from the sympathetic tension that the memory evoked. "I thought he was going to kill me with that thing."

The elf stifled a guffaw, tears brimming at the corners of his eyes.

"That," he said from behind his fingers, "is getting written down in your viddathari journal."

Two cups of tea that reeked of anise and one well-intentioned-but-overdue educational lecture later, and Hawke made her way out of the healer's tent and headed toward the baths. She knew what she must smell like. Even humans, with their comparatively dull olfactory senses, could smell blood and sex and sweat right off of your skin. Maker only knew what a race with a sense of smell like a mabari would pick up.

As she stood at the gap between the tall partitions that walled off the bathing area, Hawke took a steadying breath. She didn't know what was rooting her feet in place. Anxiety over the change in the social hierarchy? The pressure of being the Arishok's mate, and whatever expectations there were that no one had explained to her? Shame?

A chill ran down her spine, and the bandage made her neck itch. Well, she thought with a sigh, she had never cared a whit for social politics and had no intention of starting now. Besides, the word 'mate' hadn't been used in any official, binding sense, so as far as she was concerned, no one was shackled to anyone in this arrangement.

And shame? To the void with shame. She was Mairead Hawke, and everyone in this compound had already seen her naked.

As calmly as ever, she strode into the baths, stripping as she went and laying her clothes out on the first rack she came across. She sat on one of the rinsing stools and, as her fingers sought to peel away the patch on her neck, she hissed. The blood had caked to the cloth in each spot his teeth had pierced the skin, and so she had to suffer near two dozen stuck bits in order to finally tear it away.

It was only as she cast it aside and reached for a wooden wash bucket that she realized that every other occupant of the baths was staring at her. Or rather, staring at the marks on her skin and the pattern of regular, even punctures atop her shoulder. It was more than a little disconcerting.

But really, Mairead, what were you expecting?

Though true to form, their intense scrutiny was short-lived, turning back to their various stages of cleaning themselves within moments. Relieved, Hawke filled her bucket and soaped up a washcloth, scrubbing her way up from her feet, through the bloodied field that was her torso, up her arms, toward her shoulders...

...only to have a hand catch hers as she reached to scrub the bite mark.

She looked up from the foamy trail leaving bubbles down her forearm to see an Ashaad keeping her wrist a safe distance from its intended destination.

"[Anything other than water on it,]" he said firmly, "[is unwise.]"

Blinking back her surprise, Hawke managed to thank him for his advice, which was acknowledged with a nod and the release of her hand. As he walked away and she rinsed herself, she noted with interest that that particular ashaad had never spoken to her in Qunari before.

It wasn't even midmorning by the time Hawke returned to the Arishok's tent from the baths. It hadn't been tidied in the least, and she cleaned as she changed into a fresh set of clothes. Tightening the sash about her waist, she set the previous night's teapot and cups outside the door to be collected and hung the blankets on their racks to air them out.

Admiring her handiwork, Hawke crossed her arms and briefly wondered if a nice, hard tumble was all it took to make her feel this domestic. The Arishok had never instructed her to do such things, but after seeing how meticulous he kept everything in his life, even a stray shirt felt hugely out of place in the Tent of Order and Designated Places for That.

She'd noticed his armor missing, too, which came as no surprise. He rose at dawn, without fail, and would have left not more than an hour or two after she did.

Or, to be more accurate, snuck out like she was escaping jail. Which definitely called for her to own up to it in person.

She tied up her hair and pulled on her shoes as she left, walking toward the Arishok's study tent, where he usually spent his time poring over reports or maps until the afternoon meal. Part of her hoped that he was alone; this promised to be an uncomfortable conversation. The other, more cowardly part of her hoped that he was engrossed in a meeting with several of his sten that was absolutely unavoidable and meant that she wouldn't see hide nor hair of him until evening.

The fates, it seemed, were in favor of the 'getting it over with' strategy. As Hawke walked into the tent, she saw that the Arishok was its sole occupant, standing in front of a bookshelf with a bulky tome open in his hands.

He turned enough to glance at her out of his peripheral vision, but turned back to his reading. "Hawke."

"Arishok." She sat on the edge of his desk, watching him move along the row of books.

"You were absent when I rose for morning meditations," he stated flatly.

Hawke winced. Ah, she thought, shoulder slumping in resignation, we're going straight to it, then.

"I went to see the healer," she explained, carefully leaving out the intricacies of her thought patterns. "I got examined and had some questions answered." At his silence, she shifted uncomfortably. "Are you... offended?"

He made a sharp noise in his throat, as if to indicate that he was insulted that she would think him offended by such a thing. "Your actions were prudent," he replied, shelving the book and turning to face her. "Though I do not understand the need for stealth."

When she offered no response, he crossed his arms and stared that piercing, analytical stare down at her. After what felt like an hour of silent contemplation, the corners of his mouth creased into a frown.

"Your reaction was not what I anticipated."

Hawke fought down an incredulous laugh that bubbled up from her chest. "What, you thought I'd cling to you? Sob with the overwhelming rush of tender emotions? Follow your every move like a lovesick mabari?"

"You are human."

"And?"

"You did not act as predicted. It is unsettling."

Shaking her head and trying desperately not to give away her amusement, Mairead stood. Of course she had taken all of his meticulous research and thrown it out. From the look of things, she would disprove many more of his precious predicted behavioral models in the future.

She walked up to him, tugging him down by the buckled straps across his chest. "Here," she said, a wide smile gracing her face as she pulled the qunari warlord down to kiss him softly. He made an irritated noise, but her grin only widened when his mouth opened against hers, receiving the gesture with all the grace of a petulant child.

When she pulled back, his brow was knotted.

"That act holds no relevance in the Qun."

"I know. But it was reassuring that I did something human like that, wasn't it?"

He frowned.

"Yes," he conceded.

As mirth brightened her eyes, the Arishok issued a low warning growl. "You are a riddle that enjoys tormenting me. It is taxing."

"Maybe you need someone to keep you humble," Hawke offered.

"The Arishok does not need to be kept humble."

"See? That's the kind of thing I'm talking about." She crossed her arms, grinning up at him with a mixture of invitation and defiance. "And you can't tell me you don't enjoy the challenge."

At that, the slightest flicker of a smile ghosted across his mouth. "Perhaps."

"And speaking of things we enjoy..." She reached forward, running a hand over the bruises and deep cuts that she had left along his skin. "Any major damage?"

"No." He watched her hands as they examined him. "Your injuries seem trivial," he observed, his tone sounding almost as though he was impressed by her resilience. He reached forward, pulling the hair away from her left shoulder, tugging the neckline of her shirt down to leave the skin bare.

She hadn't re-bandaged the bite. It had stopped bleeding long ago, and from the look of approval on the Arishok's face, her decision had been the correct one.

She didn't care if it was considered sacrilege to ask for such a thing. Hawke prayed to the Maker that her legs and hips would hold out.

She'd already come once within the first few minutes of frantic coupling, riding through cycles of intensity and slow, methodical thrusts that offered no respite, only a different kind of visceral rush. And as she buried herself facedown in the thick pillows, her breasts pressing down into the blankets beneath her, the fur almost felt like torture. Her hips up in the air stayed firm as the Arishok's hands gripped her waist, the only thing keeping her from being sent sprawling with each thrust forward.

Hawke wasn't a patient climaxer. Never had been. So as she felt him hitting an angle that sent shockwaves through her belly, the hand that wasn't bracing her against the pillows wove downward, jerking in fast circles at the little bundle of nerves that would push her over the edge.

The Arishok noticed.

As she felt her thighs and calves tense almost painfully, Hawke knew that she was constricting around him as well. That only drove her further, and as his movements became more erratic, almost violent, she peaked harder than she had the first time.

As her hand dropped, she found herself wrenched upward, one massive arm hooked around her waist and pulling her into his thrusts. His chest was at her back, and the humming resumed. Immediately, though, Hawke knew this was different. His breathing, the noises coming from his throat, the sharp, predatory snap of his muscles. This wasn't a sedative – this was a warning.

Within moments, it had developed into a low growl. Adrenaline shot through her veins, and she realized what was about to happen only a split second before his teeth sank down into the junction of her shoulder.

It was almost unbearable, and she felt her muscles crushed under the pressure of his jaws. She didn't know if the half-formed knot in her gut was a scream or an orgasm, and she could feel the warm, sticky wetness of her own blood running and pooling and chilling in the air.

A half-dozen more rough thrusts, and the Arishok came with her blood in his mouth.

"It's sore," she explained, "and my left arm's a little weak. But it'll be fine in a day." She frowned, scratching at the irritated skin. "Itches like hell, though."

The Qunari leader watched her dig at the marks with her fingernails. "If it does not heal properly, it will scar."

"So?" she answered. "I don't have a problem with that."

Pleased, the Arishok let her continue scratching, his eyes following her fingertips as she started to bleed anew.

Chapter Text

A/N:WOO CHAPTER 20! Only five left!

Here's a gorgeous new piece of art by the super sweet and very talented Catra, who did a beautiful job of painting the Arishok and Hawke at the kaava setash festival. (replace the dots with actual dots, obvs. xD)

One quick thing, if you actually read these notes and don't just skip straight to the chapter:

Please stop sending me messages demanding updates.

Since I updated last, my PM inbox has been flooded with messages of people wanting another update AS OF YESTERDAY OK and while it really is flattering that so many people are enjoying my story, I'm going to have to respectfully ask that you give me (and every other author on here) my space. I don't mean don't write to me - I love hearing from you! But getting messages like this:

"when are you updating arowhead[sic]? i think i might srsly die if i dont find out what happens next =( please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please post a new chapter ='( "

and this:

"I think it's fair to expect weekly updates, since that's the way you started. You made a commitment to the readers here, and if you can't keep up, then you should at least answer questions so that we're not left hanging while you take your time in posting. [proceed to demand plot spoilers and the ending]"

... are really disheartening. (True stories, both. And there are more where that came from.) I don't know when the next update will be. Please stop.

So, for everyone's sanity and mine: Updates will probably be once a month, and fairly unpredictable. If you PM me to ask when the next one is, I will not respond. If you PM to cry that you want a happy ending, I will not respond. If you PM to berate me for not writing fast enough, I will not only not respond, but I will make a little effigy of you and pee on it. =)

Also, if you're one of the people part of the mass migration from FFnet, welcome to AO3!

Day 52

"You want my what?"

"Your blades and armor." The half-horned Sten stood in front of Hawke, holding out one bandaged bronze arm expectantly. "My language is not incorrect."

"No, I heard you the first time." Hawke crossed her arms over her chest, deliberating. "And if I need them?"

"Maintenance is not theft. They will be returned to you."

She chewed her bottom lip. "But is this because you feel like I don't take good enough care of my equipment and you're trying to make a point, or –"

"I am injured," he interrupted flatly. "I have the time. And I would like to do it."

Still, the human hesitated. These were her girls he was talking about, here. They'd been by her side since the beginning. And there was something in the back of her mind reminding her of how much one's weapons meant to the qunari and flashing a warning that there was more to this than the red leather starting to look dingy.

The Sten lifted his hand impatiently. "Now. Relinquish them."

Hawke's fingers crept toward the hilt of one dagger. If he was taking responsibility for the care of her weapons and armor, there was no small measure of bonding behind it. It was a gesture of respect, of acceptance. This was the way qunari showed regard for their comrades.

Respect. Acceptance. Comrades. Equals.

Words she thought would never apply to her, coming from a qunari.

Excited at the prospect, she had only just wrapped her fingers into the grips to tug it loose when a massive hand stayed her.

"No."

She looked up to her left, discovering that the arm keeping her from accepting the Sten's gesture belonged to the Arishok, who had apparently deemed it necessary to intervene.

"Arishok."

"Hawke."

"I was just about to –"

"No," he said firmly, slowly. "You were not."

The words hung there, clear as day. Cut, dry, 'no.'

Hawke sighed inwardly as she let her hand fall from her side. Yes, this was something that was done for other qunari. She was still an outsider, a bas, which the Arishok had just reminded her of in no uncertain terms, and while she might have been taking steps forward, it seemed that she still had a ways to go before she reached the invisible line that kept any important social rituals at bay.

If the Sten was disappointed, he made no show of it, only acknowledging his leader's issuance as he always did: a nod and prompt obedience.

As her half-horned friend turned and started back toward the healer's tent, Hawke looked to the Arishok to ask about it...

...only to watch him calmly disappear into his study tent, already twenty paces away.

It took all of her willpower not to stamp her feet and attempt to rip out her hair. Instead, her irritation escaped in something resembling a deep sigh that picked up the hint of a whine as her shoulders slumped. Dragging her palms roughly down her face, she reminded herself that she was frequently the recipient of her taciturn bedfellow's simple, flat, no-explanation-deemed-necessary 'no's, and had been since the start of their acquaintance.

That knowledge didn't keep her from getting frustrated, however. It didn't matter that he was the esteemed leader of the mightiest army in the known world, that he was currently involved in a political powder keg, or that he had a cock the size of Denerim. Sometimes Hawke just wanted to wring his stubborn, uncommunicative, stupid qunari neck.

Still, she supposed as she straightened up, at least it showed that he wasn't treating her any differently nowadays.

Since she'd begun studying under Fenlin's questionably expert tutelage in the mornings, Hawke had deemed it productive to reserve time in the afternoon for reading. The short period of warmth before dusk usually found her sitting on one of the canal walls, accompanied by her satchel and various books scattered on either side of her hips.

She drew the ties around her jacket tighter as a breeze fluttered the pages of the journal open on her lap. Autumn was settling in well, and the tall stone walls of Kirkwall's architecture did little to protect against the dry winds that seasonally swept across the Free Marches. She'd have to find a warmer reading spot soon, as sitting in snow along a frozen canal had absolutely none of the allure of warm sun and running water.

That was, of course, assuming she would still be visiting in winter. She was only required to to remain in the compound for another two weeks, and her companions, family, and all of Kirkwall was no doubt waiting with bated breath and bloodied fists for her to emerge from the den of tight-lipped heretics.

Her 'release' back into the city was becoming less and less appealing with each passing day.

She was snapped out of her reverie by the rare sound of the common tongue being spoken in a distinctly clipped Qunari accent. Hawke could count on one hand the number of times she had heard it while not directed at her.

Interest piqued, she turned to investigate, and was surprised to see a ragged-looking male human, no more than ten years her senior, trailing after a karasaad who was efficiently and clearly pointing out important buildings in the compound's layout as they passed. He didn't intend on repeating himself, apparently. It was an important demonstration of what was expected of viddathari.

She hadn't even realized that she was standing until that last word hit her.

Viddathari.

She hastily shoved her books into her satchel and jogged over, keeping apace quietly. The karasaad greeted her with a nod and continued without interruption, but the human convert had to tear his eyes away from the local legend and control his stuttering steps as Hawke followed them along the winding throughstreets and up shallow stairs. Her curiosity was overwhelming; the vast majority of converts to the Qun were alienage elves. Seeing another human amid the giants was fascinating.

As they passed the meditation tent, Hawke saw a flash of red and gold atop the raised platform in the back especially reserved for the Arishok's personal use. The qunari leader was there, and he was watching her follow the new convert with vague interest.

Detaching herself from the three-man detail, Hawke dropped her satchel at the base of the narrow steps that led up to the high, flat viewing pavilion. As she reached the top, she pulled over a meditation rug and laid it flat next to the Arishok's, partially obscuring the House of Tides sigil painted on the boards below her feet. She had long since been given unspoken permission to join him at will, so long as she refrained from being her characteristically disruptive self.

The Arishok neither acknowledged her nor moved, still keeping his eyes on the new arrival as he was introduced to his new life with the painted giants. The height of the platform afforded him a clear view of the entire compound and glimpses of the spikes and spires beyond, though he preferred to face the ocean, she'd learned.

She didn't blame him one bit.

"A human convert," she mused aloud, draping her legs over the edge. "Rare."

A low noise rumbled from his throat. "A Fereldan," he replied. "Rarer still."

Hawke turned to him in surprise. "Fereldan? Really?" She craned her neck to try and spot said human some distance away. "I'll be damned. Thought I'd never see the day."

The Arishok grunted an agreement as he lifted his chin. "The residents of this city are far more eager to turn to structure from their lawlessness and filth. Those who fled your homeland use pride in their birthplace to delude themselves from the reality they face."

Hawke snorted. "National pride's got nothing to do with it." She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "It's all refugee mentality: cling to each other, circle the wagons, and swear they're not Kirkwallers."

He turned to her with a hint of curiosity on his dark face. "You do not share in their desperate sentimentality."

"Pining for big stretches of mud covered in burned crops and darkspawn blood?" Setting her jaw, she scratched at a smudge of ink on the heel of one palm. "I haven't had a sense of nationality for a long time."

"You are Fereldan."

"Yes, and with all the refugees here, you'd think there'd be a bigger sense of pride than 'we have to stick together to survive.' But they know as well as I do that the Ferelden we knew is gone." She sighed. "When the Blight hit, we were sent scrambling from our homes. The land was ravaged. And our hero died."

After a moment, the Arishok turned back away. "This Hero of Ferelden, I have heard of. My people have respect for the order of the Grey." The corners of his lips briefly twitched into a frown. "I was informed that she yet lived."

"No, not her." Hawke waved her hand dismissively. "Not the Warden. Before that. The Hero of River Dane." At the qunari's expectant silence, she explained. "He was to our people's war what Koslun is to your people's philosophy. He could do the impossible, defeat incredible odds, raise armies from vagrants, and overturn tyranny. He was a symbol of hope, of victory for Ferelden, and when he died, some part of our national pride died with him."

"His death was caused by the Blight."

Grimacing, Hawke let out a tense, weary-sounding laugh. "Yes and no." Something in her chest began to hurt, and she coughed a bit in some Maker-only-knows attempt to loosen it before speaking again. "He was bested in a duel by the Warden. She had to kill him to keep the country from destroying itself with civil war when darkspawn were ravaging everything. It was... complicated."

"And she made it simple. It was necessary."

Swearing mentally, Hawke chewed on her bottom lip. Maker, she envied his conviction something awful at times like these.

"I sent the beresaad to investigate the Blight," he continued. "Only one of the men returned – and he had deemed the Warden worthy of respect."

She lifted her head to turn to him. "Is he a man you trust?"

"He is."

Hawke looked at the Arishok then, really looked at him. The glow of the weakening sunlight tempered the brightness of his eyes, and the relaxed, ever-so-slight slouch in his posture made him seem more opensomehow. She hadn't spoken of her past to him before. He had never asked, never given any indication that it was of importance.

She knew he would always listen, but there was something about the air around them that made her think this particular opportunity would disappear with the pinks and oranges of the progressing sunset.

"She and I were childhood friends," she began after a few minutes of deliberation. Cadhla's face, delicate and feminine but always smudged with something and always smirking, was clear and crisp in the forefront of her memory. "Our mothers were both noble-born, so my siblings and I would spend summers at her family's estate in Highever, where we were tutored."

At the mention of the northern Bannorn, a rush of sensations and memories rushed to Hawke's mind and chest and fingertips like a pod of massive whales breaching for air. The long, draining trips from Lothering to Highever in the heat of summer. Cadhla and Fergus' irritatingly overprotective governess. Arl Howe's son, Nathaniel, being sullen after being caught trying to steal a roll from the kitchen. Letting the chickens loose to distract the cook so that Nate could escape the larder. The smell of the Teyrn's orchard when the peaches were ripe. The exact layout of the bedroom she and Bethany had shared.

Drowning in them as she was, she didn't realize she'd fallen silent for some time until she felt the Arishok's eyes on her, watching her expressions change intently.

Shaking it off, she continued from where she could best remember ending. "She loved Loghain with all her heart as a child. When we played together, she was always him, the Hero of River Dane, and I would be King Maric. Bethany was Queen Rowan, my brother Carver and Nathaniel were Night Elves, both. Anora would be... herself, I suppose, hovering about Cadhla and telling her she was doing everything wrong. And then Cadhla would snap back that she would be Loghain's bride when she was grown and that would make her Anora's stepmother, so a bit of respect was in order." She paused to laugh at the image, enjoying the rare sight of Anora's truly and royally outraged face, before quietly sobering.

"Then as we got older, things became complicated. Like they always do when political games come into play. Things happened. The threat of wars on three fronts – Orlais, the darkspawn, ourselves – did strange things to people. Changed them, often for the worse. Everyone became maddeningly desperate in the face of chaos, but Cadhla just plowed ahead like she always did, driven by duty alone."

She remembered her friend's letters. All of them from various camps, or Denerim when they had the luxury of slipping into the city without danger of bodily harm. And all of them, every word, a testament to the responsibility that one woman, her friend, had had to shoulder through nothing but a vicious twist of fate and politics.

"It wasn't a year from the start of the Blight that she found herself leading the Landsmeet and taking her beloved hero's head from his shoulders to save us all."

She was quiet again for a moment before a bitter laugh burbled up from her chest. "And the beast of it all is, the one thing that drives me mad, is that if that damned Blight had only been delayed a few fortnights, Cadhla would have been married to Loghain in order to keep her out of political machinations to displace the queen. He thought it sensible. A formal betrothal, a dowry, and half an hour in a chantry, and someone else would have had to take up the hero's mantle.

"Still," she continued, "she never complained. Never once said 'if only,' or 'why me,' or any of that, though I'm sure I would have, in her place. She just did what was needed for the stability of her people. Even if she had to break her own heart to do it."

There was quiet between them for a long time. Hawke mindlessly rubbed the ink smudge on her hand into oblivion, catching her lower lip between her teeth as she came to the reason why that particular bit of her colorful history had felt the need to come charging out of her mouth. Not a charming story about the first time she rode a horse, the first fight she ever won, nor the day she learned what the word 'apostate' meant. No, no entertaining vignettes, but the story of Cadhla Cousland and Loghain MacTir, one of the most unfortunate veins of the Fifth Blight.

The Arishok, for his part, had suffered enough of Hawke's ramblings by now to distinguish signal from noise.

"Your tale has a purpose."

She set her jaw, not turning to look at him. "Because if something doesn't change in Kirkwall soon, you and I are going to have to simplify things, just like she did."

Hawke saw him turn away out of her peripheral vision.

Silence.

"Yes."

"But you knew that already."

"Yes."

Another tense silence enveloped them both as Hawke tried very, very hard to calmly process the new information as it threatened to crush her like a boulder atop her chest. It felt very much like how one of Merrill's spells looked – as though the earth physically yanked itself from beneath your feet and forced the air from your lungs. Not that Hawke had ever been one of the poor bastards on the receiving end of that particular piece of work.

"Is that the truth behind why you brought me here," she began, too angry to be embarrassed by her cracking, tightly-leashed voice. "To make sure that I was healed and experienced in sparring your race? To ensure that when the time came, you would have a worthy opponent that you wouldn't have to dishonor yourself by fighting?"

"Your purpose here," the Arishok replied sharply, ire edging his speech, "is not yours to decide."

At that, Hawke rounded on him like blight wolf, all fury and no forethought.

"And whose is it, then," she practically shouted. "Yours?" Clenched fists weren't the most conducive to lifting her to standing, but she struggled to her feet nonetheless. "You decided to take me into the compound. You decided to use me as a teaching tool. You decided that I –"

"The decision to follow the Qun," he interrupted, "was yours."

"And then you decided to take me into your bed," she spat.

The qunari warlord turned up to regard her as impassively as ever, the only evidence of his growing irritation present in the slow, tense curling inward of his clawed fingers.

"You made no protest," he said flatly.

Face burning fire-hot from embarrassment and rage, Hawke continued. "This was never about you having any respect for me – it was about ensuring your own future, moving pieces into place. I exist in your world only as a way to ensure your battle glory isn't tarnished by having to fight anyone undeserving of the honor of battling the mighty Arishok."

He turned his gaze back to the goings-on below, stone-faced.

"No greater honor exists."

Hawke choked out a half-laugh, half-sob in disbelief. "Maker," she managed, "what a compliment to me that is!" She gave a short, sarcastic bow at the waist. "I apologize for wanting anything else from you. My mistake."

She watched the muscles in his face flutter tightly against each other as he set his jaw. "The Arishok does not suffer mockery."

"But I do?" She threw up her hands. "Then what was all this, if not a mockery?" A breeze caught in her sleeves, and she quickly clamped her arms securely around herself. "Bringing me here," she began, much more quietly but with no less urgency in her voice. "The poetry books. The kaava setash bracelet. The earring. The armor. Sharing a bed, for Maker's sake!" The last of these came out strained, little more than a harsh whisper.

"All of it," she asked, tightening her grip on her own arms. "What was it all for, if you were only grooming me to kill you or die trying?"

He made no answer, only stared out across the compound in his characteristic impermeable silence.

Hawke shakily clambered down the steps, more uncomfortable in every fiber of her being the longer she was next to him.

It was well after sunset when Hawke's feet brought her back to the high streets of the compound. Hours upon hours of walking to try and relieve enough of the aftershock had, unfortunately, required her to think about her situation. The rhythm of her feet hitting the dirt was only soothing to a certain degree, and wandering about often only gave the illusion of progress.

Anger was no longer the primary emotion coursing through her system – though there was a healthy dose present. Essentially, she had been the one doing all the yelling, and he had simply sat there in dignified silence as a parent would a petulant child throwing a temper tantrum. It felt so condescending, his refusal to engage her about something so monstrous; as though his quiet acceptance of the fates he'd predicted for them was somehow emotionally superior to her volatile reaction.

Who wouldn't have reacted like a mountain lion, she mused as she gritted her teeth, when discovering something like that?

The more she let it settle, the more it festered like a wound. And it was stinging, biting at the edges of something already raw and open, and making it itch like mad.

Hawke gnawed on her thumbnail, focusing intently on nothing in particular in front of her. When was something too far gone to save? If it had been a real wound rather than psychological one, a smart field surgeon would have amputated the dying limb to save the rest. And if that analogy proved true, the best course of action was to cut her losses and run, potentially losing everything she had gained during her stay. Returning to Kirkwall just the same as she had left, except with a few more scars.

Her feet picked up the pace as she rounded the corner, turning onto the path that would take her to the Arishok's tent. She was only supposed to be captive for a little over one week more. Surely Fenlin would have no choice but to declare her fit to leave, if she asked for an assessment, and the Arishok... Well, she'd have to do what she did best: say what she was going to do, do it, and then leave him to sort it out on his own time, when it was no longer her problem.

The fire had returned to her veins now, determination steady in her features, as she marched down the dimly-lit throughway.

But as she drew near enough to the leader's residence to get a good look at it, she stopped dead in her tracks, clumsily ducking behind a nearby tent to peer around the side while obscured.

Out front, beneath a brightly-lit brass lantern, the Arishok sat on a crate entirely devoid of his armor. He'd removed it for the night, that was nothing noteworthy – but scattered around him were various precision tools, bottles, and rags, each with a specific use. And in his hands, she noted with a tingle of electric heat along her throat, was the waistpiece he had designed for her.

Hawke watched with interest as he took what looked like a miniature two-pronged crowbar and slid it along the path of the weaving, deftly tucking any strips that had loosened back into the fastening edges. As his hands traveled, Hawke saw that he had already done the same with each of her pauldrons, which hung on the rack beside him. They gleamed dully in the low light, oiled and tightened and scoured clean of the blood and dirt they'd collected.

Confused, she frowned, but never took her eyes off of his skilled hands at work. He was caring for her armor and weapons, when just this morning, he'd denied the half-horned Sten permission to do so? Such a way of showing personal respect and affection was surely –

When she saw the look of concentration on his face, the care he took in handling the protection that would inevitably one day stand between her and death, she suddenly and transparently understood.

She withdrew back to her hiding place, sliding her shoulders down against one of the tent poles until she collapsed into sitting messily on the ground.

"That big, stupid sap," she murmured, both hands covering her face and half-obscuring her words.

The Arishok hadn't stopped the Sten because Hawke was unworthy.

The crunch of nearby leaves underfoot only barely registered, and a vibration in the tent pole alerted her to the presence of company.

Pointed elven ears and green eyes greeted her with the hint of a smile as Fenlin leaned against the pole adjacent to hers along the tent's structure, closest to the street. He turned to glance over his shoulder at the Arishok at work, observing for a moment before returning his attention to the crumpled pile of human beside him.

"He's kind of –" The healer searched for the word. "–clumsy at expressing himself, isn't he?"

Raising one eyebrow, Hawke fought down a hiccup. "I think the great and mighty Arishok would strongly object to being described as 'clumsy' at anything."

A warm chuckle floated through the air as Fenlin glanced up at the night sky. "Well," he said, crossing his arms, "far be it from me to accuse our 'great and mighty' leader of having a flaw, but he's really rubbish at this."

That earned him a snort.

"To be fair," Mairead replied, sighing, "so am I."

"Really? I'm completely surprised." The chipper sarcasm shimmered brightly in his large, elven eyes. Her irritated glare was met with another chuckle, and he shifted his weight. "Though they do say that the more they fight, the happier the couple."

"In that case," she said coolly, "it's a good thing we're both used to being covered in blood."

"In any event," he continued, ignoring her, "how long do you intend on hiding?"

"Until I plan out every possible scenario. So, about a month or two. Minimum."

Shaking his head, the healer pushed off of the tent and dropped the small basket he'd been carrying into her lap. "Stop thinking," he reprimanded, "and just do something. Should be easy for you. Take care of this, while you're at it."

Curious, Hawke lifted the flap to check the contents. Balm and bandages sat nestled in the the woven reeds.

"Take care of what, exactly?"

"I have a rule for my students," Fenlin called over his shoulder as he walked away. "You break it, you fix it."

She raised an eyebrow at that, but took it with her all the same.

It wasn't until the Arishok had finished with her armor and retired to the tent that she followed him in.

"Arishok."

He did little more to acknowledge her presence other than a quick glance out of his peripheral vision, instead choosing to sink down into his normal seat on the cushions and reach for his tea without comment. It was as his fingers wrapped around the oddly-shaped cup that Hawke noticed the bandages on his hands.

She had assumed that he was still holding a polishing cloth, but upon closer inspection, she realized that there were cloth strips binding the lengths of his palms. He didn't grimace at the heat of the tea through the ceramic – he'd never let such pain show – but dark red splotches were beginning to bleed through the now-worn dressings.

So this was where Fenlin had been going with the basket.

"Hey," she said gently but firmly, kneeling by his side. "Put the cup down."

He scowled in response. "The Arishok does not take orders from subordinates."

Emptying the basket's contents onto the floor, Hawke held firm. "I might be your subordinate here," she replied, "but I'm also a student of the healer and you have an injury to re-wrap." She held up the salve threateningly. "And I'm your mate, and how cooperative you are determines how gentle I am."

He stared at her for a moment, then, hawklike golden-yellow eyes furiously digging at something below the surface. Sure enough, though, he silently replaced the tea on the table and allowed her to take him by one wrist at a time.

It was the first time she had ever referred to herself as such, aloud or otherwise. Though if it made him this compliant, she mused as she worked to undo the old, stained linen, she'd have to be more guarded in its use.

As the wrappings fell away, she could clearly see four deep, angry-looking puncture marks along the flesh of his inner palm. She flexed her own fingers sympathetically, quickly recognizing the cause. He'd curled his clawed fingers around so tightly into balled fists that he'd torn open his own hands.

It must have been from earlier, she realized as she smeared balm onto the wounds with tender fingertips. Before she had left him, when she was dragging everything out into the open and they were beating each other with it. She hadn't even noticed.

She didn't know if he had inflicted it upon himself as a method of controlling his anger or some form of self-punishment, but Hawke took some small satisfaction in the physical evidence that their argument had stirred some kind of emotional response in the ever-composed giant.

She finished the first hand neatly and had moved onto the second when his voice, low and resonant, broke the stillness in the air.

"Your silence is surprising."

She flicked her gaze up to his briefly, but just as soon returned to her work. "We don't need to talk," she said meaningfully. "Do we?"

A noise rumbled up from his throat, and he continued to watch her comparatively tiny hands flit about his, the pale skin a stark contrast against the cool bronze and claws.

Satisfied, Hawke sat back on her heels and wiped the salve's oily residue from her fingers. She'd learned things today. First, that deathroot salve made her eyes water. Second, that the Arishok cared deeply for his chosen mate, in his own way. And third, that he had no other way of expressing that outside of the Qun and the accompanying emotionally stunted displays.

And that he expected her to side with Kirkwall if or when the city came after him with torches and pitchforks.

She knew that a revolt of some kind was likely, from either side. Tensions were undeniably high. But there was nothing more she could change from inside the compound than she was already doing, and bridging the language gap was the first hurdle to understanding.

She wasn't going to dwell on it. Not until she could do something about it.

They spent the rest of the night in silence, and Hawke doused the last lantern as they went to bed, taking comfort in the warmth of his skin and the lingering scent of leather polishing oil.

Chapter Text

A/N: HEY WHAT'S UP GUYS

That was pretty much the longest writer's block ever. I'd written basically nothing for six months. For any stories, period. But I knew I wanted to keep at this story, but not having ideas and life and oh god so exhausted all the time and work and life and EVERYTHING EVER got in the way. =/

But the support from you guys has been great~! I've been very happy and moved to get so many notes from people cheering me on, saying "writer's block and nagging internet people are huge downers, but you can do it! PUNCH EVERYTHING IN THE FACE!"

So that's what I did.

And here we have a new chapter. XD

One of you guys even sent me a note to say that she heard the Maroon 5 song "One More Night" and it makes her think of this story! I went and looked it up, and I can definitely see where the feeling might come from. Thanks for that, really!

This chapter's more about the emotional aspects of their relationship (smut warning this time! For serious), but next time is when we start to see her companions and the rest of Kirkwall come back into her life, with varying reactions and degrees of success.

Enjoy!

Day 55

There was no denying that autumn was comfortably settling itself into the Free Marches. As she sat, broadsword dully gleaming in her lap, Hawke felt an overly friendly breeze duck into her clothes and send a shiver down her spine.

She temporarily put down her handiwork to reach for a blanket she'd tucked into her satchel, wrapping it around her shoulders despite the half-horned Sten's look of mild disapproval.

"You know," she said a bit defensively as she picked up the polishing oil again, "I'm surprised the lot of you haven't started wearing cloaks yet. Don't you come from an abysmally hot jungle? You should be freezing."

The qunari kept his eyes on her hands as her cloth-wrapped fingers repeatedly traced the edge of his blade. "We have acclimated," he explained, "and possess thicker skin than your race's fragile protection."

"Don't forget that you're all stubborn as mabari," she added nonchalantly, scrubbing at a particularly scored patch near the hilt.

"The comparison to a war beast is accurate," he countered, "and complimentary."

"Should've known."

They sat on one of the long benches in front of the armaas, Hawke straddling the dense wood in order to gain better leverage over the enormous weapons in her charge. She'd sought out her friend that afternoon to ask after his twin broadswords, which she knew saw frequent use. Aban and Ebat ('sea' and 'sky,' respectively) were clearly designed to play to his strengths: massive weapons that could cleave through scrawnier creatures like butter, and magnified their owner's natural power. Carver had trained with such bulky swords, she recalled, but Mairead infinitely preferred the smaller daggers strapped to her back. Still, she could at least handle the massive things well enough, and cleaning them was relaxing. That wasn't even to mention the cultural significance of caring for another's weapons, which were symbolic extensions of their flesh-and-blood bodies.

The Sten watched appreciatively, sitting nearby to converse. "Your own blades are well cared for," he observed, noting the healthy sheen that glinted from each curve.

Her hands hesitated in their work, but only for the briefest moment, resuming as she spoke. "The Arishok would never let them be anything other than perfect."

For his part, her friend didn't seem surprised at all that the Arishok cared for her weapons. It was a normal thing between emotionally close qunari, despite their relationship being an odd one. And though it was a natural progression, his next question caught her off guard.

"And you maintain his?"

The look on her face must have been indicative of something, because he suddenly became acutely interested in her expression. She did her best to look absorbed in the second sword of the pair, scrubbing furiously, but it did nothing to lessen his intense scrutiny.

I want to take care of them, Hawke thought as she set her jaw, but getting him to hand them over is a different matter entirely.

She'd tried a few times, to no avail. It was always the same: a sudden swell of determination, an awkward conversation completely unrelated to his blades as she desperately waited for a good segue, and then... nothing. Complete defeat.

"You do not lack the skill," the half-horned sten said curiously, leaning in closer. "Nor are you unaware of our customs."

She raised her oil-stained palms to stop him right there. "It'll happen," she promised, hiding behind her hands. "Soon."

And she really did mean 'soon,' she swore to herself as she reached for the sandcloth. Every single time she saw him, she –

It was at that precise moment that a familiar pair of gold-banded horns appeared from behind a nearby corner, catching her eye and making her heart punch her lungs like an angry drunkard. The Arishok's long strides down the sand-dusted walkway threatened to take him out of sight, and Hawke's legs acted before her head could register. Scrambling to her feet, she firmly put down the sword she was working on and jogged up to the well-armed warlord.

"Arishok!"

He stopped, inclining his head to indicate that he had heard her. "Hawke."

She dragged one hand across her cheek, leaving a rust-colored smudge in its wake. He turned fully, then, inspecting her hands and crinkling his nose at the abrasive smell of polishing oil. "You work on your weapons."

"Oh, no. Not mine." She thumbed back over her shoulder. "The Sten's. Thought it was the least I could do."

He glanced in the direction of his still-seated subordinate, making a noise in his throat that roughly translated to "I see."

All right, Hawke thought to herself, this is your chance. Perfect lead-in. 'Hey, I was maintaining his weapons – want me to do yours too, while I'm at it?' 'I'm cleaning his, but I'd really like to take a look at yours.' 'Yeah, they're filthy. Speaking of, do your weapons need a quick once-over?'

As she ran through at least a dozen variations on that specific segue, she realized that she had fallen silent, and that the Arishok had stood in place while she lost herself in thought. His golden eyes narrowed, and he crossed his arms expectantly.

She suddenly felt her nerves start to falter under his gaze, and she briefly wondered how awkward it would be if she just snatched his weapons without a word and made a run for it.

Pretty awkward, she realized somewhat sadly as the scenario played out disastrously in her head.

"You called," he rumbled, quickly growing impatient with her unexplained silence. "With what purpose?"

'I want to care for your blades as a proxy for you,' her brain offered desperately. 'Give me your blades so that I can show you some kind of affection you'll understand.' 'Hand over your weapons, and I'll have them so sharp and clean you could cut a feather lengthwise.'

Instead, what came out of her mouth was: "What kind of tea do you want tonight?"

Damn it.

At his frown, she rushed to add: "I'm going to see Fenlin later, and so I thought..."

After a moment, he unfolded his arms and raised his chin. "Majan," he instructed,"red."

"Right," she replied, her muscles gradually losing their tension. "I'll have it ready."

He grunted an affirmation and, as he continued on his way, Hawke sighed. Half of it was relief that she had passably covered for her ridiculous behavior, and the other half lamented yet another miserable failure.

Scratching her neck absently, she turned back to the half-horned Sten, whom she had left waiting with his unfinished blades.

He was still sitting on the bench, having watched the entire exchange with his arms crossed and a knowing smirk on his face.

Ah, that look said. I see. You're just an idiot.

Irritated, Hawke stormed back to her seat and picked up the sword, resuming her work angrily.

"Not a damn word from you," she growled.

"I'm doing something wrong."

Hawke slumped over Fenlin's work desk, petulantly plucking crisp leaves off of their stalks.

"Truer words," the healer said with a smirk, "were never spoken."

She was too exasperated to even glare at him for that one. She only sighed into the crook of the elbow that her arm was resting on, and stared off into the grain of the table wood. "I thought that studying the Qun would help me understand him. Instead, it seems to have done more harm than good."

Fenlin reached for her abandoned plant with long, delicate fingers. "How so?"

"I don't know." She shifted her shoulders, sliding her forearms a few inches forward. "If anything, he's only gotten more distant. And not even angry – I can deal with angry – but... apathetic."

"Since you began your studies?"

"Since he started taking me to bed, more like. Though–" She flapped her hand lifelessly. "–I can't complain about that change."

Something in that sentence gave the elf pause, and his ears twitched as he turned to regard her curiously. "How often are you the one to initiate?"

"What, sex?" Frowning at the unexpected question, Hawke lifted her chin. "Not at all, yet."

"There you go," he declared as he reached for another pinned stalk. "All of these desires you used to throw at him are suddenly gone. The more desirable your mate is, the more pride you take in them, the more demonstrative you are. He's doing all the work, and I'd lay any bet that it hasn't gone unnoticed."

As his meaning sank in, Hawke pushed herself upright, staring in disbelief. "He's insecure?" The Arishok, the man who had kept her lying awake at night, fueled her battle rage with pent-up sexual frustration, and could turn her knees to water with a single glance... thought that she didn't want him? "How can he–"

She was immediately hit with a fistful of pungent leaves in the face.

Sputtering and spitting out an errant few, she swatted them away. "What was that for?!"

Fenlin was glaring at her, leaning back with his slender arms folded across his chest. "Every day, what do you come in here to complain about?"

"The food?"

"That he doesn't tell you anything!" He waved a newly-bare stem at her menacingly. "So don't even pretend to be surprised when he can't magically read the contents of your bizarre human mind."

Rather abashed, Hawke ducked her head. He was completely right, as usual; she hadn't even thought of it like that. She'd been assuming far too much, something that was a recipe for misunderstanding. Which was exactly what she'd dug herself spectacularly into.

"I just thought– " She tapped an index finger to the tip of her nose. "– he can smell it on me, can't he?"

"Yes, but kossith bodies don't treat sex like humans' do. He knows this – he doesn't do anything without exhaustive research – and is probably wondering why you're not showing interest. Giving off a strong desire, but not acting on it?" He shot her a sidelong glance as his fingers stripped more medicinal greenery. "That could easily be interpreted as shame."

"That's completely untrue!" At Fenlin's narrowed eyes and raised fist, full of a fresh set of leaves to throw, Hawke instinctively shielded herself with her arms.

"He's never mated with a human before," the healer pointed out. "How in Thedas is he supposed to know anything about it? Besides, the Qun doesn't have answers for these kinds of things, and the Qun is all he knows." He lowered the impromptu chastising weapon. "This is why bas are so draining. Things would be different if you were qunari. But you aren't. And you knew that when you signed on for this. So." He emptied the contents of his threatening hand into a ceramic jar. "Make it abundantly clear for him."

"That's fair," she murmured, picking up a few stray leaves and adding them to their fellows. "But don't the qunari dislike females being the aggressors?"

"So if you take the lead and he refuses, what happens?"

"He throws me down and asserts dominance?"

Fenlin raised an eyebrow meaningfully, clanking the lid of the jar into place.

"Well." Mairead grinned, stretching. "I suppose I could live with that, too."

The elf chuckled.

"Try not to make each other bleed too much."

The slightly over-early chill had settled like a thick blanket across the compound by the time dusk fell. Every night, more and more tents were covered with wide leather panels that layered over the summer-weight canvas to better insulate against the growing cold, and while the Arishok's tent had been among the first, each time the door flap opened, a bit of Hawke's precious heat escaped.

She sat cross-legged on the floor by the low table, fingers wrapped eagerly against the hot ceramic of her teacup. Though her skin was close to blistering, she didn't care. She'd revel in every little damn bit of heat that she could get, save hugging the teapot itself to her chest and curling into a ball around it on the table like a cat.

That prospect was seeming less and less idiotic the longer she sat, and she might have come close to seriously considering it if the flapping of leather against canvas at the door hadn't snapped her out of it. Cold radiated off of the Arishok's skin as he ducked through the opening, his gaze quickly snapping to the tea a few paces away.

"I am back."

"Welcome back," she replied, leveraging her palms against the floor to stand and assist with his armor.

She started with his shoulder guards, stretching up on her toes to reach around his neck and undo the buckles that held them in place. One fell into her arms, and was hooked into place on the rack. The second followed, as did his waistpiece and heavy skirting. As she adjusted them on the wooden skeleton, the Arishok laid his weapons to rest in their stand and sank heavily into the cushions, reaching for his tea and exhaling audibly.

At the sound of the air leaving his lungs, Hawke knew that when she turned around, he'd have a book in his hand. Sure enough, he had emptied his teacup and held a heavy tome open in his lap, the leather fastening straps hanging loose and undone from the bindings. He was sprawled out lazily in his usual posture, chin resting in one hand as his eyes traveled the pages, wearing his typical scowl. Chuckling to herself as she took the sight of him in, Mairead silently wondered how someone so accomplished in precision warfare could have such rubbish posture.

Well, she mused as she knelt to replace her own cup on the table, at least he wasn't going anywhere for a long while.

The clack of ceramic on polished wood echoed in the quiet, but wasn't nearly loud enough to pique the qunari's interest, never mind pull him away from his book.

Hawke hoped she would fare better.

Dropping her shoulders, she moved from the rug to the cushions, slowly crawling the length of him on all fours. As she slid one knee across his calves, straddling his legs, she caught the brief, interested flick of golden-yellow eyes up at her over the top of his book. It was short-lived, however, and he turned his attention back to the writing with a skeptical noise in his throat and the faint huff of a snort.

Never one to give up easily, Hawke lifted one hand and hooked her index finger into the gutter crease of the book, dead center, tugging it down. The Arishok allowed it, watching carefully as she stretched over the obstruction to splay her fingers and teacup-warm palms over his abdomen. Her eyes locked onto his, her fingers tracing meaningful patterns lightly over his skin and raising heat where she touched. An appreciative rumble reverberated in his chest – her intent was clear – but he made no move to reach for her or shift position at all.

Glancing at the still-open book in his lap, she began to withdraw her hand. "No?"

He caught her wrist with the hand not supporting his head, his movements lightning-fast.

"I said nothing."

Smirking and more than satisfied, Hawke sat upright to gently close the book and pluck it from his lap, taking its place as she set it on the floor at his feet. As she settled her thighs on either side of his, she shrugged off her overcoat and tossed it behind her to fall Maker-knew-where. She leaned in to weave her hands into his hair, and felt the prick of his claws tracing up under her shirt and across the sensitive skin of her back. That earned him a contented murmur and the arch of her spine, pressing her breasts against his chest and exposing her throat from the curtain of hair that she had loosed in the hope that it would keep her even a bit warmer.

As she dug her nails into the base of his scalp, winding her fingers into a knotted fist of snow-white hair and gripping tightly, she felt an appreciative growl vibrating from his mouth where it lay on her neck. She wasn't ever surprised when rough was the right answer; her own preferences tended that way and the Arishok could withstand more than his share of pain without flinching.

Not that she didn't like to see him flinch.

As that thought crossed her mind, something occurred to Hawke, and she smirked absently while enjoying the warmth the giant beneath her was sharing. She would be loath to leave it, even for the few seconds it would take to fetch what she would need for her little stunt. Sliding her palms to his shoulders and pushing back, she was immediately colder.

"Hey," she said, "wait a bit."

The glare she was met with was absolutely priceless. Clearly very unaccustomed to and unhappy with being told 'wait' when already half-hard with a female on his lap, the Arishok looked anything but pleased. The hand on her back dug a little harder into her skin in irritation, and she fought the moan bubbling up from her chest. Instead, she planted a kiss on his nose and gave his crotch a squeeze as she extricated herself from his grasp.

"I'll be right back, I promise."

She ducked into the sleeping chamber for all of a moment, reappearing with her blades in her arms, which she laid beside her as she knelt between his knees. He hadn't shifted an inch, though his expression had gone from 'extremely displeased' to 'marginally inconvenienced and slightly curious.' An improvement, to be sure, and he watched with interest as she reached for and deftly undid the ties at his waist. A few tugs and an accommodating lift of his hips, and his pants were a crumpled pile on the floor.

She would never get tired of seeing him naked, Hawke swore as she shed everything above the waist, feeling warmer by the second. Her breasts brushed against his thighs as she slid forward, spreading her fingers out like fans from her palms and running her hands across his stomach and back down to the solid planes of his thighs. Nipping at the skin above his pelvic bones and feeling the rumble of his chest through her fingertips down to her toes, she sank her shoulders and collected her hands to the base of his erection. She would be nice first.

As she set her mouth on him, she felt the muscles on either side of her tighten sharply, as well as heard a low hiss escape his mouth. He'd finally lifted his head from his hand, she noted as she continued, and was watching her with an intensity that made her wish she'd remembered to take her pants off when she lost the rest of her clothes earlier. She'd done this for him once before, and Mairead was nothing if not a quick study. She was trained in spotting weaknesses; she knew how to get a rise out of her opponent and strike where it would do the most damage. As such, she'd developed a kind of eidetic memory for flesh in a... multitude of situations.

While her tongue wound purposeful patterns, she also noted that he was one of the most polite partners she'd ever had. Yes, he may have drawn more blood and tossed her around like a sack of grain, but he was, all things considered, rather chivalrous. Even now, there was no thrusting up into her throat or grabbing her head to force her deeper as others had done in the past, but instead a simple enjoyment of her mouth on his cock. Completely controlled and steady.

Hawke never could leave well enough alone. It was just in her nature.

She drew her head away, rocking back on her heels and feeling around for one of her daggers. The nude warlord reclining in front of her made no protest, but narrowed his eyes as she ran her thumb over one of the frost runes in the hilt, waking the blade and drawing it from its sheath.

"Magic," he glowered, but his disapproval went ignored.

"Just sit back and shut up."

Tendrils of icy vapor started to creep out from the steel, and Hawke rolled her tongue around in her mouth. She was glad she'd done this before, otherwise she ran the risk of having her tongue stick.

(Stupid lampposts in winter. Stupid Carver and his stupid dares.) When she was satisfied that she'd be safe, she pressed the width of her tongue flat against the widest part of the blade, wrapping her lips carefully around the edge it lined up with. It was only a few seconds before her mouth was almost painfully cold, and she was all too happy to share.

She couldn't help but grin as the muscles beneath his skin fluttered and pulsed as she dragged her tongue up from his hip, along his ribs, over a nipple, and bit with ice-cold teeth just above his collar. His exhale was slow, long, and deliberate, and he was even harder now. Thoroughly pleased with herself, Mairead trailed her fingertips over the chilly, still-wet gooseflesh that her tongue had raised, then ducked back for a frosty touch-up and dove right back, her freshly-cold mouth attacking every inch of skin she could get to.

The Arishok very obviously knew where she was going with this, so when she settled back down between his knees and met his eyes over the edge of the blade between her lips, she gave him that half-moment to brace himself. Out of warrior's respect, she supposed, or lovers' courtesy. Either way, he had about three seconds before she brought winter two months early.

She had the distinct pleasure of watching his pupils constrict to pinpricks as she wrapped her mouth around him, however shortlived. He arched his neck back at an angle that had to be uncomfortable, snapping his hips up just enough that Hawke knew she'd hit upon something. She could hear seams popping on either side of them as his claws tore into the cushions, and she wondered how irritated he would be later at having to replace them. He clearly couldn't care less at the moment, though, his entire body tense and desperately wrangling for control. She could see his fists clench and unclench almost in time with his haggard breathing, the mangled stuffing between his fingers a poor substitute for whatever it was he very much wanted to have in his grasp.

The deep, rumbling groans from his chest were encouraging, and her tongue's exploration was punctuated by a few quick visits to her blades to cool back down. Each time, the bucking was just as strong, and though it didn't do much, she braced her hands on his hips. The effort it took to keep himself in check was taking a toll on the Arishok; Hawke watched his body shake and tremble, watched his muscles flutter as sweat rolled off of his copper-hued skin. She was also fairly certain that there were noises he was making beyond her human hearing, though the stuttered moans she elicited with well-timed squeezes and the dragging of her canines were more than enough to make her one enormous nerve ending, shuddering warmly even from the way the rug ground against her toes.

Never mind him, she thought as she reached for the still-steaming cup of tea on the table, she wouldn't be able to last much longer. As she rolled the hot, rich liquid around her tongue and teeth, all traces of the cold were erased and her breath was warm against the skin of her arm as she shakily dragged the back of her hand across her lips. Another sip, and her wet, hot mouth took the place it had just abandoned to the cold air.

She felt him pulse in her mouth at first contact, and heard his strangled half-roar as she was only vaguely aware of being hauled upwards. She fell forward, grabbing at his horns for support as she was yanked to his chest, his rough palms seeking out her thighs and hiking them up over his waist.

Pushing herself upright, Hawke offered a lopsided smirk. He'd been close; she learned early on that he insisted on finishing in her, and that alone. A part of the Qun, she supposed, which probably led to a lot of sad endings to vigorous blowjobs.

"Done with that, then?"

He growled, rolling his hips up into hers and hooking a claw into the waist of her pants. "Disrobe."

"I thought you'd never ask."

He watched intently as she undid the ties and wriggled out of them, smalls and all, one leg at at time. As she was shaking them loose onto the floor, she felt one knuckle reach up and run along the junction of her thighs, coming back just as slick as she'd known it would.

"You require nothing further."

Before she could reply, his hands were at her hips, tugging her downward.

Hint.

She laid her palms on his chest, sliding herself down and briefly reaching back to guide things along. Not that she needed to – her body had long since decided to memorize every inch of this painted giant – and as she sank down onto him fully, she let out a long breath and rolled herself back to sitting, spreading her knees and squeezing.

His claws tightened into the flesh of her hips, though what had his attention wasn't the intersection of their bodies. Rather, as they began their slow rhythm, his intense focus was on her chest and abdomen. Curious, Hawke looked down...

...and immediately understood.

When she had pressed her chest to him moments before, the sweat on his skin had dampened the red dye artfully decorating his skin. His warpaint had, albeit choppily, been transferred to her, and was a stark blood red against her much paler skin.

His gaze was pinned to it, a mixture of appreciation and hunger, and as his thrusts upward became more frantic, more fierce, Hawke became keenly aware of just how seeing his markings on his mate affected the Arishok.

Her thoughts hazy to anything other than how fucking great this felt, she thought nothing of it when he pulled her down to grip the back of her neck. She was grinding her hips down to meet him just as enthusiastically as she could manage with her knees so spread and limbs refusing to obey any rational thought. He pressed his forehead to hers and she grasped at his horns, gasping as his grip tightened and he took over the pace.

She wasn't capable of thinking too deeply about anything at that point. And though she knew that qunari didn't kiss, exactly – though they knew what it was – there was a moment where she forgot that she was viddathari, and he was the Arishok. And in that moment, she tilted her head just enough to claim his mouth with hers, sliding her hands to his ears and neck and fiercely invading as though on his tongue was the answer to every question that had ever gone unanswered.

And somewhere between one bizarre day the previous year and that one night in the arena and this exact moment in time, the Arishok had apparently decided that he would tolerate this gesture.

Hawke didn't even notice.

Still completely nude except for the smears of crimson dye, Hawke cheerfully sat nestled in the cushions (sans the two that had been sliced to ribbons, thankfully) with a polishing cloth in one hand and the Arishok's waraxe in the other. The rest of her tools were on the table, arranged artfully in their order of use. As she poured more oil onto the rag, she stretched her legs, humming brightly to herself.

She was scouring a particularly stubborn groove when a warm weight fell across her shoulders and the pillows beside her sank to accommodate a certain warlord. The blanket he had dropped on her was appreciated, and she was about to thank him for his consideration for her frail human form. When she tilted her head back to look at him, however, she smirked.

"I thought Qunari were tough."

He glared at her out of the corner of his eye, the blanket he had wrapped around himself sliding as he reached for his book.

"The temperature your kind is weak against does not affect the qunari." He paused, frowning. "Yet I am cold."

"Magic cold," she explained, craning her neck back and nearly looking at him upside-down. "Has a kick, hovers around." With a grin, she added: "Worth it though, right?"

He said nothing, but she saw his cock twitch fractionally at the memory.

Smirking, she turned back to her work. "Then shut up and be grateful."

That earned her an affectionate bite on the shoulder, and she chuckled.

"Hey," she observed playfully, "neither of us is bleeding!"

Chapter Text

A/N: Hey, guys! Looong chapter this week, a little different from the usual!

More of the outer Kirkwall city, some of the other companions, and of course, Arishok teatime.

I'm trying to make everyone's holidays a little brighter by updating both stories! Arrowhead just before Christmas, and I hope to have Starkhaven updated around the new year. =)

Keep your eyes peeled, and have a great holiday season! Enjoy.

Day 58

Hawke double-checked everything at the compound's side gates.

Daggers. Check.

Fire flasks. Check.

Boot knife. Check.

Left leg. Check.

Right leg. Check.

Momentum.

…

Still working on that one, she thought to herself as she tugged her strikers over her fingers and tucked them into her bracers. She'd been to Sundermount with the men before, true, but this was the first time since her imprisonment that she would be interacting with Kirkwallers, seeing the city again. Half of her wondered if everything wasn't reduced to rubble by now, and the other half rather hoped that everyone had forgotten who she was. She would take a step outside and the rumors and legends would have died away entirely.

Not bloody likely, but a girl could hope.

She was going with a small company of warriors and a few of the soldiers who were more gifted with the common tongue than their fellows. It was a simple enough thing they'd been tasked with – go and trade for supplies – but Hawke had seen the way the merchants in the markets treated the qunari, no matter how good their Common was. Stubborn, rude, and often borderline highway robbery. And having looked at the list, Mairead knew for a fact that she could get at least half of it for nearly nothing from Tomwise down in the undercity.

She'd asked for, and been granted, permission to accompany them on their trip, on the conditions that she avoid conflict and, to that interest, take the side gate down by the pier. It would take her out of the line of sight and spare her from the public eye, though she wasn't sure if it was for her benefit or for theirs. Either way, she was more than willing to comply.

Even if her feet weren't.

She stood at the gate, her hand on the latch, the men shifting behind her. Her legs were refusing to obey her, as were her fingers. Go to Darktown, she told them. Walk down the stairs, turn the corner past the piss stains, under the tattered curtains, and through the alley. Like they'd done a thousand times before. Yet she stood still.

"It would be best to accomplish our task before nightfall," the ashaad directly behind her prodded, and she winced.

It was barely midmorning.

But that seemed to give her the impetus she needed, and she pushed open the door, stepping out into the sea air.

As her boots hit the familiar stained slab and trampled the usual piles of refuse, Hawke conceded that she was used to being whispered about. But this kind of attention was something else entirely.

The people milling about in the alleys had stopped their aimless wandering and bartering to gawk openly, rushing to others in hushed circles to toss about speculations and fail miserably at stealing inconspicuous glances.

It was obnoxious, yes, but tolerable. Head held high, Hawke smiled and waved and nodded, and looked utterly unruffled as she strode through the markets, eyeing tables and wares as she passed. Things were largely unchanged: the same goods spread out over bare wooden tables, the scavenger selling blades with rust and blood caked into the difficult-to-clean crevices, the same questionably-sanitary brewer peddling kegs of his street swill. The rows upon rows of sturdy-yet-thoroughly-unattractive clothes and pilfered knickknacks. All relatively unguarded as their proprietors turned their attention from their goods to stare up at the long-absent (and likely wildly speculated about) Hawke and her painted giants. If the pickpockets and sticky-fingered opportunists hadn't been so busy staring as well, Mairead mused, it would've been easier than plucking fruit from a tree.

Finally, she turned the corner under a bright beam of filtered sun and caught sight of the stall she was looking for.

"Tomwise!"

At the sound of her voice, the dark-haired elf's ears perked up and he raised his gaze from his latest handiwork to greet her. Wiping his hands on a rag, he turned with a smile. "It's been a while, Hawke!" As the rest of her entourage caught up with her, though, that smile quickly faded and was replaced with a puzzled, I'm-not-running-but-what-in-the-what look on his face. "And some new... friends?"

Leaning her palms on his table, Hawke clucked her tongue at him. "Not friends," she chided. "Very valuable new customers."

"Is that so?" The small, heavily-armed troop in front of his stall had begun to attract attention, and his ears flattened against his skull as he glanced to his left and right, catching the tail ends of whispers and stares. "Look," he began to object, "I've heard the rumors – all of them, in fact–"

"I don't doubt it, down here."

"– and so I'm sure there's a reason you're doing this." He raised his hands defensively. "But you have to understand – dealing with qunari is bad for business."

Frowning, Hawke twirled a vial of ominous-looking black oil between her thumb and index finger. "Meaning?"

He lowered his head a bit, nodding toward her companions meaningfully. "People talk, Hawke. You know that. With just word-of-mouth, I'm done for."

"Or maybe you're just not looking at it the right way." She leaned in, thumbing over her shoulder to the rest of the market. "Who else here has the stones to sell to qunari?"

Blinking, Tomwise straightened. "No one. But– "

"Would you want to compete with someone who has an army of Thedas' most ruthless soldiers on his side? Threaten their precious supplier?"

As her point sank in, he crossed his arms. "No way in hell."

"Exactly. Sure, you might get a little grief for doing business with them, things the way they are right now, but a heavier coin purse can make you forget about a lot of dirty looks." Mairead could see him waiver now, teetering on the edge, and all she needed was one last, solid push where it would hit him the most.

"And," she added offhandedly, "the Dalish let them pass and go freely up Sundermount."

At that, the elf's face lit up, and she knew she was words away from opening that door wide. "You know," she said thoughtfully, tapping a finger to her lips, "they go up there regularly for herbs and rocks and Maker knows what else. What does your normal supplier charge for those?"

"Harvests from Sundermount? An arm and a leg, that's what." The poison-maker's jaw tensed at the next thought. "And he calls it the 'sneaking past a bunch of angry knife-ears' tax."

Hawke gestured to the qunari meaningfully, and after a moment of visible internal hemming and hawing, Tomwise shrugged and spread his hands.

"Know what? They've done nothing to me and it'll save me a fortune." He offered his hand. "Any well-stocked friend of yours is a well-stocked friend of mine."

Grinning, the human clasped his wrist and shook on it. "So do I get a referral discount?"

He laughed, producing a few stored-out-of-sight baskets of goods to place them in view for the ashaad's perusal. "In addition to your usual discount? I'm running a business here!"

Sighing theatrically, Hawke shook her head. "Always the bottom line with you, Tomwise."

The ashaad with the bronze-banded horns held out the list. "These are what we require. Indicate which you are able to provide."

A bit taken aback, the elf accepted the parchment, hardly looking at it at first. "You speak Common? That will definitely make this much more–" He struggled for the word. " –possible." After a quick scan of the immaculately-printed words, he nodded. "I should be able to get you everything in the first half without any issues. But this, this, and this..." He indicated a few items lower on the list. "Might take me a while."

"We have stores of every natural resource in your area," the ashaad rumbled, "if your skill is adequate."

Reaching for his apron strings, Tomwise grinned. "Then let's get to work."

Satisfied with their communication and reassured by the ten-foot berth the stall was currently being given by the rest of the bazaar, Hawke nodded to one of the qunari and took her leave, strolling leisurely down the nearest stairwell toward the gaping, column-spotted open walls.

She had to see a dwarf about a house.

Interlude the First: The Morning Audiences

"So you see, I just want my son back."

It was still the high morning, and the Arishok was already feeling the stirrings of a headache from beneath his horns. A rail-thin, frayed-looking male elf stood in the arena before him, wringing his hands and speaking in a tone of voice that the Arishok found repulsive. Said simpering elf had come to the compound seeking out progeny who had converted, somehow believing that taking the child back by force would be met pleasantly.

It was, predictably, not the case.

The Arishok was not unreasonable – the opposite, in fact. He had obliged the elf and summoned the viddathari in question, if for no other reason than to end this futile attempt at a perceived 'reclamation.'

"Dad?"

The fair-haired, freckled viddathari materialized at the side of the arena, near the top of the stairs, looking appropriately mortified.

"Ghilen!" The elder brightened and reached for him, but the boy recoiled.

"That's not my name any longer!" Angrily, he marched down the stairs. "I'm training to achieve a title, not a name."

Confusion and fury – though the two were constant bedfellows in most races, the Arishok mused – twisted quickly across the father's face. "They've taken your name? How could– "

Still at arm's length, the disciple visibly tensed. "They didn't take it. We give them up to fit into our places here."

"Your place is with your family!" Suddenly, his direction reversed entirely, and a heavy sadness fell across his expression. The change in tactics was not unexpected, and the Arishok quite accurately predicted his next words.

"What's happened to you?"

The void his sudden loss of anger had left in the air was quickly filled by his offspring, who rushed to fill it with his own burning frustration. "What's happened? I'm happy,that's what's changed!" He gestured to the apron tied tightly around his waist, the mark of an acolyte of the priests and healers. "I'm learning to become a healer. The right herbs, tying bandages, cleaning wounds; real, useful things that it turns out I'm good at!"

"But– "

"What would I have done in the alienage, Dad?" He crossed his arms, stance firm, a marked change from the twitching, nervous creature that the Arishok recalled he had been at the beginning of his training. "Begged? Sold myself for almost nothing as a servant for a pompous noble in Hightown?"

"You could learn my trade!"

"You're barely getting work as it is! And I'm a terrible tailor."

"Even so, there are other options for an elf," the elder urged. "The Dalish aren't far."

Ah, yes. The alternative many an elven relative had offered in desperation.

"The Dalish?" Incredulous, his son scoffed. "Just so I could die in the first year from exposure because I was raised in a city?"

His response was correct and showed pragmatism, and the Arishok was pleased with the promise it demonstrated. His sire's obstinacy, however, was worsening the throbbing pain in his temples the longer he was subjected to this whinging narrative. The warlord had had the spiritual leader's mantle thrust upon him in Kirkwall, when such disputes should rightly have been settled by the priesthood. Instead, he had watched this same conversation unfold a number of times that was nearing the hundreds, each with only minor permutations.

"My son." "My nephew." "Cousin." "Brother." "Don't do this." "You're just confused." "We love you." "Come home."

All from ultimately selfish desires couched in filial piety. And all ended in precisely the same manner.

"Leave, Dad."

Exasperated, the elder nearly tore his hair out in his frustration. "You're being childish!"

"No," the viddathari asserted firmly. "I've made my decision. Like a man."

Though the Arishok appreciated that the healer's disciple was showing a clear understanding and communicating plainly, the other elf's willful choice to not understand was grating on what few nerves he had for these occasions. Such predictable, repetitive, pointless spectacles were a colossal waste of the time and energy of all involved. Both of which the Arishok no longer deigned to give.

As the viddathari's sire opened his mouth to speak once more, the Arishok raised a hand to silence him.

"He has made his choice," he issued, the low rumble of his voice like a crushing stone to deflate the elf's self-righteous fury. "I am under no obligation to force him from service to the Qun to fulfill your skewed sense of patriarchy."

At his words, the viddathari's eyes lit up with validation and pride, acknowledging his leader's decision with a shallow bow. Satisfied, the Arishok rose from his dais.

"My courtesy ends here," he declared flatly, turning to leave. He had made it not more than five steps toward the wall partition before the sound of continued bickering from behind him reached his ears. He did not turn, instead making clear eye contact with a karashok standing guard by the stairs.

"Remove him," he commanded, then exited the arena in long strides, eager for silence. The last he heard were brief, shrill protests, then blessed nothingness. At that moment, the contended viddathari emerged from the other side of the dais wall, and the Arishok paused to observe him. His ears were back and his face resolute, as expected, but he was visibly weary and tinged with guilt.

He would learn.

The thunder rolling in the Arishok's skull was stronger now, and he growled in frustration. At what, he was not entirely sure. At what he had just been made to endure, at the pain, at the idea of attempting to cultivate a garden in this quagmire of thorns and filth.

"Well," came a laughing voice, "at least you know he won't be back after everyone in the alienage sees him slung over a qunari's shoulders and dumped on his own doorstep."

At the sound of Hawke's words, the Arishok's head snapped up, eyes registering... nothing.

Nothing, save the bustling of daily life and the flurry of busy activity.

He stood there a moment, staring at the expanse of street in front of him. He clearly recalled granting permission for her to accompany men on a procurement not hours before. Her voice just then, however, had been clear in his head; her words and laughter sharp in his ears. A memory, he reasoned, surfacing at a similar time and place. As he watched the men walk from one tent to another, exchange armloads of goods, or stop to speak, he saw her footsteps and shadow mingled among them.

She would have been useful in that debacle, he mused, recalling a handful of similar instances where she had intervened, unasked, but been allowed to speak. His confidence in her had not been misplaced. With her race, her gender, her position in the city, she had been a far more compelling voice of reason to frantic families than their defensive, still-insecure offspring. She was far more generous with preserving their dignity than he, as well. The Arishok had no qualms about ending and disposing of such trifling distractions in whatever manner was most efficient, but Hawke had convinced many to leave even before taking an audience. A talent for which he was increasingly grateful.

"Praise, from you?" Her voice, laced with an audible smile, mingled with the crowd's noise. "Let me write that down in my viddathari journal."

These, he surmised with a frown, were not memories.

And his headache had worsened.

Exhaling a short, tense breath, the Arishok turned on his heel in the direction of the sparring arena.

"Varric!"

As the chain-winch-turned-table that the dwarf was sitting at came into view, Hawke's heart warmed and she rushed over to plant an enthusiastic kiss on his wide, flat forehead.

He chuckled, dragging the back of one gloved hand to wipe off any traces her lips had left behind as she took the seat across from him. "Good to see you too, Princess."

"I see you got my note. Glad to know I don't pay those boys for nothing."

"Urchins are crafty as they come," he said, "and you know how to pick 'em."

Grinning, she stretched her legs and looked at him, really looked. Seeing her best friend in person for the first time in months was like seeing a bright blue sky after monsoon season. Their correspondence was one thing – she could see him, feel him in his looping scrawl – but being physically with him was something else entirely. Something she had taken far too much for granted.

She was blatantly staring, lost to the world beyond their table, and the dwarf raised one thick eyebrow. "You're starting to creep me out, Hawke."

Resting her elbows on the table, she sighed dreamily. "Marry me, Varric."

The corners of his mouth upturned in a smirk, he leaned back in his chair. "Hate to disappoint, but I'm not tall enough for the shelves at your place."

"We can hire a carpenter." He snorted as she continued. "And we would have such beautiful children."

"Bullshit. They'd be hell on earth, and you know it." She shrugged, beaming, and he took a moment to grin warmly at her before pulling a rolled-up piece of parchment from his pocket and unfurling it. "Now, about your house..."

Ah. The main reason she had asked to see him. Early on in her stay at the qunari compound, she'd asked Varric with all of his connections to keep a watchful eye on her estate. Not that Ogre needed to be told twice to keep things safe – a Mabari never did – but nonetheless, it made her feel better to know that her mother and household were being looked after in her absence. She did, after all, have a lot of enemies.

A lot.

"The boys caught a couple of burglars," Varric began, looking up at her over the paper's rippled edge. "And one not-so-subtle one."

Hawke didn't even have to ask to know who it was. "Merrill."

"She broke Leandra's favorite vase climbing in through a window, then spent half an hour hanging on the trellis outside trying to convince that furball of yours to not bite her in the ass." He raised his hands, sun glinting off the gold ring on his chest. "Now, I don't know much about that thing she has, and I don't want to know. But it looks like Daisy's not giving up."

"She's not getting the knife," Mairead countered. "If I didn't think she'd go after her own people, I'd give it back to Marethari."

"She'll do crazy things without it."

"And she'll do worse if she had it. If it doesn't kill her–"

"You will?" At his interruption, Hawke fell silent, and Varric quietly joined her, folding his hands thoughtfully as he studied his friend from across the grommeted wood-and-metal circle. His voice was like rolling gravel, as always, but his tone was laced with the concern of a good friend. "It's not like you to get so spooked."

"I don't deal with demons. You know that. Just the thought of them drove my father and sister into the worst things I've ever seen."

"Which is why you keep Blondie on a shorter leash than a mabari in a classy antiques shop."

"Short leash implies I want him close," Hawke replied grimly, scraping at corroded flaked of orange-red metal with one fingernail. "I keep him at arm's length."

"That makes two mages you've got emergency 'goes-crazy-and-murders-everyone' plans for. Sunshine wouldn't be too happy."

"Well, Beth's not stupid enough to trust a random Fade spirit on the side of the road," she snapped angrily, then shot him an apologetic look. He waved it off, and she folded her shoulders inward as she rested her elbows on her knees. "She was taught better. Merrill and the Dalish have a very sheltered view of magic and romanticize spirits. Anders was a rebellious, desperate bleeding heart. I don't like to think what either of them would do if I didn't keep..." She trailed off, gnawing lightly at the lower lips she'd captured between her teeth. "At least Merrill was straightforward about everything. Anders, on the other hand..." She stared off into space, vaguely in the direction of his clinic... which she had not yet decided about visiting that day. "He's up to something."

Intrigued, her friend scratched the scruff on his jaw. "What're you thinking?"

"Justice has been too quiet lately. Unless you can tell me differently...?"

He shook his head, scratching his back against the rough chair. "No, no blue lightning shows since the last one. And to catch you up..." He ticked off his abridged updates on his fingers. "Aveline's going to pulverize Fenris one of these days, Fenris' most recent scowls make babies cry, Isabela disappears for days at a time– "

"Like always."

"Longer now. Though she eventually turns up naked in the clinic."

"More itching and burning?"

Varric's face crept into a broad smirk, and he tapped his bumped nose meaningfully. "The kind only Anders can scratch."

As his meaning sank in, Hawke leaned back in her chair and swore colorfully. "Maker's taint, Isabela! I thought they couldn't stand each other!"

Still looking thoroughly self-satisfied with that bit of gossip, the dwarf reached for his drink. "Pretty sure you're right, Hawke, but sometimes..." He raised it to her in a mock toast. "Hatred is the best seasoning."

"She does like dangerous people." Mairead raised her hands in surrender. "But hey – if it keeps him in check, she can ride him all she wants."

With a shrug, Varric continued. "Choir Boy keeps tabs with the templars, gets reports on Sunshine– "

"Thank the Maker for that man's face like the goddamn sun."

"The mine's overrun again–"

"Oh, for–!"

"But overall, this powder keg isn't too much closer to horribly exploding in all of our faces than normal."

"Huh." Pursing her lips and crossing her arms across her chest, Hawke considered his words for a moment. "Not to sound too full of myself– " He snorted, and she ignored him. "But I would've thought..."

"That they'd all be killing each other if you weren't around to do it for them?" She sighed, agreeing despite his choice of words. "And normally, you'd be right." He leaned back, spreading his hands proudly. "Fortunately, they've had updates on your mission to save them all."

Frowning, Hawke lifted her chin from her hand. "From who? And what mission? I never..." As she translated the look on his face from 'smug' to 'accomplished,' she realized that there was only one person among her diversely talented companions who could tell a lie in Hightown in the morning and it would be the truth at the Gallows by afternoon. With a groan, she swore under her breath and hoped for the least ridiculous. "What stories did you spread?"

"I had to tell them something to keep them from storming the gates and trying to rescue you."

True enough, she conceded. The thought of a bunch of scraggly refugees and paupers throwing rocks and wielding cracked oars in the face of a legion armed to the teeth was grisly, at best. "Right. Then I guess I should thank– "

"By the way, you should walk with a pronounced left limp in front of the people here for a while."

"Why?"

"Apparently, you broke it into three pieces heroically trying to save a Dalish baby from a blighted wolf. It was beautiful. Very moving."

"Varric!"

"What?" His voice was purely apologetic, though his face was anything but. "I will have you know that that is the less fantastic explanation of why you were seen being half-carried back from Sundermount."

She was about to ask after the more fantastic version when she heard shouting and the sounds of a scuffle up in the higher levels of the market. Groaning, she pushed herself to standing.

"Nice catching up with you, Varric."

As she took off running in the direction of Tomwise's stall, he cupped a hand around his mouth to call after her, smirking.

"Remember! Left leg!"

Interlude the Second: Afternoon Tea

Brown light filtered in through the rust-red canvas walls of the Arishok's study tent.

A map of Kirkwall lay flat on the desk before him, a trail of wet ink tracing square-edged veins across the districts and streets. He had received it from the ashaad in charge of cartography along with written accounts of the latest expedition into the city's underbelly, newly-mapped sewer passages and canal paths still drying in the cool air. Rumors had reached his ears of an old, neglected entrance into the compound that, if true, was a weakness that could be exploited and must therefore be investigated. The bloodthirsty, crazed occupants of this decomposing dathrasi carcass in the guise of a city would be all too quick to crawl the sewers like vermin looking for a crack in the compound's defenses.

They would not get the chance.

He assessed the new routes with a careful eye, noting the new tendrils of ink creeping closer to the lower markets or emptying into the bay. There had been no routes into the compound thus far, but the Arishok and those who followed him were nothing if not thorough and efficient. Consequently, other explorations had led to other hidden throughways in the bones of the former fortress that made for... interesting discoveries, such as the camouflaged door in the markets of their beggars and scavengers that led into the aristocratic boroughs.

Specifically, he recalled with interest, to the Amell estate. This door was a puzzle to the Arishok; he knew Hawke would not be so careless as to leave such a crucial path unguarded, yet she undoubtedly knew of its existence. The only obstruction the ashaad had met in their exploration had been a series of locked doors of no particular consequence. A deterrent enough for a merely curious child or drunkard, perhaps, but not for those truly determined or moderately skilled.

A noise of irritation rumbled up from his chest as he replaced the reports to the left of the desk atop the others. Humans were, by nature, incomprehensible creatures of little to no motivation beyond their basal desires and instincts. He had expected no different from the one they followed.

And yet she was not as they were.

He reached for his tea, letting it fill his senses: the warmth of the pottery against his palm and mouth, the quiet clack of his claws against the glaze, the deep color gradient, the smell of herbs and earth, the taste of spice and roots on his tongue.

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, she was there.

The low-backed bench across from his writing desk had, over her period of residence in the compound, become almost exclusively for her use. He had sometimes permitted her to conduct her studies while he worked, and she no longer felt the ridiculous compulsion to engage him in inane conversation simply because he was present.

She was there, stretched across the length of the cushion, turning up from the open book she held to meet his gaze.

Gray-blue eyes like storm clouds over Par Vollen.

A light came to the curve of her face, the shine of amusement, and she folded the book closed to drape her arms over the siderest.

"Leave that door alone," she said, voice warm and familiar. "You don't have to have an explanation for everything."

The Arishok kept his eyes on her, hands folded in front of his mouth, but said nothing.

Only fools replied to an echo.

With a soft grunt, she stood, crossing the distance to his desk and sitting on its edge. "You'll drive yourself mad over these things. You know us humans." She cocked her head, the corners of her mouth curving upwards to match her tone. "Completely illogical and utterly hopeless."

Every scar on her hands, arms, chest was replicated in exact precision, the hem of her overshirt just at the edge of where he knew the evidence of their congress lay.

He made eye contact, her eyes the only part of her that his mind had made nearly real enough to surpass his disbelief. But he did not reach for her.

She smiled, then, stretching one hand out to touch him. He could almost feel the warmth of her skin, a dangerous memory to keep so close.

"Well, don't worry about it," she said, leaning forward. "I'll have tea ready when you get back later." He felt a touch on his ridged forehead, like the brush of a feather, and she was gone.

The Arishok stared out into the silence and the stillness before him, taking a long, slow drink of his tea.

Edging her way through the crowd packed around Tomwise's stall, Hawke finally pushed her way to the clearing they'd created around the herbalist's wares. In the center, given a wide berth, was the qunari shopping delegation and a ragtag group of men looking both furious and terrified. Naturally, every makeshift weapon was drawn and trained on the giants, who were slowly unsheathing and unhooking their perfectly-maintained instruments in response.

"...back to where you came from," one of the ringleaders finished yelling. "We don't want none of your trouble here!"

Stepping forward, Hawke crossed her arms. "And what trouble would that be, exactly?"

Whispers rippled through the crowd, and the group of men looked to one another nervously. After a few moments of muttering, one haggard-looking human piped up.

"Everyone knows that they keep hun'reds of 'em locked up at the docks!"

"But they're in Darktown," she pointed out, quelling the approval that the crowd seemed to be murmuring. "And there are only six of them. Did you ask why they're here?"

"They've come to take our children," cried a short-haired elf, provoking a dry response from the kithshok leading the procurement team.

"I was unaware that elves gave birth to plants," he sneered. "This explains your kind's unnatural attachment to trees."

That was the opposite of helpful in this situation.

Sighing, Hawke fought the urge to pull out her hair. Maker, if sarcasm was a pillar of the Qun, she was well on her way to being the next head priest.

"What he means," she said, standing between the two groups in the invisible No Man's Land, "is that they're only here to trade. They don't want to fight."

"Big sword says otherwise," a bearded leader of the motley group spat, and Hawke rounded on him.

"They drew because you did," she informed him sharply, her tone laced with warning. "You started it." Quieting her voice, she stepped closer and addressed the men behind him as well. "Six of them can easily take all of you down and then some," she cautioned. "You don't have a chance." She laid a hand on a splintering staff one of the more frightened-looking humans was holding, earnestly appealing to his sense of self-preservation. "Put down your weapons."

"We'll put them away when they do," snapped someone from behind him, prompting a chorus of "Yeah!" and "Them first!" from the others.

Part of Hawke desperately wished the Arishok were here. He could send everyone scurrying with one glare and gather his men up with a gesture. Another part wasn't entirely convinced that his presence wouldn't have just made it ten times worse. These men knew that they were dead men walking if any fighting actually broke out. But neither would they back down first, and the qunari would never give in to demands from a bunch of weak, uncoordinated and untrained bas.

But they might listen to reason.

Switching languages, she used what vocabulary she could call up. "[They aren't a threat.]"

One of the karashok grunted. "[Like sheep, they follow blindly.]"

"[Then,]" she pressed, "[why do sheep bite?]"

She could see his eyes narrow as he followed her train of logic, arriving at her point. "[Fear,]" he stated simply.

"[Yes,]" she agreed, speaking firmly and calmly. "[They're startled.]"

He turned to speak to the others, using a flurry of words she only-half understood, and as she waited, she turned to glimpse their panicked antagonists. They were staring at her in a mixture of hope and terror, unable to tell if she had just pleaded for their lives or offered their firstborns as a sacrifice.

To the relief of all involved, however, the kithshok soon barked the order to cease hostility, and the crowd stared in awe as swords and spears and axes were clicked back into place. Only they weren't staring at the qunari.

They were staring at Hawke.

Gaping, the men lowered their weapons as well, though more out of disbelief than anything else.

"They... they do what she says!"

"You see that?"

"Hawke just gave orders to the qunari!"

The surrounding crowds and the improvised militia were abuzz with what Hawke could only guess were some creative interpretations of what just happened. The wide eyes and hushed whispers were worse than ever now, damn the Maker's sense of humor, and before she could think of any way to explain or rationalize the events of the last five minutes, the bystanders had quickly darted away like minnows, no doubt to fuel the already-churning rumor mill.

Swearing under her breath, Hawke dragged a hand across her forehead. Well, at least no one was dead, even if the resulting problem was one she hadn't foreseen in the slightest. Andraste only knew what monstrosities those stories would have turned into by nightfall.

A slow, lazy clap from above caught her attention, and she glared up at one platform atop a flight of stairs. Varric leaned against the railing, enjoying the view and looking thoroughly entertained.

"You could've helped, you know."

"And missed a show like that? Ancestors, no!" He spread his hands placatingly. "Besides, you know I don't speak Tall, Dark, and Angry. And Bianca's always got your back." He patted the crossbow affectionately, but Hawke was far from mollified.

She crossed her arms, taking a step back so as not to strain her neck. "Well, I'm still taking back that marriage proposal."

"I'm heartbroken. Really." He watched as a pair of children passed by, gawking bug-eyed at Hawke, but fleeing as soon as she made eye contact. At her sigh, Varric scratched his jaw. "You do realize they'll think you're a Qunari master now."

"Not my choice," she reminded him. "They're the ones starting the ridiculous rumors."

"Rumors are a nasty bitch," he replied. "Harder to kill than a cockroach and just as ugly."

Even so, a small shred of hope for a miracle from the silver-tongued Gossip Prince of Kirkwall still held a light in her chest. "Don't suppose you could fix it, then?"

The dwarf shook his head. "Even if I wanted to, Princess, I think this one's out of my hands."

Damn it.

Unfortunately for the procurement team (though the one who suffered most was likely Hawke), there were items on the list that were actually rather mundane and reputable, and thus unavailable in Darktown. They walked the slab-like stairs to street level, emerging at the side of the more colorful, brightly-lit markets in the lower city.

No sooner had they started checking the first stalls than the whispers started again, about as inconspicuous as the humming of a thousand bees and just as endearing. People clustered together and buzzed excitedly, and judging from their hand gestures and shocked faces, apparently something in her story was now over eight feet tall.

At times like these, Hawke wished that she could just punch people and the rumors would fall out of them, forgotten as soon as they hit dirt. Alas, living, breathing people were not shaken free of their contents like collection boxes.

She wasn't ashamed that they had seen her with the qunari, nor that they had seen her speaking the language. She was angry – angry that the only way they could fathom interacting with the painted giants was to dominate them, assert control, like savages or animals on leashes. The occasional "just keep them in check" that issued from glaring but grudgingly cooperative merchants wasn't doing anything to help either, and she was but a few angry inches away from throwing coin in the face of the next seller who made any kind of derisive comment about her entourage.

The stories only got worse, from the snippets she could catch. The ashaad and kithshok seemed completely unfazed by the ridiculous exaggerations, but Hawke was far less even-tempered. The latest iterations had begun involving the Arishok, and that – that was much more infuriating than the implications that she was a lone voice of reason among monsters, or that she was trying to convert them to the Chantry, or that she was somehow sacrificing herself to their thirst for violence and control to save the rest of the suffering city that was powerless to help their heroine.

Hawke didn't even bother to take the waterside routes to avoid gossip on the return trip to the compound. She boldly strode through the streets and down to the docks, nearly storming through the front gates and across the dusty entrance commons. Her irritation was palpable; her company stayed a few paces back and those in her path took half-steps to avoid her determined march.

That the rumors had reached the docks by now was inevitable, and she grumbled as she made her way to the Arishok's study tent. That meant the ever-well-informed warlord would have been made aware of at least some version of the scuffle and the fantastical interpretations it had produced.

He was standing in front of a bookshelf, thick volume in hand as she burst in, and he turned to assess the expression plainly worn on her face.

"Storm clouds," he observed, folding the book shut. Unsure of what he meant and unwilling to surrender even a fraction of her fury to any other task at hand, Hawke ignored him.

"Have you heard what they're saying about us?" She demanded, whipping off her gloves and throwing them on his desk angrily. "That I tamed you?"

"Yes."

He seemed so utterly apathetic that Mairead almost staggered under the stampede of her outrage. "And you don't care?"

"No."

The Arishok was like a stone tower surrounded by a raging hurricane, immovable and unfazed in the least. How he wasn't the least bit indignant when he rightly had more reason than she to be furious was unfathomable to her. "But the things they say, the lies–!" She crossed her arms, leaning against his desk and glaring at the rug as though she could set it ablaze with her mind. "Their assumptions are humiliating. Not just to me. To you, to everyone under the Qun. Like you're mindless beasts, or I'm some kind of willing puppet martyr for this city."

"The Qun does not reward ignorance or baseless ramblings," he declared flatly, unimpressed. "Any attention or consideration is a reward, and your zealots will receive neither from any who follow the Qun." He turned to face her, though she still focused her churning anger at the poor floor mat.

"The qunari are not so easily provoked."

"I know," she conceded, biting at her thumb in irritation. "And I shouldn't let those lie-spewing, feeble-minded gossip slingers get to me. Maker knows I've been the topic of the day more often than I'll ever want to know, but..." Words charged toward her mouth, and she couldn't help but burst out. "But they're making everything so much worse!"

As she ranted on, Hawke was only vaguely aware of his growing annoyance with her aggravated chatter. The snort, the narrowed eyes, the single step closer, the clenched and unclenched fists – all telltale signs that the Arishok was quickly losing his patience. They didn't register, though, and so she only caught the tail end of a warning growl before massive hands caught her around the waist, hauling her up roughly and depositing her firmly on a qunari-height table. As she loosed an indignant squawk at her smarting backside, those same clawed hands grabbed her face and forced her eye-to-eye, nose-to-nose with a displeased giant.

"Find," he commanded with a growl, each word sharp, "Peace. Immediately."

Under his stare, Hawke felt the wind leave her sails luffing and soon sagged against him, pressing her forehead to his. One deep, long breath later, and she spoke. "I'm finished."

"Yes."

"Thank you."

He snorted at that, the puff of warm air over her cheeks a welcome intimacy. She instinctively reached her arms to circle about his neck, but stopped herself, withdrawing them to an indecisive hovering, unsure. She desperately wanted to touch him, to seek reassurance in him and to unwind in the feel of his skin, but -

Her hesitation was met with an irritated growl, rumbling up from his chest. She moved to pull her arms back, but one hand caught her wrist tightly.

"You do not lack conviction," the Arishok charged, breath hot against her face.

Hawke swallowed hard.

"Indecision," he issued further, "is weakness."

Then his mouth was on hers, barraging her with force and heat and a demand that she readily yielded to. She felt the pull of his claws through her armor, a dull pressure and a reminder of the impeccable self-control that she constantly teased at and broke holes in like a siege of stone walls. As she worked her mouth against his, ridding their bodies of any remaining space between them, she reveled in the feel of him.

This felt like their first kiss. Even though they'd kissed before, this was the first time it felt like something different. It wasn't a 'something' she quite understood or could have articulated if asked, but she could almost taste the pounding of his thunderous pulse on his tongue, hear every muffled clink of armor as the leather and straps tangled around them. This time, there was no audience nor agenda; this was solely to enjoy.

It was she who broke the kiss, heavy breaths indistinguishable one from another in the air. "I thought," she murmured, not moving to give him an inch, "qunari didn't kiss."

"I enjoy the smell it produces," he grunted in response. "I will do as I please."

Puzzled, Hawke tilted her head, inadvertently bumping the tip of her nose lightly against his. "Smell?"

"It is an indication of affection which you cannot deny or rationalize."

She began to object, to justify her previous behavior, but was interrupted by an annoyed rumble.

"You protest that which you enjoy." He frowned, his usual contempt a welcome sight. "Humans are fools."

Laughing, Hawke grabbed his face and kissed him firmly. The urge to rub it in his face that she had given him something human that he enjoyed was overwhelming.

She wouldn't, but oh! did she want to.

When his arms granted her freedom, she hopped down from the table, watching as he re-shelved the book he'd been scanning before her tirade.

"In the interest of full disclosure–" She raised a hand. "–and for my own peace of mind, the scuffle today was actually rather simple." She leaned back, illustrating with her hands as she relayed the story. "In Darktown, the ashaad and kithshok were speaking to a vendor, and a small rabble reacted badly and tried to start a fight. I only managed to talk them both down to avoid an incident. Nothing more." Recalling some of the more colorful tales, she cocked her head. "No one was urinated on or made to lick boots."

He studied her for a moment, and she could see his eyes flicker as he processed the information. "As I had assumed," he affirmed after the short silence. "Your intervention was prudent."

"Kirkwall was a mess before you even arrived," Hawke shrugged. "They don't have the luxury of being hospitable. You're just a conducting rod for all of their..." She waved one hand in a vague circular motion. "...ambient rage."

"An apt metaphor," he snorted, but Hawke caught the weathered exhaustion at the edges of his face as he sat behind his desk. She knew that every incident like this snapped a rope in the tension bridge that was his tolerance for this place, and it wore on the man like a boulder.

The Arishok would never accept her pity. And she would never give it – she knew that there was something else she was better equipped to provide. And she would give all of it that he would allow.

Picking up her discarded gloves, she sat on the edge of his desk and poured him a fresh cup of tea.

"So," she began, eyes bright and smile wide. "How was your day without me?"

Chapter Text

A/N: I am the slowest at updating I knowwww

I am on tumblr now! Same moniker - 'tinyfierce.' =)

But I'm back with a new chapter! Only two left after this, and you can probably imagine what's about to go down.

Thank you to everyone for all the kind words and support and cheerleading – enjoy!

Day 62

From her usual seat, perched on the arena's dais platform, Hawke could easily watch the bouts over the top of her journal as she scribbled her thoughts into the pages. The sound of newly-converted elves amateurishly beating the tar out of one another was a delight she'd only discovered since coming to the compound, and it was a good deal more soothing to her ears than the traveling bards that frequented the Hanged Man with their warbling tales of lost love and melodramatic woe.

"Damnit, not the ears!" and "Stay still so's I can hit you!" never failed to bring a smile to her face.

Her pleasant mood was interrupted by a massive copper hand reaching over her and brusquely yanking the book from her grip, leaving a perfect stripe of ink from her last word down and off the page. She glared up at the qunari the hand was attached to, wiping the smudged pigment from her palm.

"You have come to the sparring arena," the half-horned Sten informed her. "Your attention is misplaced."

"That's an important book!" Hawke protested.

The Sten was unconvinced. "This is your viddathari journal."

"I was working on a particularly telling entry when you interrupted."

"Which was?"

"About how a cat stole a piece of my breakfast this morning."

He held it at arm's length, scowling disdainfully. "Riveting."

"Vashedan cat," she announced proudly. "See? My language is getting better by the day."

"I note that you remember 'vashedan' but not the word for 'cat.'"

"'Animals' comes after 'weapons' and 'exasperation noises.' Now give it." She leaned forward, her outstretched hand vainly flapping just out of reach of the leather-bound hostage.

"No." He held it farther away, as one would withhold an object from a child. "You are at the place to study fighting, and you will do so. Learn appropriateness, viddathari Hawke."

As she noticed the impatience in his posture and expression, Mairead suddenly understood that she was looking right at her intended opponent. He may as well have been tapping his feet and rolling his eyes, for all that the Qunari ever did such things. Even she knew that when a commander was standing in front of you, offering to teach you or beat you to a bloody pulp trying, you didn't keep him waiting.

Hawke's pulse kicked into gear at the prospect of fighting her high-ranking and talented friend. His arm and shoulder were healing exceptionally quickly, under expert training and supervision. She had been in his situation not two months ago; she knew the itch to fight that came with regaining your abilities. To be part of his healing process was a validation and an honor... as well an excuse to punch him in his stupid, condescending face.

Grinning, she tilted her head as she pulled one arm to stretch across her chest. "You know, if you wanted to spar, you could've just asked."

The Sten snorted. "I have seen from the Arishok how asking you to do anything will result. I would have a better chance reasoning with a root vegetable."

That did it. Hawke laughed and cracked her knuckles as she jumped down into the arena.

She had a good feeling about this.

Not five minutes later, Hawke and the Sten stood at one end of the arena, staring down at the splintered log that had created an inconvenient valley in the sand in front of them.

On one particularly well-timed leap, Hawke had managed to knock her friend off-axis and slammed into him, sending him hurtling backward into one of the thick boundary poles. They had watched in slow motion as the splintering spread, a cacophony of cricks heralding the end before it let out a final long creak and careened downward, loosing a spray of sand in its wake.

The human turned to the painted giant in disbelief, gesturing violently to the object in question. "You hit it with your ass and it broke?"

"I did not hit it," he corrected, "I was used as a projectile." With a rumble in his throat, he turned to glance at his own backside. "There will be some bruising."

"'Some bruising,' he says!" She crossed her arms, glaring up at him. "You know, if you hadn't provoked me– "

"You accepted; we are equally responsible for the pole's replacement."

Irritated grumbling gentled into a resolute sigh as Hawke ground the heel of her palm into her temple. "All right, fine. How do we– "

"Hawke."

She turned at the sound of the voice, knowing from the exasperated tone just exactly who it was. Fenlin stood at the edge of the arena, surveying the timber carnage from a distance. As their eyes met, he arched an eyebrow.

"Tent?" she half-guessed, half-surrendered.

"Tent," he confirmed.

Hawke gleefully jogged toward him, turning back to flash the half-horned Sten a shrug and trying halfheartedly to look upset. "I'd stay and help," she offered, "but it looks like I'm in for a lecture."

"It is just as well," he grunted. "You would have likely broken something else during the repair process."

She picked up her journal on the way out, waving it at him smugly before chasing after the disappearing elf.

"...and then his claws were in my face, and what else was I to have done?"

As she recounted how, exactly, they had managed to damage the arena, Hawke sat obediently on the stool and leaned forward to allow Fenlin access to her chest. He murmured an occasional agreement disinterestedly, pressing fingers and palms and ears to the flesh protecting her heart.

"So naturally," she continued, "I struck whatever was closest. I hadn't expected him to topple, but when I see an opening, I take it. Instinct, force of habit. So I hit him with everything I had, and suddenly, we're both scrambling to get out of the way of the pole about to crush us both." Grinning, she rolled her shoulders back. "Though if I had to guess, I'd say the match went to me. I'm sure the Sten would agree."

Chuckling, the healer drew back and handed back her overshirt. "Congratulations are in order."

She slid one arm through its sleeve. "On my win? Thank you."

"That too, though I meant your exam. You're healthy as a horse!"

With a snort, Mairead started on the ties. "Don't I know it."

"Hawke."

She lifted her head at his tone. He had an odd smile on his face as he repeated the words with a message she seemed to have missed.

"You're healthy," he said slowly, meaningfully.

Puzzled, she lifted her hands in tentative celebration. "Hurrah...?"

"You're completely healed." He leaned back, gracefully interlocking his long, thin fingers. "And your six weeks are more than up. You're set to leave the compound."

Hawke's blood ran cold.

"What?"

Her controlled stumble from the healer's tent was like a tiny flag flapping in the sea wind while a hurricane ravaged the ship to which it was attached. She had no evidence that her lungs were functional, save for the sharp burns of protest from within her ribs and occasional hot breath forcing itself out over a severely abused lower lip, damaged from constant worrying from her blunted human teeth.

There was nothing in her head. She couldn't pin down a single thought, panic quickly chasing away anything cognizant as soon as it was within her grasp. As she walked the streetways back to the tent she shared with the Arishok, her hands twitched of their own accord, fists clenching and unclenching over and over again, as though carried over from her mental efforts to grasp at something, anything.

She pulled the canvas and leather of the tent flap aside, the material far too heavy against her hand, and the sudden weakness in her arm poisoned her stomach. The taste of bile inched its way up her throat, and she grabbed one of the two wineglasses on the table, left over from the night before. One was half-full, still, and she was grateful for it as she washed down the taste of fear with alcohol and the spices that had been on the Arishok's mouth.

Using the little stillness she'd summoned with the wine, Hawke separated a sheet of parchment from the stack and reached for the inkwell.

To Varric Tethras, she wrote. Parlour Suite, The Hanged Man, Kirkwall.

The message itself contained three words.

'I'm coming back.'

Fenris stared up at the massive gate into the dockside compound, squinting in the midmorning light. He preferred to do anything requiring him to be out of doors to take place at midday or later, but the nature of his business didn't favor the luxury of lazy afternoons.

Muttering muted curses at the bright, unobstructed Kirkwall sun, the elf flexed his fingers against their metal confines. In quick, purposeful strides, he approached the entrance and raised a hand to greet the karashok minding the doors.

"Anaan esaam Qun," he began, the salutation rolling off of his tongue in an unpracticed, gravelly tone. "Nehraa a varin Hawke."

With a grunt and an assenting nod, the watch stepped aside, and Fenris moved over the threshold. It was almost surprising how easily he had been granted access, given the current situation in the city.

Though, he mused, they had let in a Chantry human and a very nervous dwarf, so an elf wasn't so far out of the question. Of course he had been the one sent in – since Varric had received Hawke's message the day before, sending someone to ferret out more than three words' worth of information was inevitable. With the advantages of language and abilities should he be disarmed, Fenris recognized that he was the natural choice, though he had by no means volunteered.

And by no means did he feel safe, either. Dozens of stares were fixed on him as he moved about, walking through narrow paths lined with tents and crates and very mistrustful giants. He kept his gaze straight, head high and ears flat against his skull. No quick movements. No surprises.

When he made it to a large partition with no glimpse of what lay beyond, he hesitated. He didn't want to go wandering where he was unwelcome, or worse, cornered. He stilled, the hot dirt beneath his toes shifting as he adjusted his weight.

"Your purpose," came a deep, dispassionate voice from behind him. "What is it?"

Fenris turned at the sound of the common tongue, looking up into a pair of bright violet irises. A qunari wearing the markings of a sten stood with his arms crossed, staring down at him. One horn was missing nearly half its length, neatly severed and protruding from meticulously-braided white hair.

"I have come to see Hawke," the elf answered, turning his body fully to face him. "And with no desire to stay longer than necessary."

Seemingly satisfied, the Sten raised a clawed hand to indicate the path that wrapped the corner. "It is after the morning bouts," he explained. "She will be in that area."

"Much appreciated," Fenris thanked him, bowing shallowly at the waist and following the direction given, fully aware of the Sten's stare fixed upon his back. He was eager to break it, and so quickly turned the corner through the partition gap, looking for a head of red-bronzed hair...

...and found it sitting on a rinsing stool, stark naked.

All of a sudden, the massive soaking tubs and scrubbing supplies snapped into view, and he realized that his purposeful stride had carried him directly into the baths. Which were populated by the unclothed behemoths and their converts.

And a very nude Hawke, who was casually watching him panic with that same broad smile she sported whenever she found something intensely entertaining.

"Morning," she greeted cheerfully.

Fenris was keenly aware of the heat pooling under his collar and at his eartips, flushing his olive skin deep pink and working its way in toward his nose and cheeks. As she emptied the contents of one bucket over her shoulders, rinsing her skin of its soapy sheen, a torrent of bubbles fled to the air. In each one, he saw a warped reflection of her seated form, further mocking him for his inability to be decent and look away.

She stood and wrung out her hair, and his eyes traveled the length of her bare arms and down over her ribs, watching the muscles beneath the skin flex and slacken with each stretch. It wasn't her body that held him captive – there had never been much of an attraction there – but rather the comfort in her countenance, the serenity in her movements. He had never seen its like in her before.

He missed her request for a towel the first time, only catching it when she repeated herself louder and with a sharp laugh.

Mortified, he jerked his head away, stalking over to the benches.

"Over there," she called. "On the left."

Fenris kept his gaze firmly averted as he cross-stepped back toward her sideways, the arm clutching the towel stiffly outstretched.

She ducked her head to try and catch his gaze as she dried off, amusement clear even through his peripheral vision.

"Really, Fenris?"

"You find entertainment in watching me squirm," he growled, the skin of his face throbbing with heat.

"No, it's just – when I was injured, you basically saw my breasts almost bare and didn't even flinch."

"The threat of danger took priority."

"I could throw rocks at you, if that would help."

"Hawke!"

"Okay, okay."

When he chanced a glimpse of her sideways, relief settled into his shoulders as she mercifully tucked the towel about her chest. At least he could feel less like a lecherous voyeur now, he mused, though willing the blush from his cheeks and ears would take some doing.

He would have appreciated the reprieve more had something not caught his eye. As she pinned up her hair, he noted the scar over her heart. That was to be expected, to be sure, but a second, fresher, more delicate set of marks had joined it six inches upward, decorating the expanse above her collarbone: perfect, regular punctures in a semicircle, half-healed and sinister-looking.

Had he not known better, he began to think as his scrutiny became more focused, he would have said those resembled–

She had noticed him staring, the look on her face an odd one as her hand crept up to gently probe the skin, presumably to check what had caught his attention. As her fingertips found the curved ridges, her hand stilled – only to move down to the towel.

"Well," she prodded, her smirk returning lightning-fast. "So now you want to see the goods?" She began to unwrap the towel, and his limbs stiffened.

"What? No, I– " He took a stumbling step backward, awkwardly covering his eyes with one hand's long, metal-covered fingers. Her laugh made his ears burn.

"I will wait outside," he managed, turning an about-face and striding half-blind toward the exit. He collided with one wall in his escape attempt, hearing her stifled snickers as he groped around until he found the gap and desperately lurched through.

A few moments later, she appeared at his side to gather him up, blessedly towel-clad.

Her eyes were still bright with mirth. "Want to go somewhere with more clothing?"

"Yes," he groaned. "For the love of decency, please."

She smiled at him then, and it occurred to Fenris that she may have been genuinely happy to see him. Or simply had missed these months' worth of inventive taunting.

Likely a mixture of both, he concluded as they walked, surprised to find himself pleased by the prospect of being missed. And further, that he was looking forward to her daily companionship and presence in the Hanged Man.

He cleared his throat. "I have come to ask which day you intend to return," he explained. "Varric is anxiously arranging something resembling a surprise party in your honor."

She snorted. "Not much of a surprise if you tell me about it ahead of time."

A smirk tugged at his mouth, though he kept his eyes ahead. "Your last surprise resulted in a bard with a stab wound and a broken lute."

"Then he shouldn't have jumped out from behind that table."

He chuckled.

They wound through the dirt paths, Fenris naturally falling into step alongside her leisurely pace. It was a bizarre experience, seeing this part of the compound. At times, he would catch a glimpse of something that would set his stomach churning at how very like Seheron it was; the smell of imported spices, the red woven armor, the tented walls, the spoken language. Even the salt of the sea air was reminiscent of the island, and he could have closed his eyes and been back on those sands, feeling his first miserable taste of freedom.

Other times, the juxtaposition of the structured culture with the despairing, stark harshness of the city was more than enough to remind him of how displaced the Qunari truly were.

The one thing that intrigued him above all else, however, was observing Hawke's interactions with the painted giants. The first time she had greeted someone in Qunari and been greeted in turn, Fenris had had trouble reconciling her face to her voice. The ease with which she spoke – though her skill with the language still left much to be desired – was effortless and free of artifice. The headbutting, the facial expressions, everything indicated that she had been far from idle in her study.

As they moved on from a few staring elven converts, Fenris made a noise in his throat that caught Hawke's attention.

She looked over to him. "What?"

He shifted, considering his next words carefully. "You have integrated yourself well."

After a moment's hesitation studying his face, Mairead turned her attention back to their course. "I'm good at blending in."

"That is so."

He didn't have time to further think on her evasiveness. They had barely turned the corner when Hawke let out a squawk of surprise, bumping squarely into red armor and warpaint.

When the Arishok's face registered, Fenris flattened his ears and tensed his arms. He wasn't sure what level of offense it was considered, but he would have half a second to get between the qunari leader and Hawke before he found out.

To his surprise, the Arishok simply growled and waited for Hawke to extract her tangled hair from his chest buckle.

"I know," she muttered, fingers working to free the damp curls. "Be more aware of my surroundings."

"Repeating criticism is useless," he issued, "if it is not followed, kadan."

Fenris' ears twitched.

"I'm working on that." Satisfied, she stepped back. At that, the Arishok turned his yellow-gold eyes to her companion, and the tattooed elf felt his markings prickle on sheer instinct alone. The warlord made no advance or threats, simply regarding him with vague interest.

"The oddity," he remarked.

"You should thank him," Hawke declared, smirking. "He was the one who taught me to speak 'irritated grumble.'"

"I do not grumble," Fenris said flatly, but was ignored.

"He's here for an update," she continued. "Can he enter the tents, or should he wait outside?"

The Arishok crossed his arms, staring intently, and Fenris knew he was being assessed, though the Qunari's study did not seem to include the greatsword strapped to his back. Not even a question of that, he supposed.

"This elf has your trust?"

"Yes."

Finally, after another tense silence, the Arishok rumbled his assent. "I will permit it."

His tone of voice was clearly 'make it brief and don't touch anything.'

Fenris made no protest.

They entered a large reddish-brown tented structure, the canvas walls covered in insulating leather panels. Not the barracks, Fenris noted as he held up a hand to push aside the entrance flap. The acolytes' tent, he hazarded, or converted storage –

He had not been expecting the lush interior that greeted him. A large, sloping pile of cushions tumbled down beside a low table, and thick books were arranged meticulously on every horizontal surface. An ornate majan teapot and matching cups were waiting for use on one shelf, and artfully cut brass lanterns hung on chains from the ceiling.

As Hawke disappeared behind a partition, the elf found himself drawn to the décor and reading materials. These were most definitely not the accommodations of a foot soldier, nor books within his friend's reading level. Growing unease pricked maddeningly at the back of his mind, and he narrowed his eyes in concentration.

What have I walked into?

He turned back toward the partition, fully ready to extract a proper answer from Hawke regardless of what state of dress she was in, when a pair of stands came into view. Armor stands, he saw as he moved closer to investigate. One qunari-sized, massive and empty. And beside it...

He instantly recognized the woven underlayer Hawke had always preferred. And her deceased brother's bracers, and her prized daggers. The new additions to her armor, the waistpiece and shoulders and boots, were the red woven leather that the qunari had perfected, the secret of which was as protected as gaatlok. It was not given to outsiders, much less made for them. And the way it was crafted was suited perfectly to her movements, by someone with a working knowledge of combat and strategy.

Someone had been watching her. Someone who warranted a private tent, who had the authority to commission an armorer, and who had left teethmarks in her throat.

Hawke, Fenris now well understood, was not the Arishok's captive.

"All right," her voice came from behind him, "fully clothed and ready for party planning. How would you feel about talking over a meal or..."

Her voice trailed off, and she came to a stop beside him, intently watching his fingers as he tapped a claw to the leather waistpiece in front of him.

"He designed well for you," he observed offhandedly, turning to judge her expression.

It was not a pleased one.

An indeterminate number of things passed over her face – panic, despair, fear, relief, defensiveness, pain - but not a one of them shame. As he would have expected of Hawke, she took no more than a moment to gather herself up, straighten her posture, and meet his eyes with a resolute stare.

"Please don't tell the others."

A more than reasonable request, he concluded as he turned away from the armor completely, crossing his arms. "It is not my right to," he replied, frowning in thought. "But… even for you, Hawke, this..."

Hawke sighed, visibly relaxing. "Long story. And we'll both need a drink."

"Agreed."

Time found them both talking over tea and spiced wine, sitting on mats over the storage crates and watching the men walk by.

"If I understand correctly," Fenris attempted to summarize, "you are not converted, but… a resident ambassador?"

"In a way," she half-agreed, sipping a steaming mug of something pleasantly sweet while wrapping her fingers around it for the warmth.

"And this brings you to the Arishok?"

"No, I think I'm in love with him."

As she felt the words leave her mouth, Hawke fought the urge to add a colorful insult or two toward the end, just to make it sound even the slightest bit less bizarre. As it was, she had just essentially confessed aloud the events of the last few months to one of the least emotionally forthcoming of her companions. She was grateful for that; the last thing she wanted was for her disclosure be met with a wave of feelings and awkward attempts to express them.

She watched on as he looked uncomfortable, waiting patiently as he dragged metal-clawed fingertips along his teacup in a habit she recognized as him wrestling with his thoughts.

When he spoke, he reclined thoughtfully, resting his shoulders against the paneled wood of the crate behind him. "As a friend, I feel as though I should say... something."

"And I will listen." Hawke folded her legs, doing her best to look attentive.

After a few false starts and muttered curses, Fenris uncrossed his long legs and draped them over the side of his perch, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

"Hawke," he began.

"Yes."

"You..."

"Me," she prompted.

He trailed off again, and after a few moments of purposefully maintaining eye contact for sincerity's sake, Hawke fought down a snicker as he hung his head and groaned.

"I am useless at this," he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. "I have never had an... intimate friendship, and as such, have never attempted advice."

"I'll take anything you've got," she offered, and he considered it.

"Then, if I may offer my observations." He tapped a finger to the rim of his cup, the ceramic chiming in regular time. "I thought it was defensive, at first, your melding into the Qun. A way to survive, perhaps, or gain an advantage. It may have begun as such." He paused again, and as he stared out at the compound, Hawke could see him coming to resolve around a particular thought.

"But now I have come to believe that you are genuinely happy," he declared, sitting back. "Why would you wish to leave?"

Frowning, Hawke picked at a splinter sticking up through the mat. "Didn't you say that the Qun was just another kind of slavery?"

"My past may lead me to... exaggerate, at times," he admitted, and his friend's head snapped to attention.

"You think?"

Fenris' ears flattened at that, but as he saw her familiar grin, his smirk fought through. "Fair enough; I own to it." He crossed his arms, pointing one clawed finger at her accusingly. "But this, coming from the woman who solicited my help against a dragon by calling it 'a little reptile problem'?"

"And you were very helpful, thank you."

His gravelly chuckle warmed her heart a bit, even as his smirk faded and his expression returned to the concern it had held before. "And he is simply letting you go?"

"I was only supposed to be here until I was healthy," she reminded him, "and I'm a fast healer."

"That may be so," her tattooed friend said slowly, "but the circumstances have changed. And the Arishok is not a man who easily relinquishes anything he values."

"Neither am I. So we'll find a way."

"Hm." He settled his shoulders, studying her face. "The Qun is black and white, Hawke. You belong, or you do not. I know this well; do you?"

Hawke conceded his point, silently sipping at the cooling remnants of her tea.

She knew. And so did the Arishok.

Fenris didn't talk much the rest of his visit. He was never one to offer up conversation unprompted (or sober), though Hawke appreciated his efforts when he did mention a similarity between the compound and the giants' homelands. She had never been to Seheron nor Par Vollen, though she had seen countless drawings and read even more numerous descriptions of the white shores and lush flora.

He often fell silent to escape into his own mind, and Mairead acutely recalled the look on his face that night he'd relayed the means of his escape over nearly three bottles of Tevinter wine. The lands might have been beautiful, but covering them in blood had likely greatly diminished the fond sentiment they might have stirred in his memories.

"Hey," she prompted, as an idea as to cheering him up suddenly occurred to her. "Want some of that tea to take back with you?"

He frowned a bit, but turned to her all the same. "What for?"

She shrugged. "I saw the look on your face when you were drinking it earlier. Like it's better than that wine you suck down."

"If I wanted tea," he muttered, ears flat at the mention of his drinking habits, "I would purchase it myself."

"No, you wouldn't," Hawke grinned. "That would mean waking up in the morning and interacting with living people in the market. And it still wouldn't be this tea."

"True."

She stopped walking to nudge him a bit with her foot. "Come on," she prodded. "Consider it a thank-you gift for listening to me. Or a bribe for your silence, if you prefer."

A smirk wound its way onto his face. "Or perhaps compensation for the last time following you ended up in a large amount of bleeding?"

Hawke said nothing, but tried to look innocent as Fenris chuckled and followed their new path.

As they got to the healer's tent, Hawke pulled aside the flap and walked in. "No one here today," she greeted, the elf at the workbench in front of her turning around. "Must be because someone takes excellent care of his charges."

"And someone must want something," he countered, crossing his arms and looking entertained.

"Can't I visit my favorite healer just to see his beautiful face?"

He was about to retort when Fenris' silvery head came into view, following Hawke through the door flap with an outstretched gauntlet keeping the heavy canvas at bay.

"Friend of yours," he surmised, and Hawke could sees his eyes traveling the path of the tattoos on her friend's skin.

"Friend of mine whom I owe a very large present," she replied as Fenris made his way over. "I was thinking of paying him in tea – any recommendations?" When the olive-skinned elf was at her side, she turned to him brightly. "Fenris," she began, "this is Fenlin, the chief healer. He's one of the few reasons I stayed sane here and learned any of the language."

With a grumble of assent, the warrior turned to the seated elf in front of him. "Shanedan," he began. "Dan e Fenris asit. Kaava nehraa a Hawke mahedan."

Fenlin's ears twitched, but to his credit, simply leaned against the desk and tilted his head curiously. "Shanedan," he returned, braid sliding across one shoulder. "Fenlin hisran e. Hawke say na shokra?"

"We met a little over a year after I first arrived in the city," Hawke replied to the inquiry. I helped him with some real estate issues–" a snort from her left, " –and he's been fighting alongside me ever since."

"I see." A warm, welcoming smile crossed the healer's mouth. "Your accent is... puzzling."

Hawke could see Fenris visibly stiffen.

"My situation does not often call for me to speak the Qun," he said flatly, but Fenlin waved off the defensiveness in his tone.

"No, your accent is fine," he clarified, "but I can't figure out how you got it." He turned to pull out a small burlap pouch, taking down jars and containers full of dried herbs. "On the southwestern side of Seheron is the collection of tribes you sound like – the Fog Warriors, the Bey'hath. But they hardly ever go to the ports - how did you learn from them?"

Hawke desperately wished he would turn around and notice her frantically flailing "No!" and "Shh!" from behind her tattooed companion. As it was, no such luck. The shoulders in front of her tensed, and he was briefly reminiscent of a skinny, white-furred cat raising its hackles warily.

"I found myself in the jungles of Seheron while separated from my..." Fenris struggled for the word. "...party. I was with the Fog Warriors for some time."

"That explains it, then." A handful of pungent seeds joined their fellows in the pouch. "The jungles are treacherous; you're lucky your party found you."

"Lucky is not the word I would choose," Fenris growled.

"My!" Hawke interrupted stiffly, voice catching on an awkward crack. "How about that tea, eh?"

"Ruthless, perhaps," Fenris continued. "Single-minded, merciless, obsessed." The last of those slid out dripping with bile, so venomous that Hawke was certain that, even distracted, Fenlin couldn't have missed it.

He didn't.

"Sounds like you didn't want to be found," he observed, crushing dried leaves into shreds between his fingers.

"No," Fenris confirmed. "I did not."

There was a tense silence beside the workbench as the healer finished mixing the herbs, save for the crunching and clacking and rustling that came from his work. Finally, as he pulled the pouch's drawstring shut, he turned and held it out to the armored elf with a dry smile.

"Well," he offered, "there's no better place to hide than Kirkwall."

"Yes," Hawke echoed breathily. "Beautiful city, really, if you overlook the crime and corpses. You know what they say: 'Hide a tree in the forest, hide a mugging in Kirkwall.'" She turned to Fenris, desperation creeping in at the edges of her senses. "Wait for me outside?" she urged. "I need my daily checkup and I'll join you just after."

With a noise in his throat, Fenris eyed the pouch of tea, hooking one metal-clawed finger into its string and lifting it free of the other elf's hand.

"I hide from no one," he informed him flatly, gravel-rough voice firm and controlled. And with that, he turned and strode out the flap into the sun-bleached streets.

Hawke was downright swimming in powerful relief and exasperation as she collapsed into a chair with a loud groan, Fenlin turning nonchalantly back to his bench.

"Rule of thumb," she began, staring up at the ceiling with glassy, dead eyes. "Don't ask any of my particular companions about their pasts. Or what they're up to in the present. Or mention the future." She wrinkled her nose. "Maybe you shouldn't even ask the time, if you can avoid it."

Chuckling, Fenlin began the task of putting the jars back in their places on the shelves, sealing and replacing them with a gentle click. "It seems I have a knack for difficult conversations and harsh truths."

"For which I should be grateful," Hawke sighed, closing her eyes. "I know." When no sarcastic response came, she cracked one eye open and tilted her head. His expression had sobered somewhat, and as she replayed the last few lines of their conversation in her head, a growing stone rolled violently and gained momentum in the pit of her stomach.

She straightened, flexing her fingers and exhaling deeply in an attempt to somehow expel the tension building in her bloodstream.

"The Arishok knows I'm clear to leave," she only half-asked, "doesn't he?"

The elf closed the last lid, letting his hand rest on top for a moment before placing it with the others. "You took too long," he informed her, "again, Hawke."

Her thunderous heartbeat made her ears pulse as she reclined in the short-backed examination chair. She couldn't be angry, except at herself. Fenlin was Qunari; it was his role and his job to report to the Arishok. He had given her a chance to tell the warlord herself, and she had hemmed and hawed and wallowed and waffled and thoroughly wasted it. Though she wasn't sure if he'd be more displeased at the prospect of her leaving or the fact that she had kept it hidden for a full day.

She let her head fall against the support pole behind her, rolling her skull back to stare up at the canvas roof. "How did he react?"

Fenlin's answer was short, to the point, and, true to character, painfully honest.

"He didn't."

"Hey. You okay?"

Hawke stood with Fenris at the main gates, the both of them facing side-by-side toward the city visible through the battered, red-stained wood.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "I could ask the same of you." She could feel his attention on her for a moment more before he turned back to the grisly architecture. "It is... revolting."

"It's home," she offered, managing a halfhearted shrug. "And it has ale."

She was rewarded with a rough chuckle, which her heart greedily grasped at for warmth.

"Then I shall await you with enough of it to make even an ogre vomit," he promised, and Hawke smiled despite herself.

"Good man."

They lingered for a short spell more, watching carts and people pass, and any other of her companions would have searched for something to say, some awkward comfort to offer their leader in spite of their situation and lack of understanding. Fenris, thankfully, was not so, and Hawke was grateful just for his presence a short while longer.

"Then," he announced, breaking the quiet, "in two days' time, Hawke."

The gates were opened for him, and Hawke wrapped her arms around herself as she watched him go. Her stomach sank as the gate was latched shut, the echoing clank resonating in her chest.

She looked at the world outside, with the Kirkwallers straining to glimpse in amid the stench of refuse and fear - the world she was supposed to go back to.

Two days.

She didn't move until sundown.

Chapter Text

A/N: I KNOW IT'S BEEN 6 MONTHS BUT I WANTED IT TO BE GOOD

I suppose that's a consequence of improving your writing – you become picky as fuck. Also, life, but when is it not?

Anyway – one more update, and this story is finished, you guys. I am so excited to goddamn finish something so big and so important to me. So excited, in fact -

- THAT I AM DOING A GIVEAWAY.

The rules are on tumblr (here!), but you don't need to be on tumblr to participate! There are three prizes, and an endless stream of my love.

Enjoy.

Day 64

"It's a legitimate question, and you're avoiding it."

Hawke swatted at the tent flap that the Arishok let fall in her face, stalking after him as he retreated to the relative privacy of his dwelling.

"Running won't do you any good," she continued, keeping his wide frame in her hunter's sights.

"The Arishok does not run," he growled as he shucked his armor violently enough to scuff the flooring. Piece after piece joined the first in an uncharacteristic disregard for their placement.

Hawke grabbed an errant pauldron and slung it into its place on the massive stand. "Not from battles, I'm sure," she muttered. "Only from difficult, emotional conversations."

Huffing through his nose, the Arishok bypassed her completely in his search for a book. "This conversation," he said flatly, "is neither."

"Like hell it isn't!" She was right behind him again, insistent and increasingly agitated by his refusal to engage her in any way that wasn't outright dismissive. "I'm asking you what's going to happen tomorrow, and you're acting like there's nothing going on."

He inspected the volumes, not acknowledging her tantrum whatsoever. Undeterred, Hawke moved between him and the shelves, raising her hands to obscure his search.

"Arishok," she insisted, "I'm leaving tomorrow."

Without hesitation, he reached over her and plucked a book from its place. "Yes." Her stare of utter disbelief went unrecognized as he turned past, sinking heavily into the haphazardly perfect accumulation of cushions.

Hawke had never wished she were a mage harder than when she was furiously trying to set him ablaze with her mind.

"Am I missing something," she demanded as she stood over him, "or are you really this apathetic?"

When she got no response, she prodded him with her foot, eliciting an annoyed grunt.

"Hey," she called. "I want to talk."

"You are accomplishing that on your own," he replied flatly. "My participation is unnecessary."

"About us, you great horned ass!"

Still his eyes scanned the worn pages. That was it – that was it. Irritated beyond belief, Hawke reached down and yanked the book from his grasp, tossing it aside and setting her hands firmly on her hips.

He was looking at her now. Furious, but undoubtedly giving her his undivided attention – that, she could work with.

"You pick that book up again before we talk," she informed him coolly, "and I swear I will throw your entire library into the harbor if that's what it takes to finish this."

She had no warning. In an instant, her world spun as she was struck behind the knees, falling headlong across the Arishok's legs. Claws pricked into her hips, shoving her sideways and forcing her onto her back in the sea of dense cushions, shortly followed by the entirety of the warlord's bulk landing above her. He pinned her firmly, trapping her beneath him as anger radiated from the both of them, bathing one another in tense heat.

The growl in his throat traveled through his bones, muscle, skin - humming against Hawke at every point of contact. She met his glare, though, with equal irritation and resolve. He might have been superior in size, strength, and rank, but the qunari never experienced the life of constant, unending conflict that came from having siblings - that particular advantage went to Hawke.

Long moments of the staring match ticked by, the human occasionally bracing against hot puffs of tea-laced breath across her face, before something in the Arishok's expression suddenly shifted. She could see his eyes change, simultaneously taking light and darkening before he rolled back to sitting, keeping her between his knees as he began quickly and efficiently stripping them both.

Relief rushed into Hawke's veins just as quickly as the borrowed heat disappeared from her skin. They were both agitated. It was an undeniable physiological fact that having sex would significantly dampen both of their more destructive impulses, insofar as things they would each say or do that they would regret.

Right now, this was the Arishok's answer. The twitch of his claws at the ties on her waist were another symptom of being too angry to speak calmly, and his self-control and ability to maintain rational thought were his pride. And though one of his motivations was undoubtedly to shut Hawke up for a damn minute, he was fucking her just as much to shut himself up.

Any clothes that would have been an impediment were a haphazard pile on the floor. He came down to her again, then, nipping and lapping at her throat with a bit less caution than usual. He had long since learned her body's limits, though, and Hawke had become practiced at her own less-than-stellar restraint in the face of a good, rough tumble.

They were both getting better at not making each other bleed.

A violent shiver ran up Hawke's body as he pulled back to reach between her legs and methodically run a single knuckle in a path he knew to be particularly effective. Her back arched instinctively; her genitalia liked what it liked, angry or no. It wasn't more than a minute before his practiced hands had her growing impatient – this wasn't meant to be slow and pleasurable, it was supposed to hurry up and get the gaatlok out of their systems so that they could interact like grown adults again.

She had no problem communicating that to her partner, who growled an acknowledgement and shifted back to settle back between her thighs. Hawke stretched, exhaling slowly as he slid in to the hilt, then felt him still as he paused, waiting for her to check in.

She responded by wriggling against him to take him in further, the resulting rumble in his throat and chest sending a pleasant vibration up through her hips. That was enough – and he was more than prepared to oblige. His pace was strong, steady, and familiar in its rhythm. It didn't take long to coax him to full-tilt, however, and sweat soon matted the fine white strands of his unbound hair to his neck and shoulders.

Hawke came first, turning to muffle her voice in the cushions as she grabbed a pair and pressed them to her face. All she could feel was the powerful sense that she had needed this, that getting the daylights slammed out of her was somehow on equal footing with food or air. Through the shaking and shivering, the visceral wash of sensation, she could feel the cords of frustration start to loosen and unwind, though the unease remained undisturbed beneath it all.

The Arishok wasn't far behind her, the clenching and spasms of Hawke's orgasm scratching at his self-control enough to break it. His grip on her hips was painfully tight as he hissed out a low breath, and Mairead craned her neck to watch his fearsome face as he rode out a hard climax.

It was cathartic, coming down from it together. She could feel his pulse slowing, a few beats behind hers, and his ragged breaths began to even out in time and depth. Cool air rushed across her body as he pulled his hot, sweat-slick skin away, grunting acknowledgement as she propped herself up to roll her forehead across his just the once. They were both palpably calmer now, sex soothing their agitation with what could have equally been their situation as well as one another. Everything had a purpose to the qunari – and Hawke couldn't deny that it had served them both.

As they cleaned themselves up, redressing a priority in the growing evening cold, Hawke was keenly aware of that heavy, rolling anxiety in her stomach - almost stronger now that the frustration masking it had dissipated. After finishing the final tie on her overdress, she stretched in an attempt to dislodge the stress and emotion before she spoke again.

"Well," she said, resignation in her voice as she turned to watch him re-tie the drawstring on his pants. "I'm still angry as hell at you. Mellower, to be sure, but angry."

He frowned, thick brows knotting as he picked up the book she had tossed aside. After his inspection found no damage, he re-shelved it and rumbled unrest in his throat. "I as well," he admitted. "And yet our discussion is unfinished."

"Right." She leaned forward to pour herself a cup of scalding-hot tea, downing it in one painful-yet-oddly-satisfying swallow. She felt the burn linger in her mouth, sensation slowly returning to her tongue as she sat in silence. She was fairly certain that the Arishok was experiencing something similar, from his equal unwillingness to speak.

Hawke's nerves were singing, the effort of holding in emotion making stillness physically painful. She needed to deal with this – they both did – but neither of them would be served well by sitting in a tent and having an invisible argument.

"Hey," she called, and he turned. "Is the sparring arena free?"

He studied her for a moment, gold eyes focused and steady as the gears whirred and clicked into place. He knew her well enough to quickly arrive at the train of thought she was running. "There are no bouts this evening," he began, tapping his claws on the nearest shelf. "And discussion has yielded nothing."

"No armor, no weapons," Hawke offered, literal or otherwise. "Just beat the tar out of each other like rational, civilized people."

He made a noise in his throat, considering. "Your suggestion has merit."

"Right." She shoved herself upward, digging her palms out of the embroidered mountain. "That's the closest thing to agreeing we've had so far. Good enough."

Without waiting for his response, she made a beeline for the tent door, already feeling a bit more composed every time her soles hit dirt. She left in fast strides, his long gait slowly and steadily following not far behind.

The arena was, as she had hoped, blessedly devoid of combatants or bystanders. This wasn't the sort of thing she wanted an audience for; she had a feeling things weren't going to follow any sort of combat rules or sparring etiquette, exactly.

Hawke practically ripped off her overshirt, tossing it over a rack as she passed. She tightened the straps at her waist and ankles, pulling a string from her wrist to tie back her thick, unruly waves. Tremors shivered down her fingers as she tugged frantically at every tie, every hair. This feeling was what she vaguely imagined lyrium withdrawal was like for templars. The prospect of a good, hard fight, the chance to escape this sinking bog of gray and thick emotion – that was what made her body tremble with anticipation. She wouldn't even need to stretch or warm up, what with all of the adrenaline in her system.

She wanted to beat the hell out of him and love him.

Going through the motions of stretching, Mairead watched her taciturn opponent stalk over to the sparring weapon rack, following him intently with her gaze as he took every step in what was entirely the wrong direction. As he reached for the wooden replicas of a greatsword and waraxe, Hawke felt the muscles in her neck stiffen and any pleasant rush of optimistic endorphins stop entirely.

"We agreed," she called crisply, "no weapons."

He grunted, acknowledging her protest but ignoring it entirely. "You are at too severe of a disadvantage," he announced flatly, tossing her favorite pair of dagger surrogates in her direction.

Hawke set her jaw, striking the facsimiles down into the sand at her feet and kicking them away. He was watching – she made sure that he was.

This was not the time to tell Mairead Hawke that she was physically inferior unless armed.

Her barely-contained rage bubbled at the surface of her composure as she stared him down, clenched fists shaking with the burst floodgates of every emotion she'd experienced in the last twenty-four hours boiled down to their chemical essence. She took one, two, then three deliberate steps forward, placing herself just over the boundary lines of the arena, directly between the pole he had once pinned her to by her neck and a fresh pole to replace the one she had recently shattered with the Sten's bony ass. The smell of still-seeping pitch and sawdust burned her nose, and she fought the urge to lash out and strike at its source.

"You have ten seconds," she seethed, "before I launch myself at you, whether you are inside the lines or not."

He stared at her for a long moment, studying her from a distance as precious, precarious seconds ticked by. Finally, he replaced the war axe and oversized sword with a firm click back into the rack, watching his own hands as the fingers released their grip.

"I will honor the terms of the original agreement," he conceded as he turned to the arena, making his way toward the closest boundary. The unspoken even if I think you're an utter fool rang out loud and clear in the dead air between them.

He had barely set a toe over the line when Hawke dug the balls of her feet into the grainy soil and propelled herself forward and up – tight springs didn't uncoil slowly or gently, they exploded. She was in midair before her brain could catch up with the rest of her body, and the two still hadn't fully lined up by the time she clipped the Arishok's shoulder on the hard descent. She hit the sand where he used to be, keeping low and turning as he lunged.

She'd nearly forgotten how terrifying it was to engage him in the ring. The once had been enough, and she'd been armed. Now all she had was her speed and her fists, and it was infinitely more empowering. It felt more honest; there was nothing to hide behind or to throw at one another.

Except words, perhaps.

"I don't understand," she manged as she backpedaled away from a swinging hook in front of her chest. "Am I the only one of us that this means something to?!"

His next swipe grazed her ear, sending her spinning and cursing. "You are not," he growled, "as you are well aware." His shoulder slammed into her chest, and her feet dug long divots into the sand below as she planted her heels in an effort to regain purchase. He came at her again, and she was ready.

"I don't know how it is in the Qun," she managed as she dropped down, slipping past him to strike at his bare back. "But where I come from, you don't give up on what's important to you."

He bared his teeth then, apparently more angered by being called a quitter than being struck squarely in the ribs. The claws came out now – in the literal sense, as an attempt to catch hold of Hawke's throat narrowly missed, leaving evenly-spaced scratches that stung as sweat beaded off of her skin.

She caught his wrist, yanking it close and striking at the crook of his elbow as she pulled herself in closer and drove the heel of her palm upwards into his jaw. She was flung back with a roar, the Arishok's warpaint smearing across her forearm as she raised it to defend herself, albeit a split second too late. Her sternum vibrated with the impact, and her heart seemed to take it as a challenge.

There was a series of blows then, all raining from above as she snaked back and held her ground against the force of the assault. She could feel in his strikes that he was a fair shot above irritated and in any other situation, with any other opponent, she would have used his fury to her advantage, distracted him with it. But skilled at that as she was, Hawke would have been piss-poor at it while struggling to contain her own emotions.

One of his fists sailed past her head, and she wove beneath it, taking the opportunity of his exposed ribcage to nick him enough to get him to buckle and allow her better access to his back. She hooked her elbow around his neck, swinging herself around behind him and digging her feet into his hips as she grappled with his horns. Any triumph she might have felt at gaining the high ground was quickly smothered as he sank his claws into her calves, holding her firmly in place.

In the blink of an eye, the breath was pressed from her lungs as her back slammed into a pole. She was crushed between the warlord's bulk and the dense wood, managing a few raspy curses as his fingers sought out her forearms to pull her loose. She wasn't ready to release him, though, and locked them tightly beneath his jaw.

He pressed her harder, but she was relentless. She might have been immobilized, but at least she could breathe – which was more than she could say for the qunari she had in a death grip. As he managed a sliver of space, he wrenched one of her wrists free and turned away from the pole in an effort to dislodge his opponent.

"Your accusation is an insult," he spat, grunting with the effort it took to keep hold of her much smaller limbs. His superior raw strength won out, however, and within seconds, Hawke was airborne. She hit the ground rolling out of reflex, grateful for the distance she'd gained as the Arishok stalked over, seething.

"To the contrary," he raged, gaining momentum as she scrambled upright. "I have done everything but abandon you."

She coughed out a dry laugh as she ran for the nearest boundary pole, flexing her abused wrists. "You don't say! Then what's all this?" She leapt against the knotted surface, using it as a springboard to turn and aim a heel at the Arishok's chest. "Whoop," she jeered, "it got marginally difficult!" As her foot connected, earning her a satisfying groan and stumble from the painted giant, she took the chance and darted to the side. "Things change! No future possible, the end!"

She nearly missed his arm swinging back at her, sinking in the nick of time and delivering a sharp kick to the back of his knee as she sprang back.

"Do not make me responsible for your fury," he sneered as he came at her again, "because I would not feed you the platitudes you crave."

"Platitudes," she parroted back in indignation, grunting at the impact of his shoulder against her forearm. "I didn't want platitudes, I just wanted more thought put into it than 'no'!"

A growl sounded in his chest as he drove her back, progressively losing more and more of his self-control as the hits came harder. He was beyond furious, and tired of this fight – they both were. But it couldn't not happen. Not before she walked out of that gate.

Or, at this rate, was carried on a stretcher.

Her shoulders hit dirt, hard. She gasped in a breath, crawling back on her elbows as the Arishok took slow, tense steps towering over her. When he spoke, his voice was what Hawke imagined it sounded like when you offended a rockslide. Each word was sharp, deliberate, and burned like a hot coal.

"I have spent," he informed her, "more hours thinking of how to make accordances for you than you have spent in dreams."

She pushed herself upright, directly in his path and well within his reach. He stopped, waiting.

"I suppose I should feel honored," she said slowly. "And I'm touched, really." Her shoulders were low, her whole body still battle-ready, fueled with resolve – though the longer she looked at him, the more of it she felt bleeding away down into the arena floor. She met his eyes, then, a kind of hopeless resignation creeping into her voice.

"But you're still throwing me out."

He said nothing.

His silence was more than she could take. Her control snapped like a crushed twig, and her lungs wrenched out a roaring cry as she leapt at him, a maelstrom of fists and fury and no rational thought whatsoever. She completely surrendered to her frustration and rage, dealing out a barrage of blows from muscle memory alone as the most broken part of her commandeered the rest of her body.

There was nothing she threw at him that the Arishok didn't take. He braced himself, absorbing every strike without moving, feet firmly planted in place and arms held up in self-defense. She hit his jaw; he growled, but did not retaliate. She clipped his throat; again, nothing. So it continued, Hawke a blur of attacks and cries of effort and the Arishok a willfully accepting battle dummy.

She should have felt angrier that he wasn't fighting back, told herself that he was being patronizing or a martyr or trying to win by wearing her down. But there wasn't any room left for more anger, just a black hole where any new emotion was created and promptly crushed to death by adrenaline and pain.

"Coward," she cried, landing successive blows to his skull. "Coward, goddamn coward!"

The Arishok had had enough.

Finally, he barked out a roar and grabbed her around the torso, flinging her like a sack of grain across the arena. It had been instinct, though, and not aimed in the least – she slammed squarely against the bottom tier of the viewing dais, releasing dozens of loose flecks from the rough surface and making the hard stone hum from the impact.

To know that she wouldn't be around long enough to have to help clean it was a small comfort.

And she knew that the fight was over.

It felt like an eternity before Hawke could find the strength to move. Her immobility and the shock of connecting so damned hard with something so damned solid made breathing a priority, followed at length by any other movement. She started small, her fingers twitching, before finally regaining enough nerve control to turn her neck.

The Arishok was sitting beside her on the stone tier, his typical posture casting a shadow over her as he rested his elbows on his knees. The sun was nearly set, and Hawke realized that they had been fighting for far longer than she'd assumed. She supposed she should have been surprised that they'd held out as long as they did.

He watched her progress carefully, but made no move to assist as she braced herself on her palms and sat upright, back flat against the blissfully cool and stable rock behind her. Seconds crawled by, turning into minutes of silence.

It was the Arishok who broke it, the gravel in his voice the closest thing to gentle Mairead suspected he was capable of.

"You were injured, and have been healed," he began. "You were starving, and have been fed." After a moment, a rumble sounded in his throat. "There is nothing more for you here."

Hawke disagreed.

When the feeling returned to her legs, Hawke drew her knees in, slowly rolling onto her toes experimentally. They could hold weight; she was fine. Stiffly, she began to stand.

Apparently satisfied with her recovery, the Arishok fixed his gaze straight ahead, his mask of impassivity firmly back in place. "The karasten will forcibly remove you."

She glared, brushing the dirt off of her clothes despite the stinging pain in her hands. "No need," she informed him crisply. "Just give me ten minutes and I'll be gone."

He didn't come to his tent as she packed. It would have accomplished nothing.

Instead, he observed her movements from his meditation platform, willing the throbbing ache in his left shoulder and lower back to subside. She had gathered her things quickly; she hadn't acquired much in the way of material possessions during her stay save for her viddathari journal.

He saw a flash of red from her rucksack, and a low growl resembling something like approval resonated in his throat. She was taking the armor.

Her first stop had been to the healer's tent, presumably to inform him of her departure. She had been brief, but the elf had followed her out, saying something well beyond the Arishok's hearing. She had embraced him tightly, quickly, and the healer had gestured toward the quartermaster in response, watching her go until she was out of sight.

The half-horned Sten had been with the quartermaster, he learned as he followed her path from his vantage point. Their interaction had been much the same – brief, a few words exchanged. Something he had said elicited a laugh, and she had punched him in the good shoulder in response. After witnessing the Sten roll his horns against Hawke's bare forehead, a few others had done the same, and Hawke greeted them all with gratitude and warmth.

Light footsteps creaked up the steps of his viewing platform, coming to a halt beside him. The healer offered no greeting, only crossed his arms as he followed the Arishok's gaze, tracking Hawke down the receiving arena's steps and crossing the distance to the main gate.

"[I hope you know what you're doing.]"

The warlord snorted. "[I am the Arishok.]"

"[Yes,]" the healer replied, "[But this isn't a war.]"

The Arishok said nothing.

The elf joined him in his silence, waiting. And as the massive gates groaned shut, Fenlin set to repairing Hawke's handiwork.

Goddamn, did Hawke have a lot of drinking to make up for –

– and Varric's 'classy little get-together' saw no shortage of those to help her do just that. Maker only knew where he had dredged up the bottles of half-decent wine at the Hanged Man, but after the first crate disappeared faster than spit in a desert, the rest were a bit more judiciously stored behind the bar. Most of the guests were too drunk by then to complain about the usual fare, tankards emptying and refilling just as quickly as ever.

None were so happy to drown themselves as Hawke, who was loudly and uproariously thanking the Maker and his martyred bride for booze, musty pissbox taverns, and her chosen family of beautiful freaks. She hadn't referred to her companions as such aloud – her language had been much more fanciful and sugared – but the sentiment hadn't been lost. A nontrivial amount of her angst had been soothed by the warm, enthusiastic welcome from her fellows, and whatever remained was systematically pounded into oblivion by a never-ending stream of alcohol.

Merrill stumbled about like a spinning twig in front of the night's lone mediocre bard, who was all too happy to encourage the pink-faced Dalish pariah to dance and praised her efforts to convince the others to join her in her disjointedly chipper merriment. As she twirled and tapped, the other elf in attendance was pointedly ignoring her presence entirely and instead focusing on his hand in Wicked Grace, scowling at every card he was dealt and knocking back glasses of wine like they were water. He did graciously receive any attentions from the guest of honor, however, going so far as to fold his hand inward and pass his turn whenever Hawke came to throw an arm sloppily about his tattooed neck.

If she wasn't so damned drunk, she mused on one such round, she could've sworn that Sebastian was almost winning the game.

"Hey, Vael," she called.

"Yes, Hawke?" As he turned to her, his eyes were so blue and bright and clear that they made her head hurt. It made her want to punch him in the face, her deep and abiding love for the man be damned.

"Don't you have a vow of poverty or something?"

Leaning back in his chair, Sebastian smiled broadly, indicating the pile of his winnings in front of him. "I can win as much as I like," he explained. "I just can't keep it." He tapped a finger to his cards thoughtfully. "It may mysteriously end up in the alms box in the morning."

A collective groan rose up from nearly all of the table's occupants, Varric loudest of all.

"Just kill me now," the dwarf muttered as he reached for the deck.

Flip. Flip. Slap.

"Bitch!" Isabella spat, wincing.

Flip. Flip. Slap.

Flip. Flip. Slap.

"No talking," Hawke declared, emptying the rest of her tankard. "Play."

Flip. Flip. Slap.

Flip. Flip. Slap.

Anders wandered by, pausing to take in the sight of the two women hunched over the tiny excuse for a table, each with half a deck in front of them and empty drink containers of wood, metal, and glass alike scattered on the floor at their feet.

Flip. Flip. Slap.

Queen and a nine. Hawke's palm solidly connected with the side of Isabela's tanned face.

"What in Andraste's name," he began, a smirk dipping into his increasingly sallow cheeks as he stood over them, "are you two playing?"

"Complicated," Hawke grunted, muttering a curse as Isabela struck her right above the jawline. She turned over the top card in her pile.

Flip. Flip. Slap.

Two and an eight. Isabela landed another palm on Mairead's cheek with a loud, resonating clap.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," he continued over their unending barrage, drinking from his mug. "But my keen powers of observation reveal your dastardly rules: you turn over the top card, and the higher slaps the lower."

He flinched in sympathy as Hawke swatted out at the pirate, neither breaking eye contact and each struggling to smother laughter.

"Magic," Hawke snickered.

"Fucking magic," Isabela agreed.

Flip. Flip. Slap.

He shrugged, shabbily feathered shoulders fluttering prettily."No magic, just my clever mind." Flip. Flip. Slap. "Is there a bloody point to this," he prodded, voice betraying his entertainment. "Other than to prove you're as drunk as possible?"

"He asked about a point, Isabela."

"Point. Silly mage."

"I take that to mean that there isn't one." He leaned in closer. "But what happens if–"Flip. Flip.

Two sixes.

All of a sudden, sharp pain blossomed across each of his cheeks, the stinging pain of having a strong palm from each of the women hit the stubbled skin there. Raising an arm defensively – and too late – he rubbed his jaw tenderly. "Maker's bollocks!" he swore. "What in the– "

"We hit the audience," Hawke informed him.

Flip. Flip. Slap.

"Don't tell him the rules," Isabela whined. "Ruins the fun of it."

Anders wordlessly gave them each a non-too-gentle zap on the shoulder in retaliation as he moved on, eliciting a few colorful responses.

"See?" the captain pointed out.

Flip. Flip. Slap.

"Please. You're going to try to get him to do it again later, just lower."

Flip. Flip. Slap.

"Damn right I will."

Fenris watched over the rim of his wineglass, studying Hawke intently as she sat alone – though frequently approached for brief confirmations of revelry and checking the fullness of her ale – at one of the less-splintered tables near the large corner hearth. He had long been considering how best to casually check in on his friend's mental state, though his own inexperience with even having such an impulse, never mind acting on it, was keeping him firmly rooted in place. Despite his honest declarations that he was the farthest thing from an expert on emotions, from what he knew of the situation, he had a strong theory that Hawke wasn't drinking so heavily simply for the joy of rejoining Kirkwall.

As he continued his observation, Merrill sauntered into view, stumbling into the bench opposite Mairead and apologizing to it awkwardly before barely managing to aim her bony elven backside onto the worn cushions.

"Oof," she breathed, practically sloshing around inside her skin as she struggled to adjust her posture. "Finally, I've caught you!" Glassy-eyed, she beamed at Hawke over the table's damp surface. "I love this hearth, don't you? It reminds me of nights in the camp, when we would all gather around the fire and Marethari would tell us stories." Her bubbling accent was even thicker than ever, concentrated by the alcohol, and by 'sto-ries' was almost unintelligible.

"Maker," Hawke snickered, reaching out to poke the Dalish exile in the forehead. "You are drunk as a mabari in a Denerim brewery."

Swaying at being thrown off balance, Merrill was a symphony of trilling giggles. "It's all Varric's fault," she protested. "We could have held the party in a field, not a pub, but nooooooooooo." She hiccuped. "The moon would have been so pretty. And I wouldn't have drank quite so much." After waving her arm enthusiastically for another round, she turned back to the object of her previous attentions. "Do the qunari have wine?" Before Hawke could answer, the elf clapped her hands in delight. "Oh, I forgot to ask," she began eagerly. "How was it?"

"How was what?"

"Living with the big scary-looking men," she whispered loudly, in what could only be a drunken attempt at discretion.

Hawke's face sobered, and she locked eyes with Merrill, who seemed suddenly captivated. Mairead motioned for her to come closer, their shadowed faces lowering in the firelight.

"Never," she began, completely solemn, "in my life..."

Merill leaned in eagerly. "Yes?"

"…have I seen so much cock."

Immediately, the mage's face lit up like a votive tree on Feastday. "Ooh, that's exciting!"

Hawke began to describe something beneath Fenris' hearing, illustrating with her hands what was roughly the size and thickness of an Antivan salami. He wasn't keen on that particular vein of conversation, though nor was he too pleased with having his line of sight interrupted by a pair of blue-and-white clad hips.

"If you were trying to not be a total creep," Isabela informed him, "you've failed spectacularly."

He leaned back in his chair and snorted in response as she pulled out the stool in front of him, plunking down her tankard and folding her hands prettily. Her mouth curved ever so slightly into a smile that carried up to her eyes, her delighted gaze irritating him from his peripheral vision.

After enduring her persistent stare for near a minute, the tattooed elf finally turned to acknowledge her, if for no other reason than to satisfy her enough to be left alone.

"What?" he muttered flatly, tapping his metal claws on his glass in annoyance. "Admiring my eyes again?"

"You know something," she purred, leaning forward on her elbows to rest her chin on her hands.

His skin prickled. "I know many things."

"You know something about Hawke," she clarified, smirk broadening. "You've been watching her like a mother bird all night, and I'm positively dying to know why." When she received no response, she scooted forward and continued. "Either you're planning to smother her in her sleep, or you must've learned something very interesting on your little visit to the big angry hornheads." Kicking at him under the table, she prodded again. "Friends share, pretty thing."

"According to you," he countered, "friends merely give a discount."

She laughed, then, foot against his leg suddenly taking on a much more persistent, friendlier path. "Touché. And we could be such good friends, if only– "

"I am uninterested," he declared flatly, reaching down to grab the ankle that the curious foot was attached to. "And even if I had any information, I would not be the one to do Hawke such a disservice."

Pouting, Isabela pulled her foot back, boot and all. "You're no fun," she announced, taking a long gulp of his wine.

"So I am told."

She leaned in at that, tapping him on the nose with her index finger. "You're lucky; I wasn't that interested, anyway." She stood, and Fenris crossed his arms, far too skeptical to accept her apparent surrender.

"And this was not an attempt to wheedle gossip from me?"

She smirked at him over her shoulder, one hand on her hip and the other holding her ale. "Trust me, kitten – if I really wanted to get something out of you, you'd've cracked in less than a minute."

He watched her go, ears flat against his skull. He was reasonably certain she'd be back again by the evening was through.

That wineglass was going to be his last tonight.

"And there," Hawke announced, clumsily pointing out an aesthetically displeasing arrangement of fences at the lower entrance to the Hightown markets as they passed by. "Got ambushed there, too." With a flourish, she threw one hand into the air. " 'Twas a Tuesday."

For someone glazed like a Feastday ham, Hawke was surprisingly agile, keeping two or three paces ahead of her infinitely more sober companions. Varric had insisted on walking her home, the gentleman in him unable to stomach the thought of exposing a thoroughly drunk Mairead Hawke to the shadier elements of Kirkwall's nightlife.

Or worse, he sighed, exposing the shadier elements of Kirkwall's nightlife to a thoroughly drunk Hawke. Ancestors only knew what kind of damage she could do without a filter or a conscience.

Sebastian kept pace, having volunteered himself along, as the Chantry was no more than a few blocks from the Amell family's Hightown estate. Varric had a sneaking suspicion, however, that the raging-lush-turned-pious-and-boring-as-dirt prince had handled his fair share of drunkards and was an experienced escort, claiming the route to the Chantry as a tactful excuse to lend a hand with what promised to be either a very unruly or very unconscious tornado. It was much more difficult to defend someone from thugs when holding them up with one hand, after all.

As much as the kid irritated him sometimes, Varric had to admit that he appreciated the assist. Hawke was constantly attempting not-so-skillful bullshit like trying to scale lampposts and fade into the shadows, unsuccessful at the latter due to her inability to keep her mouth shut for more than half a second. If it hadn't been for Sebastian's patience as he calmly and repeatedly coaxed her back – a degree of patience that shouldn't have been humanly possible, unless Choir Boy really was a saint – Varric might have done them both a solid, knocked her out, and carried her back to Leandra over his shoulder like a strung nug.

Though if she didn't quit the rambling, he might do just that.

"The hell do the qunari get off thinking we have no code," Hawke cried angrily, taking a quick dip left and being quickly and fluidly rescued by the muscle memory in her feet. "We have a code!" As they reached a shallow set of steps, she spun to face her fellows, possessed with the conviction and indignation that only noble-borns could summon up from their blood. "We have the code of comrades, of blood brothers, of fellowship! The code of brethren."

She leaned in to deliver that last line directly to Varric's face, eyes narrowed and breath so heavy with fumes it could have lit a torch.

"Brethren," he muttered, humoring her as he fanned away the flammable air in front of his face. "Right."

Hawke spread her hands, continuing to walk backwards, occasionally stumbling on the uneven and chipped cobblestones. "Varric understands the code of brethren," she declared to Sebastian, pointing a finger as if daring him to disagree.

"I'm sure," he concurred, an amused smile on his face as his rolling brogue reached out to keep her engaged. "Varric has always– "

"WE ARE BRETHREN," Hawke interjected loudly, poking him in the chest and glaring. "BRETHREN. WE ARE SUCH BRETHREN THAT ONE TIME HE GOT POISONED AND I HAD TO SUCK HIS– "

"Wound!" Varric interrupted quickly, casually shoving a gloved hand in her face. "It was a spider bite." As she began to gnaw on the worn leather, the dwarf turned to Sebastian with a grimace. "Can we just pretend that that's where it was going?"

"Gladly."

Snickering, Hawke rolled her face along Varric's broad palm, freeing herself from the improvised muzzle. "Ahhh, got it," she drawled, stiffly tapping the side of her nose in a way that only a drunk person could think was subtle. "It was a spider. In his beer."

While Varric groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to keep his ever-growing Hawke migraine at bay, two seconds without supervision was all Hawke needed. The blabbermouth in question had clambered her way onto a barrel and full-on leapt onto poor Sebastian, scrambling to find purchase on his back amid the clacking of armor.

"Hawke," he managed, the ale-soaked fingers of one of her hands splayed across his nose and mouth. "What in Andraste's name are you– "

"Brothers-in-arms!" she chanted as she wrapped her legs about his waist, pumping one fist in the air. "BRE-THREN! BRE-THREN!"

"People are trying to sleep," Varric grumbled. Or not murder their drunk friends.

"Bre-thren," she continued in a hoarse, nowhere-near-quiet attempt at a whisper. "Bre-thren, bre-thren!"

"Better."

Hawke flopped forward, arms dangling and bouncing in the air a bit as Sebastian walked onward while reaching behind him to hook his forearms beneath her knees. He coughed, cheeks coloring, and Varric allowed himself a snicker to see the archer's discomfort at what was clearly a pair of ample breasts pressing into the back of his neck.

"Varric," she mused aloud, oblivious, "wha's so funny?"

"Nothing, princess. I promise. Do me a favor and hug Choir boy real tight, would you?"

She obliged, wrapping her arms fast about his neck and snuggling into his hair with an energetic chirp. Sebastian's defeated sigh and muttered "Maker, why" was reward enough, but she leaned back quickly and sharply enough to almost knock herself and her mighty steed off-balance. "O Sibling Mine, you want a hug too?"

" 'O Sibling Mine?' " Varric raised a thick eyebrow. "Even for drunk you, that's pretty drunk."

Murmuring contentedly, Hawke curled back up against Sebastian's warmth. "Varric is my little brother," she informed him.

"Is he now," Sebastian replied, craning his neck to avoid a mouthful of dragon hide and metal as her arm shifted across his face.

"I'm older than you," the dwarf rebutted.

"You're shorter than me," Hawke shot back. "And I'm out one little brother. And you're out one older."

Ouch.

His reaction to that particular lemon juice shower on an open wound must have showed on his face, judging from the expression Choir Boy gave him.

Clearing his throat, Sebastian adjusted his charge. "You don't look alike," he observed teasingly in an effort to defuse the heaviness of the moment, but was instead met with an angry yank on his hair. "Ach!"

"How," Hawke slurred, "dare you!" She struggled her way down, coming to a wobbly standing before poking him in the chest accusingly. "My mother is a saint."

He raised his hands in surrender, despite the smile fighting at the corners of his lips. "Forgive me. I meant Leandra no slight."

"Damn right'cha didn't." All of a sudden, her fury melted into a beatific smile, and she hummed happily as she reached up to yank him down by his collar. He didn't even have time to protest as she planted dozens of sloppy kisses all over his face, one coming dangerously close to the center of his mouth. His fingers twitched nervously by his side, Varric watching him like a hawk.

It wasn't more than a moment before Mairead turned her attentions to her chosen brother, peppering his forehead and stubbled jaw and wide, flat nose with wet signs of her drunken affection just the same.

"I have the best friends," she proclaimed loudly, wandering off in the direction of a nearby alley. "And they will now prove it by not watching me take a piss."

She rounded the corner, and Varric watched out of the corner of his eye as Sebastian ran his tongue over his lip, gingerly wiping his mouth with the pad of his bare thumb.

"Choir boy..." he warned.

Sebastian adjusted his mail, somber. "I couldn't even if I wanted to, Varric. You need not remind me."

"Good."

They stood in silence while waiting for the return of their inebriated ward, the air between them somewhat uncomfortable.

Sebastian turned to the merchant prince suddenly, one eyebrow raised. "Do I need to ask about– " he began awkwardly.

With a groan, Varric visibly winced. "Please don't. Special, magical, please-ancestors-I-promise-I'll-be-good-just-never-again circumstances."

Chuckling, the archer ran a hand through his mussed hair. "I can only imagine."

"Yeah, well," Varric muttered, "don't get too carried away." A voice coming from the middle of the square caught his attention, and he lifted his chin. "Anyway, that's our signal to go grab her."

"Hm?"

He gestured to the figure up ahead, crouched beside a meticulously manicured potted plant. "She's arguing with a topiary."

"And your mother," Hawke slurred, "was a dumpy, squat shrub."

The bright rays of morning sun slowly made their way across Hawke's bed, finally reaching her face as midday approached. She squeezed her eyes shut and groaned, cursing the uncomfortable heat and damned brilliant shine. Even turning her head to the side did nothing, and from the feel of things, she had kicked off every sheet during the night and now had nothing to hide behind. She supposed she could look for something to use as a shield, but that would require opening her eyes and at the moment, opening her eyes came behind "bite off own arm" and "give Mother Petrice an enthusiastic rim job" on the pleasantness scale.

"Orana," she croaked, but her throat was far too dry for her voice to carry farther than her bedcurtains. Her head swam even from the effort of calling for her housemaid, and every inch of her body was encouraging her to simply give up and die there, on the mattress.

"How drunk did I get last night?" she muttered, forcing herself to crack one eye open. She reached down to rub the dust and sleep from the corners–

– only to have her hands stop about a foot of the way down, a firm grip on her wrists keeping them out of range. She stretched her neck back, ignoring her spine's protests, to take in the sight of a pair of leather shackles she'd won from Isabela in a card game gracing her bedpost and wrists.

"Very drunk, apparently."

Squinting, she examined what she could of her immediate area. No keys. Soon, her gaze fell to her bedside table, and after a few blurry moments, she managed to focus enough to read a note scrawled in familiar hand propped up against an open book.

"If you're sober enough to pick these, you're okay," it read. "P.S. - We did this out of love."

Varric.

He – or the mysterious 'we' – had left her bracers on, thankfully. It only took a moment to seek out the tiny metal pick she kept tucked away in them for this very purpose, and she gave the cuffs a few experimental tugs before setting to work.

Closing her eyes was a blessed respite for Hawke, moving solely from muscle memory as she twisted and tapped and tugged at the tiny instrument until the first lock popped open, quickly followed by the second.

Flexing her fingers, she freed herself and slid her liberated hands down to rub their heels into her eyes and bridge of her nose. She took a deep breath, massaged her sore wrists, and stared dully up at the wine-colored curtains tented above.

Going back to her life was already starting to suck.

Chapter Text

A/N: This is it, you guys.

See my afterword for feels and lowdown.

Enjoy.

A Fortnight and a Month More

She missed the bed more than anything else.

Her mother had chosen the furniture for the estate – every ounce of consideration paid to curtains and carving and color, the more expensive the better – and at the very bottom of the priorities list, below 'will it match the drapes?' and 'does it have a fancy Orlesian name?', was comfort.

This was, perhaps, why Hawke had never been allowed to make furniture decisions. If she had, the Amell ancestral home would have been decorated with sturdy, tragically mismatched pieces that you could lose hours in but that would humiliate her mother and draw severe protests from the neighbors.

Aesthetics aside, attempting to relax at night under a stiff, over-embroidered coverlet in a mostly-empty and increasingly chilly room was a hard adjustment to make – especially when compared with thick furs and a warm body with a heartbeat that could calm a dragon.

But Mairead Hawke was not going to waste another Maker-damned second thinking about that giant bag of dicks in a Qunari-skin suit.

She'd come back to Kirkwall swinging... and jumping, and stabbing. There wasn't a day when she wasn't out washing the streets in her newly-discovered motivation to rid the city of its evildoers and relieve said evildoers of their material possessions. It seemed like getting the most infamous woman in Kirkwall's attention had never been easier; anything crossing her desk that involved violence or even the promise of it was immediately seen to, often with a determination that made even her would-be employers nervous.

Hawke would only come home to dump her latest gains in a pile on the table for her mother to sort and store, caring little enough about the small fortune she was quickly accruing to not notice that Bodahn had needed to invest in a new household register to keep up with it all. She slept (sometimes), ate (less often), and then dashed out the door as quickly as she had come, recruiting – or dragging – her co-conspirators to her next task with promises of excitement, adventure, and reward.

The spoils were good – gold and rare gems and charmed artifacts – but the effects of being driven so hard by a relentlessly energetic leader were beginning to take their toll on her companions. Varric had once shoved her right back out his door, telling her, with all due respect, to kindly fuck off and let him sleep. Sebastian and Aveline were the biggest rainclouds on her parade, but at least the former couched his criticism in genuine (or genuine-sounding) concern. The guard-captain simply issued flat warnings about idiocy and overexertion, eyeing Hawke meaningfully every time she picked up her shield to join the patrol.

Still, fighting kept her from thinking, because thinking more often than not led to remembering – and remembering led to furious indignation, which in turn eventually deflated into depression, and that crawled right into a bottle. Despite the siren song of the hooch, Hawke vowed that she was not going to become Gamlen, permanently half-sauced and whinging about the past. She would be clear and focused and punching the fuck out of the present. And to do that, she had to stay busy.

So when she received a summons from the Viscount, her usual annoyed groans and heel-dragging petulance were instantly replaced with enthusiasm and joy not unlike that of a child beholding the first lights of Satinalia. Viscount business was almost always long, involved, and bloody. Perfect.

She showed up at the Keep the next morning, Sebastian and Merrill equally chipper, and Fenris a surly shade of awake. His eyes were fixed into a glossy, half-lidded glare, and his growlings about being made to climb a completely unnecessary amount of stairs before midday fell on deaf ears. Hawke strode up the steps to Dumar's office two at a time, greeting his pompous chief bureaucrat with a broad smile.

"Seneschal Bran," she dropped an insultingly shallow curtsey. "How are you this fine morning?"

Skepticism dug itself deeply into his features as he crossed his arms, finery crinkling at the elbows. "You're here rather quickly, Serah Hawke."

"You know me," she replied brightly, "always happy to serve the city and make the Viscount's life a little easier."

"For a price."

Sighing, Hawke stretched her arms above her head. "Bran, you are so cynical. Have you been to the Rose lately?" At his resulting face, she snickered and vowed to file that one away for later. She flexed her wrists, then rolled her neck from left to right and worked out a few satisfying pops. "So, what is it this time? Bandits, werewolves, giant spiders?"

"I appreciate your concern." His eyes fell upon her companions as they caught up to her – Aveline clearly not among them – and he sighed. "No, this time it's yet another problem with the Qunari."

This time, it was Bran getting all the satisfaction from Hawke's expression.

"Well," he smirked, "still 'happy to serve'?"

"Thrilled."

They got through the gate with minimal fuss.

The words 'Viscount sent us' were enough to grant them entry, and Hawke strode through the enormous doors with long, determined steps. She was getting stared at from all sides, including from behind. Fenris' now suddenly-alert gaze was burning a hole in the back of her head, and while she appreciated his concern, she just wished that he would be less damn obvious about it.

A small contingent of elven converts sat on a set of benches at the base of one stone wall, looking up from their books and quieting their chatter to meet her eyes as she passed. They nodded their heads in greeting – the most they felt they were allowed, most likely, given the circumstances of her ejection from the compound. Hawke didn't fault them in the least.

The distance between the gate and the audience arena seemed long, too long. It was definitely much farther than she remembered it being, and much more uncomfortable, somehow too hot and too cold and too dry and too humid all at once and that had absolutely nothing to do with the Arishok and damn it all if he would see her so much as sweat, that bastard.

Hawke repeated that to herself every time her boots hit dust and her heart double-beat against her ribs. There couldn't have been a cleaner cut. Get out, he had said, and get out she done did. Finished. Easy. Over.

It was a very unpleasant, telling surprise when her mouth ran dry at the sight of him.

Reclining on his dais, his gaze snapped to Hawke the moment she turned the corner, her companions ignored entirely. He shifted his rubbish posture as she crossed the remaining space to the base of the stairs, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward to better inspect something that had caught his eye. She knew it was the red scarf around her neck, and she made imaginary obscene hand gestures as his nose crinkled in a frown.

"Arishok," she greeted dryly.

"Serah Hawke," he responded in kind, lifting his chin. "You have added to your armor."

"I don't see how that's relevant or any of your damn business." She crossed her arms, feeling the scratch of her family's crest against her jawline, neatly covering her newest set of scars. "Viscount's paying me good money to be here."

The warlord grumbled his displeasure, but didn't budge. "You insist that you are not the fool's lapdog, yet you run his errands."

"Couldn't be helped," she quipped, "Viscount called for me specifically." After a moment of waiting for a response and getting none, she spread her palms. "You'd have preferred he sent someone else?"

"No," he agreed, "his choice was appropriate."

"Then stop whining and let me do what I came here to do."

The tone in her voice didn't go unnoticed, and Sebastian shifted his weight uncomfortably. "Hawke," he cautioned.

"Fenris can translate if there's a language problem."

His voice was strained, but he let her be. "I'm not sure if the term 'language problem' is adequate."

Hawke took a step forward and yanked a thick, half-rolled stack of parchment out from the open flap of her satchel. "These are reports of families whose children have gone missing recently. Dumar wanted me to cross-check with you to see if any of them match any of your new converts."

The Arishok paused, but whether it was to actually consider his position or simply make her squirm was unclear.

Mairead glared. She wouldn't have been surprised at the latter.

"If they follow the Qun," he finally rumbled, "what will you do?"

"I didn't make the Viscount any other promises," she snapped. "We just need to know where they are, or if we should send out a search party for slavers and bandits. Anything after that isn't in my job description."

Something resembling a pleased tone slid into his gravelly voice. "You would not attempt to retrieve them."

She narrowed her eyes. "If they weren't kidnapped, they don't need rescuing."

He raised a hand to signal a Kithshok beside him, who promptly disappeared behind a stone partition. "Your awareness is appreciated."

"I'm not doing this for you or him," Hawke insisted coolly. "I'm doing this for them and their families."

"Very well."

One of the healers, the compound's makeshift tamassrans, emerged wiping his hands, having apparently been interrupted while doing something green and filthy. He was an elf, the nearly-lone human noted, which would make her job a lot easier.

"Here are the descriptions of the missing people," she explained, offering the papers to the healer as he descended the steps. "All young, all poor. I'm sorry to pull you from your work, but if you could take a look and see if anything matches any of the new viddathari, anything at all, I'd appreciate it."

She heard a loud snort from atop the stairs, clearly in response to the radical and obvious change in her tone. Hawke had no reason to be unkind to the healers – they had treated her well. She had resolved on the long trek to the docks that the target of her ire should be the only one to suffer from it. And if that irritated him, so much the better.

The wait as the healer shuffled through the reports was interminable. Admittedly, it was a result of his insistence to do the matter justice - pausing on each long enough to be absolutely sure - but every second Hawke spent where the Arishok could look down on her from above was like a needle in the soles of her feet.

"My apologies," he announced as he handed back the thick roll. "None of these are ours."

Sighing, Hawke accepted it and tucked it back into her bag. "Thank you for your time, then."

He acknowledged her thanks and excused himself and, as he scaled the steps back to work, Hawke turned toward her companions. "That's that, then – time to inform our lord Viscount." A loose edge on her scarf tickled the skin of her throat, and she absentmindedly raised a hand to scratch it. "They're all either sold or dead, but at least none converted; I'm sure he'll be thrilled."

"Serah Hawke."

He had caught her off guard. She hated that.

As she turned to face him, prickling, he rested against the side of his sun-warmed white throne and tapped his claws along the bleached stone.

"These disappearances - they are recent, and not a clumsy attempt to raise my guard."

It was an accusation, but as much as she wanted to, Hawke couldn't fault him for it. It was very much something any scheming idiot in ever-tolerant Kirkwall would do: grab some old incident reports, make a racket about them at the Viscount, and thrust them in the Qunari's faces in the hope of sparking action from either side.

"No," she confirmed. "They're all from the last week, within days of one another."

"Then," he rumbled, reclining back, "they are not my problem."

"Never were," Hawke replied sharply. With her companions quickly following, she made an abrupt turn back for the gate sans parting words or pleasantries.

And now you're not my problem, either.

Like any good troublemaker, Hawke waited the requisite amount of time for the storm from her visit to settle before returning alone to the compound doors. A few days, she hoped, would have been enough for the Arishok to stop being a colossal ass and screw his horns on right again. With any luck, this latest mess had just served as a distraction, a reason to focus on race relations or viddathari training rather than making her life difficult.

Luck, it seemed, was not on her side with the Qunari.

As she neared the barred wooden entryway, she saw that the pair of kithshok usually stationed impassively at the archway had been replaced. In their stead the half-horned Sten glared as he waited. He'd been stationed there specifically, Hawke suspected, in the event that she returned without official, to-the-point business.

"Sten," she greeted enthusiastically, her half-smile half-grimace twitching as her facial muscles fought her gut and she attempted to meander innocently in his direction. "What a lovely, crisp autumn afternoon for a friendly chat!"

He crossed his arms across his chest, twin swords gleaming in the streaks of orange sun that filtered in between the harbormasters' warehouses. "I am assigned this post," he said slowly, "because of my immunity to your... methods."

Amusement plainly brightening her voice, Hawke tapped him on the chest. "Aw, Arishok, where's the trust?"

"He trusts that you will make an attempt," the Sten snorted, "and trusts me to ensure that you do not succeed."

She raised her hands defensively, a lazy, familiar smile stretching across her face despite herself. "I don't want in," she protested. "Just an update." Leaning in, she tilted her head slightly. "Or is that against your orders, too?"

He studied her silently, considering, and Hawke leapt at the hesitation.

"Nothing wrong with keeping a viddathari informed," she coaxed, rocking back on her heels. At his contemplative growl, she produced a tied wax-paper bundle. "A viddathari with berry biscuits...?"

He narrowed his eyes, but unfolded his arms. "Your pastries are not required."

"We'll share. Now talk."

Time found them sitting on the dust-coated steps of the archway, taking advantage of the shade the stone provided and breaking the buttery, flaky confections into edible sizes.

"Training has been..." The Sten paused, narrowing his eyes in thought. "Challenging."

"Isn't it always?" Hawke asked through a mouthful of crumbs. "That's the aim of it."

"Yes," he agreed, "and the Arishok has recently determined that our drills have been greatly insufficient."

Meaning that since she had walked out, Mairead realized, he was redirecting all of his frustration into putting his men through the wringer. Guilt pricked at her stomach, and she hastily swallowed another mouthful of pastry in an attempt to appease it. "And Fenlin?"

"The healer, too, has shown signs of irritability in your absence."

"More so than usual?"

The Sten huffed, plucking another chunk off of the parcel with his claws. "He threatens to let patients die. Of small cuts."

Hawke offered him the rest. "He wouldn't."

"He would not." The Sten accepted, moving the butter-coated paper to atop his knee. "He is Qunari – he will do his duty."

"But you don't want to test it."

"No."

She snickered at that, leaning on her elbows, and they sat in silence for a few moments as they observed the foot traffic passing by. She had missed him; aside from being made aware that she was the recent source of some acute suffering, she relished his company.

It was the Sten who broke the quiet, offering his observation unprompted.

"Your absence is noticed."

Ouch.

That sentence bit at Hawke like an elfroot poultice; she wasn't sure if it was meant to make her feel better or worse in the long run, but damn, did it sting something awful right now. She inhaled deeply through her nostrils, so quickly and so strongly that her eyes watered.

"You should be pleased," the Sten said. "The change is proof that you fulfilled a needed role."

The human sat back against the cool stone, brushing pebbles out of her way. "I don't like to think of him needing– "

"You are afraid of the responsibility." He frowned openly, and for all that he was Qunari, Hawke could practically hear the eye-rolling in his voice.

"Hey now." Hawke raised her hands defensively. "I said no such thing."

"I know," he said, turning his attention back to the streets. "You do not say much with words, for one who speaks endlessly."

At that, Mairead had pulled her knees around and was about to let him have it – but then something tiny and fast struck the side of her head, and what the– ?

She picked up the offending object – a dry corn kernel - and looked about for its source. It took a bit of scanning and squinting, but she eventually spotted the glint of gold and flash of blue ducking around a corner into the dockmaster's office.

"Sorry, Sten," she excused herself, standing and brushing herself off. "Someone either has pressing news or desperately needs to irritate me. Fifty-fifty."

"All right, Isabela," Hawke began as she joined the pirate by one of the less-busy pillars. "What did you manage to squeeze out of him?"

"I like your choice of words," she chuckled. "But sadly, the answer is nothing. Out of him, anyway."

Hawke had left her in charge of interrogating a trader who claimed to have seen a large collection of non-Dalish elves and a handful of human teenagers being ushered along the Wounded Coast. The numbers matched the missing persons Hawke had been tasked with pinning on the Qunari, but the instant she'd asked for more details, he'd clammed up faster than a templar at a brothel. The usual blabbermouths were wising up, it seemed, which threatened to run one of Hawke's most profitable information veins dry. Luckily, she had an expert on hand.

"His men, however, were more than happy to spill all the juicy details," Isabela continued. "Especially when they saw how absolutely fascinated I was by their thrilling adventures carting rugs and cheap booze about."

Hawke smirked, scratching the back of one shoulderblade against the rough stone behind her. "You do 'fascinated' well."

"Don't I know it." She crossed her arms over her chest, joining Mairead along the wall. "Tide comes in at sunrise. If they're waiting for a boat, that's when they'll make a run for it."

Hawke didn't question Isabela's sense for the tides – the captain on forced hiatus was more accurate than any chart or instrument. "Looks like we'll be spending the night pummeling slavers," she said, straightening up and tugging her gloves into place. "I just love doing good deeds, don't you?"

The only discernible changes had been small.

The winds from the sea were colder, the days grew shorter, and the errant few patches of grass in the dockside compound dried and crunched underfoot. These were inevitable, cyclical shifts entirely independent of his existence, and did not bother him in the least.

Another day had come and gone, and the Arishok returned to his tent, teapot in hand. This was not unusual, nor was the late hour of his return. He entered, warmed by the lamplight and lack of wind.

It was empty, as it should have been.

"Arishok!"

She turned up to him from her usual position, her favorite red cushion pulled up to the table and surrounded by books and papers – references for her journal, which lay open on the table. She shut it, the warm smile on her face as honest a welcome he had ever received.

"Another hour and I would've gone out to drag you back," she teased, stretching her arms above her head. It was a particular pleasure of his when she did so – her musculature was polished, cultivated; a thing to be admired.

"I have returned."

His words echoed in empty space, answered by the sight of a single red cushion unmoved from its place at the table, its usual occupant having been long vacant. He frowned, placing the teapot on the table as he made his way to the armor stand. He removed his pauldrons, sliding each into place on the wooden sculpture. Its smaller twin to the left was bare, the only evidence of its use in scuffmarks and worn patches along the enameled surface.

"I can't believe how damn light this stuff is," she said, latching her waistpiece around the central pole. "Every day, it still surprises me."

Her appreciation for the craftsmanship was evident as she ran her fingertips over the weaving, and the Arishok approved of the respect she showed when respect was due.

He finished disrobing in silence, the movements embedded in his muscle memory and so requiring little attention. Freed from the weight of his armor, he moved to the sea of embroidered cushions, the familiar sink of their cloth around him as he sat greeting him with its usual comfort. They had not been disturbed since the night before, and his rough impression remained. His book, too, lay open to the page he had last needed.

He was the Arishok, he mused as he poured his tea. Things remained where they should be, for the purpose they were intended.

As he replaced the ceramic with a click, his sight fell on the cup opposite him, empty and gathering the faint sheen of dust and disuse.

"I swear, if Fenlin criticizes my handwriting one more time," she grumbled, "I am going to carve obscenities into his workbench." She completed another row of the character for 'aa,' her penmanship legible but still lacking in shape or finesse.

Still grousing, she refilled her cup and muttered curses into the steam as she lifted it to her lips.

Inhaling the perfume of the steeped leaves, the Arishok reclined into the padded arrangement behind him. The evidence of her existence had been called into sharp relief after her visit in the flesh, the senses he had tuned to her sharpened anew. Her treatment of him had been expected; the blatant covering of her scars, the visible proof of their shared experience, had not.

His claws twitched on the cup's smooth surface.

He drank his tea in silence, considering the cushion and teacup in his immediate vicinity. They were not an inconvenience, and as such undeserving of the effort it would take to remove them. He would do it when he rose next. Rumbling his decision, he reached for his book.

Hours came and went, and neither cup nor cushion were moved.

From her place behind the boulder, Hawke unclipped her daggers in one soundless, fluid motion and wrapped her palms around the worn leather in the hilts. She could feel the thrum of the lyrium waking to the warmth of her skin, tongues of lightning springing from the runes and spreading in all directions. As it crackled around her forearms, Hawke saw the leather of her bracers flash iridescent at each touchdown.

Images of being blasted by a saarebas to test the new coating on her armor surged to the forefront of her mind, and she set her jaw. The first time she'd attempted to test the serum, the Arishok had –

"You are the Arishok."

"I am the Arishok. But there are times, with you, where I am not."

The sound of clinking metal and muffled crying from behind snapped her out of that particularly ill-timed and wholly undesired memory.

"Move it," barked an angry, human-sounding voice. "And cut the damn weeping."

Hawke glanced up to her left, where Isabela surveyed from her perch in a gnarled tree. Ten, she flashed with her fingers, and Hawke nodded. Not a number that was unmanageable, really, but their usual ambush tactics were complicated by the presence of potentially panicked, chained bystanders. Impaired movement meant that they were twice as likely to get hit or shot with a stray arrow, and Hawke had chosen her companions accordingly.

She flashed 'ten' to Aveline beside her, who rolled her shoulders and came up off her heels, crouched and ready. Merrill, too, quietly wrapped her limbs in glowing green thorns that writhed and twisted and reached into the open air.

Suddenly, Hawke heard a yelp, and the sniffling worsened into a full-out fit of tears.

"Andraste's sake," the first voice groaned, "I swear, elves cry like sick cats. Gives me a headache every time."

Over the hiccuping and sobs, a second voice called to the first. "If you can't shut him up, kill him," he instructed. "We can't have him giving us away, and knife-ears are worth the least coin of the lot."

Immediately, Mairead snapped her gaze to Merrill's face, for which the word 'unpleasant' was absurdly inadequate at that moment. "Merrill," she mouthed, "no. Wait."

It was no use. The Dalish mage had already leapt over their cover, yelling and slicing her staff in a wide arc across the sand. Tendrils of blink-and-you-miss-it-fast black smoke shot forward, chasing the slavers apart and sending the chained youths recoiling against the cliffs.

"Aveline," Hawke called, and the guard-captain made a dash for the captives to defend them as best she could.

So much for keeping them together, Hawke groused as she pelted after the closest fleeing slaver, slamming her daggers into the sand. As the two trails of lightning caught up with him and he screamed, Hawke had barely enough time to roll sideways to avoid losing her head from her shoulders. Her new attacker came after her again, his two-handed swings slow and heavy. She took that half-moment to slide in enough to break his nose, and as he dropped his sword to wail, she grabbed her girls and finished him off on the way to the next.

The ease with which she had dispatched the human had a touch of novelty to it, though her skill had always been leagues above the average street thug. But after spending weeks fighting barehanded against fastidiously-trained giants, it was as though it had made anything not twice her size into a comparatively easier target. The vestiges of her time spent with the qunari, it seemed, weren't so easy to shake loose.

The thought prickled at her already adrenaline-heavy nerves, and her stomach tightened. It didn't bother her in the least. She trained, she became better. It was a simple cause and effect and had nothing to do with the bastard who had pulled her in and then cast her out.

Besides, she reminded herself as she dug her feet into the shifting ground in pursuit of the best-dressed of the bunch, the only reason she was paying it any thought at all was having had to see him face-to-face again. It had brought it all back in a rush she'd been wholly unprepared for. Before then, she'd had good weeks, plenty of them. Hours, then days would go by without having the urge to punch anything horned.

On one of her better days, she had even removed her viddathari earring. She had been tempted to throw it away at first, but instead thought better of it and kept it on a leather thong around her neck as a talisman, of sorts. She had survived both a near-fatal wounding and a near-broken heart, and that little loop of brass was her trophy. If the Arishok wanted it back, he'd have to pry it from her corpse.

It clicked against her chestpiece as she kicked a piece of driftwood into the back of the fleeing slaver, sending him flying face-first into the gravel. She covered the distance between them in a few long strides, kicking the knives he'd been carrying out of his reach. He rolled to his back, but before he could regain his footing, Hawke pinned him with her knees.

He grasped for her throat in a desperate attempt to spare his own life. "Fereldan bitch," he spat, growling and clawing at her armor. "Worthless, meddling cunt – "

Unfazed, Hawke raised her daggers...

...and his calloused, stubby fingers found her necklace.

Everything seemed to stop as he ripped it from her throat in his scrambling, the thin leather no match for a dying man's strength. His fist clenched around it as he swung for her jaw, then sent it sailing through the air with a dull glimmer as he failed to connect.

All of the breath left Hawke's lungs at the earring's loss. It was a tiny thing, not worth more than a single coin, and hadn't even been bestowed upon her properly. Not that either she or the Arishok had cared at the time. But it had been hers, and it had been his, and –

With a visceral, wrenching cry, she drove both lit daggers into the flesh of the chest beneath her, the bursts of electricity and light searing skin and bone alike. The acrid smell of vaporized blood and burning hair filled her nostrils as she held firm, the vibration of his death throes and the intensity of the lyrium shaking the bright steel in her fists. White light blinded her and her blood thundered in her ears, but she felt nothing besides mindless, coursing rage.

It died down in a sputtering fountain of sparks and flame, and as Hawke forced herself to her feet, she yanked the daggers free of the crumbling, smoldering ash that had once resembled a human.

While Merrill snared the last captor with her demonic vines a safe distance away, Hawke's limbs felt leaden as she walked a few paces in the path her trinket had taken. She toed at the sand around the base of one rock, unearthing a length of leather, but nothing more. After a moment, however, a glint of light nearby caught her eye, and the pace of her heart quickened as she deftly tucked the ring, sand and all, into her satchel.

Behind her, Isabela sauntered over to the charred corpse and assessed it with a low whistle.

"What on earth," she chided, "did that man ever do to you?"

"Sneezed on me," Hawke replied calmly, snapping her daggers into place. She turned, offering a lopsided smirk.

"The rudeness of some people, am I right?"

It was late evening, and as the twilight services had long since ended, the Chantry was enveloped in its usual, low-hum quiet.

Sebastian walked along the rows of benches, straightening cushions and smiling greetings to the faithful who remained, being careful not to interrupt their devotions. The number of people staying late into the night to offer prayer had increased over the last year, another symptom of the city's desperation and fear.

The Maker would offer them all respite, he thought as he continued his work. Anyone who came seeking solace, no matter their race, social standing, or even knowledge of the faith, would be welcomed and given a temporary reprieve from the burdens of life outside the Chantry's walls. It was all he had in his power to give, but making that small difference to a troubled soul was what rewarded him the most.

As he neared the backmost rows, Sebastian noted the chained-off doors to the eastern stairwell. They were closed, as usual, but a red string had been looped around one handle.

He smiled, wiping his palms on the cleaning rag he'd tucked into his belt.

Speaking of troubled souls.

He did a quick visual sweep of the area, and the moment the coast was clear, leaned into the shadows and ducked inside.

As expected, Hawke sat in the leftmost alcove, a small oil lamp at her feet. The string was her 'occupied' signal – either she needed to think and be left alone, or she sought his counsel. It was most often the former, and she'd made such a habit of it that he'd brought her a few of the spare cushions to make her improvised retreat a bit more comfortable.

After all, if anyone in Kirkwall needed sanctuary, it was Hawke.

"You know," she wondered aloud as he stooped to sit opposite her, "I'm surprised people still believe that these stairs have been 'under repair' for six years."

Chuckling, Sebastian adjusted to accommodate his armor, resting one arm atop his knee. "I suppose no one questions constant repairs of such an old building."

She snorted. "And I put up a sign."

"That you did."

They sat in silence for a bit, the lamplight flickering across Hawke's face as Sebastian waited calmly for her to either tell him to shove off and let her be, or for her to let him in on the thoughts currently weighing on her mind. Every time she chose the latter option and allowed him in that much closer, the warmth and gratification he felt were increasingly worth the wait.

"Hey, Sebastian."

"Yes, Hawke?"

"You're the only one I know who ever truly gave something up for good," she began, leaning forward and coming off the aged wood. "So I came to you with this, only you." He watched as she fidgeted with her hands, rolling a coin back and forth between her fingers while he maintained his well-practiced patience. When she did finally look up at him, the tentative, guarded look on her face set a nervous lump in his chest, but he expertly squashed it down.

"Promise you won't judge?"

"I hear confessions every day, Hawke," he reassured her in his rolling brogue, allowing himself a smile. "And I know a fair amount of the things you've done or boasted of doing without you ever having set foot in one of those booths." She snickered, but he continued. "You have my word," he promised, and meant it.

"Then brace yourself," she said, leaning in and wrapping her arms around herself. "I... While I was recovering in the qunari compound, I was sleeping with the Arishok."

As her words sank in, he felt his tongue grow thick in his mouth, and the blood drain from his face. He had been expecting lying, stealing, cheating, or any combination of those; most certainly not–

"I..." He lowered his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "Oh, Maker."

"Hey," Hawke protested, straightening accusingly. "You said you wouldn't – "

"I'm not," he interrupted, holding up a hand. "Just... a moment, please."

As he gathered his thoughts and composed himself – Andraste's grace, Hawke! – he exhaled deeply. The two were both adults, he reminded himself, and she had said nothing of coercion or force. The fact that the qunari were the stuff of nightmares for most of the faithful he saw on a daily basis and Hawke had shared a bed with the largest, most intimidating one was just as fitting as it was jarring, and the two fought wildly in his head.

Through his process, he did not miss the effect his silence was having on his companion. Her discomfort was visible, and she had drawn herself back against the paneling. Guilt pricked at his conscience – bizarre or no, what she had offered him was deeply personal and indicative of her trust. As he calmed, Sebastian's chest tightened a bit, and he found himself wholly moved by her honesty.

The least he could do, he decided, was offer something in return.

Shifting his posture, he turned to face her. "Then," he announced, "if I may share something of my own, in the same spirit of trust."

That caught her interest, and she uncrossed her arms. "Of course."

He considered his words carefully as he cleared his throat. "I forswore my vows the day I learned of my family's murder, as you know."

"Right."

"However." He leaned in, mimicking her earlier delivery. "I have not yet formally taken them up again since."

Hawke's eyes widened, and she shoved her hands in her lap. "Holy shit, really?"

He raised an eyebrow at the exclamation, and she ducked her head sheepishly.

"Sorry," she admitted. "You're just so -"

"Yes."

After a moment of quiet between them, Hawke turned to him with a smirk, clearly determined to defuse the heaviness of both confessions in her characteristic manner.

"So," she started, "if you don't technically have a vow of chastity, would you be interested in – "

"No," he interrupted, a smile tugging at his mouth despite himself.

"How about just the ti– "

He put a gloved hand over her mouth, knowing exactly where that was going. "Hawke."

She pulled his fingers down with a grin. "Worth a shot."

He chuckled, and she nipped at his fingertips as he pulled his hand away, eliciting a half-hearted scolding.

Sighing, Hawke leaned back and let her head hit the wall with a soft thunk. "But really, it's like a whole other world in there. You can't even imagine the difference a few walls can make."

"I have caught glimpses," he agreed, "and I believe you."

"It's incredible, Sebastian," she murmured. "No one is lost, or unvalued, or overlooked, or..." She gestured absently in the air. "The rules are set and followed - peacefully. Everything has a place and a purpose. Everyone has a place and purpose. Some of the qunari even have a sense of humor. And the more I was there, the more I was accepted and trusted."

"Including by the Arishok," he observed – half question and half statement - and she smiled to herself, scratching idly at the back of one hand.

"He was everything," she said. "Belonging, purpose, family, respect, love, all of it tied up into one big, strict, ill-tempered, difficult-to-understand package."

The use of the word 'love' was not lost on Sebastian, and he thought a bit, debating how best to respond. After a moment, he adjusted the lamp as he stared at the wall opposite their hideaway.

While he knew nothing of the Qun, he did know a thing or two about running, about pushing people away – and that was the part of himself that he spoke from as he offered Hawke everything he could think to give.

Near two hours later, advice tapped, Sebastian provided Hawke with a lookout from outside the stairwell. As she crept out into the main hall's shadows, he felt both relief and sympathy settle into his chest. It seemed as if nothing ever came to Hawke easily, and the number of challenges she had to face often seemed insurmountable.

He left to tend to the candles, praying for her with every lit flame. Even if he didn't know what success would be in this case, he knew she could use Andraste's help to find it.

Hey might also have offered a prayer to help her sneak past the compound guards, though he wasn't sure how much Andraste or the Maker could help with that.

"Hawke."

The Arishok stood just inside the doorway, the flap having fallen shut behind him. A teapot in one hand radiated heat, and Hawke smirked to note that he had had to get his own damn tea.

She had also noticed two cups: one gathering dust, having not been moved in weeks.

With a smile, she saluted him and returned to her business. Seated comfortably in the cushions, his waistpiece balanced on her lap, she worked a bluish white bar of wax into the weaving. Long, firm strokes produced an even coating that gleamed softly in the low light before sinking into the material.

"Frost protection," she explained, waving the bar to demonstrate. "You're rubbish against magic cold."

He exhaled through his nose, moving forward to place the teapot on its table stand. "You have returned."

"It wasn't hard." She gestured vaguely northeastward with her free hand. "You need to work on your upper east wall patrolling. Also, your bullshit defense mechanisms." At the second half of her undisguised criticism, she saw his posture stiffen. Standing, she wiped her hands on the rough fabric of her trousers. "And there was something Sebastian said to me earlier."

Look at the signs, he had said. There had been many times in his life when he had been faced with a difficult decision, a challenge or a crisis of faith, and only when had he stopped thinking and opened his eyes did he see the sign that the Maker or his bride had left in plain sight. And though Hawke wouldn't bet a copper that either of the two deities would be of any help in this particular situation, the prince's words had refused to leave her head.

Thus she had returned, looking for a sign – and finding three.

"My cup, pillow, and armor stand," she said. "All still here. Why is that?"

The Arishok growled something low in his throat. "It is pointless to ask questions to which you already know the answer."

"And it's equally pointless to assume that words have no weight," she countered. "Then again, you're not really good with the whole 'talking about it' thing, which is how we ended up here." Slowly, she made her way out from behind the table, stopping just out of arm's reach. "You said nothing, so I said everything, like throwing fistfuls of sardines at a dartboard in hopes that one'd stick. But let me see if I got this right."

She began to pace, effectively trapping him in place as she attempted to unravel what promised to be either a very personal issue with intimacy for the warlord or a load of rationalized crap that her twisted mind had come up with.

"At first I thought that it was like a patronizing if-you-love-it-set-it-free bullshit scenario, deciding what was best for me and taking my agency out of the question. But the more I thought, the more I realized something." She turned, catching his interested stare. "You didn't do it for me. You did it for yourself, didn't you?"

She waited. He was studying her intently – evidently with a good deal going on behind those eyes - but when no answer came, she continued.

"You were trying to clarify it, and you couldn't," she added. "Did I want you or the Qun? Was I fighting so hard out of a genuine desire to stay, or out of fear of being cast out, a knee-jerk reaction that would fade?"

He had straightened by then, and Hawke knew she was hitting right at it. She kept going, because Maker knew this was the last chance she would ever have. If she left now, left again –

"You couldn't figure it out. So you shoved me out the door, counting on me to figure it out for you, then come back and spell it out so that you wouldn't have any doubts. About me, about us, about this path you were taking."

She saw a muscle in his jaw twitch, and his hands clenched and unclenched slowly.

"Am I wrong?" she prompted.

"Constantly."

"On this?"

He exhaled slowly through his nose, the warmth of his breath taking an eternity to cross the distance between them. "No."

The short stretch it would take for her arm to raise out and touch the skin of his chest seemed more and more difficult to maintain with every pounding beat in her chest. So close. They were so close now, so close to this whole damn thing falling back in, one of them just needed to lift a hand and reach -

"You have finished speaking," he prompted, interrupting the silence, "but have given no answer."

"I came back."

"It has not been said," he insisted in an impatient rumble.

A broad smirk shot up from Hawke's sudden laughter and claimed her face.

"Maker!" she exclaimed. "That sounds so frustrating."

His eyes narrowed. "Perhaps."

The smile still firmly settled across her lips, Hawke cocked her head to look, really look at him.

For a moment, she saw him as she had months ago - as they were just beginning to establish their bizarre, ill-advised, more-than-either-had-bargained-for bond. And she felt that tug, that pull, just as intense as it ever had been.

"It was you," she answered. "Always you. It's why I came back, and why I don't intend to let you kick me out every time you get scared."

There was an audible groan as all of the air seemed to leave his chest in one long rush. "The Arishok must lead," he rumbled, turning to fix his gaze on the flickering shadows on the tent wall. "It is the will of the Qun."

The unspoken and there are so many ways that this could go wrong slipped its way under Hawke's heels and began to lift them.

"I know," she said quietly. "And I don't know what the future holds, but for now..." She moved closer, well into reach.

"Scared yet?"

He studied her face, his hawk-gold irises bright in the dimness.

"No."

Gently, she reached up to run her fingers over his throat, behind his ears, and stood on her toes to bring her forehead to his.

"How about now?"

His palms found their way to her waist and back, ridding them of any remaining distance as his desperate touch betrayed his even voice.

"No."

She smiled, brushing her lips across the bridge of his nose.

"That's a good start."

And suddenly she was lifted to eye level and pulled to press against his chest, instantly finding purchase against the familiar body giving in and making up for lost time. His pulse was thunderous under her palms, and she reached for him just as greedily.

They both knew where this could go, but not where it would. As his claws pricked into her skin, warm and sharp and promising, adrenaline and affection flooded Hawke enough to flush away the weight of the decision they'd both just made. It was an odd high, like confidently striding right into a minefield.

Story of my life, she mused, and wound her arms about his neck.

-Fin-

Author's Notes: HOLY SHIT GUYS IT'S DONE

When I started this, I thought it was only going to be a five-chapter 'what if?' exploration, but here I am two years, 25 chapters, and 175k words later. First long story I'd ever written, too.

First of all, thanks where profuse and glorious thanks are due: my sweet, wonderful, moon-and-stars beta reader, analect. I couldn't have done this without her every step of the way. She's incredibly talented, thorough, and leaves notes that even a monkey with a typewriter could understand. She's also a fantastic writer, and you can find her here or on tumblr as specks-of-infinity. I highly recommend Justice in Surrender to get you started – it's a bittersweet M!Hawke/Anders story that, despite never being a big fan of the pairing, I love to death. Seriously, check her stuff out.

Now, onto some questions I've gotten a lot:

Q: So, is this it? Are you done writing Arishawke?

Not necessarily! I have a collection of drabbles I post occasional stuff to, and once in a while I open prompts and write stuff on tumblr. That's where I post almost everything first, so hop over if you like! I might also someday whip up a oneshot detailing what happens during the Invasion of Kirkwall, and how Hawke and the Arishok deal with the weight of those decisions. (Also, my Seb/Hawke story Starkhaven is for Lovers is one possible post-Arrowhead future.) But this story was always just intended as a 'how they got together' piece. =)

Q: What about the events of Inquisition and what happens to the Arishok?

(Minor spoilers) If you turn over Isabela, Varric tells you about the fate of the Arishok – which does leave quite a few questions and a lot of room for speculation, so... fair game? XD

Q: WHAT ABOUT THE INVASION OF KIRKWALL THAT'S GONNA BE SO FUCKED UP

Yeah, no way around that. See my first answer.

Anyway! One last thing – to you, the readers. I love all of you guys for being so patient, for sticking around with this story, and for loving it even though my skill level was close to zero when I started. Just by reading, you've watched me grow as a writer, and every time I got a note or message or comment or art or anything from someone, I learned a little more what an amazing feeling that was. Made my black little heart grow three sizes.

Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading. Drop by tumblr, I'm around – and I'm thrilled to hear from you guys anytime.

tinyfierce out.