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Hayden Hawke didn’t use lyrium.
Fenris had noticed that shortly after they’d first met. The Hawkes had taken a small group to the Bone Pit, the eldest twins, himself, Aveline, and the abomination, investigating a stream of complaints from the miners.
Complaints had led to dragons—mature, not one of the high ones thankfully—had led to injuries. Fenris had watched, out of the corner of his eye, an awareness in battle, as Hayden carefully sent lightning arcing from her fingertips, the electricity dancing just close enough to do damage, but never forking along the electric conductor that was the metal of his sword and armor. He watched the sigils dance around her, glowing a sickly orange as she cast hexes, pivoting on her hip to bolster any of the others as they flagged.
And then, without skipping a beat, she passed a draught of lyrium over to Anders before bending over to pour healing magic into his crushed ribs.
It was the first time Fenris had watched her scrape her mana reserves raw, but not the last. He started paying attention after that, started noticing that when her energy flagged she would go on the offensive, would throw lightning and stone, dashing into battle to submerge herself among their enemies.
It was curious, and either the mage had the most impressive mana reserve, or there was something else she was doing to supplement it. As far as he knew, the most popular methods of improving power reserves were lyrium potions, or blood magic.
Fenris had never asked, until now.
“I have a question.” They were sitting in their bedrolls, a tent shared between the two of them and Carver—out patrolling the camp, his turn to draw guard duty—when he asked.
Hayden glanced up from her book, soot smudged thumb absently flipping the page. “Just the one? Alright, I’ll bite.” She closed the book entirely, tucking it in her lap as her full attention swiveled over to him. “What can I do you for, Fenris?”
She was still wearing her robes, he noted, legs tucked up under the heavy brocade skirts. They were starting to look torn and tattered, a testament to how many enemies they’d carved through already on their expedition through the Deep Roads. They reminded him of Tevinter, the robes that the magisters would parade around him, and the only consolation was the knowledge that Hayden hated them as much as he did.
“I’ve noticed, in our travels,” He began neutrally—wouldn’t do to start bandying back accusations. “You don’t use lyrium. And yet you can do just as much, if not more, than the other mages who do.”
“Those sound like statements.” The words came out in a teasing trill, but the light tone did nothing to match the weight in her eyes.
Fenris watched her, waiting—she knew what he was asking, and either she would answer or she wouldn’t.
“When I was seventeen, I was helping a neighbor plow their field, getting ready to plant the new seedlings.” She said, the sudden non-sequitur making Fenris frown.
“Hawke I don’t—“ “There was a snake, in the weeds and such that we were clearing, it startled the horse, which reared up and kicked me.” She continued, as though he hadn’t spoken. “Busted up my ribs, and my arm. Father did what he could for me, Bethy too, but healing was never his strong suit and she wasn’t as far along with her magic. So. We resorted to mundane means, bones set and stabilized, and I was given a pain killer.”
Hayden wasn’t looking at him, that normally intense gaze focused instead on the spot just above his shoulder. “Dawn Lotus, incidentally, has incredible numbing properties. Excellent for dulling pain. At first it was great, as I was healing, I couldn’t feel the pain, could get up and move around. Then I started looking for excuses, and I started hiding it. Used to be, I couldn’t function on a daily basis without it.”
“I got help, eventually. Carver and Cooper found me spaced out in an old, abandoned barn that I’d accidentally set on fire during a hallucination episode. That was sort of the final straw but—” She took a deep breath, a bitter twist of a smile on her face. “To answer your question, I don’t take lyrium for the same reason I don’t drink, or smoke, or gamble. Same reason I’m always so careful with my magic.”
“I have a highly addictive personality. Or maybe, I’m just hesitant from my own past experiences but. As you say, power is addicting, especially for mages.”
It was not the answer he had been expecting in the slightest, and Fenris searched her face for any sort of lie. What he saw however, was a soft, hesitant look of vulnerability, and he had to wonder if anyone outside of her immediate family knew the truth behind her avoidance of the potion. He wondered if anyone ever would—if she would tell them, or if this was in fact an incredible show of trust.
It seemed to Fenris that he should be the last person she revealed this to—he had already challenged her control, her motivations.
He wondered whether or not he was worthy of such trust.
“Hawke—“ He began, only to have her grimace, withdrawing into herself and waving that same, smudged hand.
“I know, I know. It makes me dangerous. More dangerous I mean. One small slip and who knows what sort of damage I could do.” Those steel gray eyes found his, pleading. “That’s why I told you. I trust you Fenris, you already watch us so closely, you’ll know if I start… if it comes to it I trust you to do the right thing.”
The right thing. They both knew what hung unsaid with that phrase.
“Hawke.” He repeated, reaching out—carefully, pressing into her personal space, allowing her into his—to take her hand. “I won’t let that happen.”
The next words came as a surprise to both of them. “I admire your control, I trust you won’t fall to the abuses of magic.”
Even more surprising, was the honesty in them.