Chapter Text
Ben poco ama colui che ancora può esprimere, a parole, quanto ami.
He loves but little who can say and count in words, how much he loves.
- La Divina Commedia, Dante Alighieri
The citrus-scented air swirled in the unmoving twilight. It was sweet with lemon and lavender and cypress, their fragrance lingering in the dimly lit corners of the vast rectangular atrium.
Hawke carefully stepped on the muffled floor, dusted from weeks and months of abandonment, once gleaming white marble. Wafts of joyful conversation were drifting into the room from the golden-lit edifice behind. But though they curled behind dusty statues, mournful effigies and lavish china vases their tones were caught and swallowed quickly by the lush green garden outside.
Hawke halted in the very center of the atrium, reveling in the almost peaceful silence. Everything was so very different from what he had expected all along.
When he had first come to this greedy Imperium he had been overwhelmed by the welcoming warmth and grace of its thriving lands just as the grandeur of its splendid cities. It had not been exactly intricate to locate this place even with his meager knowledge of the Tevinter tongue. The Trade tongue was prevalent here as well as it was in Ferelden, the Free Marches or Orlais. Leaving the comfortless cockleshell and setting foot on Tevinter earth for the very first time a pang of guilt had erupted somewhere inside Hawke’s chest. Not due to the time it had taken him to travel here. Not even due to, of all places in Thedas, his choosing of this very place. But, rather, because he had been in awe.
Mages. The mere sight of them had struck him most. Free, unpursued, bold and powerful mages crowding the streets. Unrivaled, really.
No, it had not been difficult to detect the place. It was well known even now that it was abandoned in parts. The most prominent estate of the family line was located in Minrathos as a matter of course – yet, obviously, the man had had chosen another place above his inheritance to live and flourish in. This was not, after all, a simple mansion but rather a palace, ready to hold and be held by a whole household. The outer quarters had been alight when he had been politely bid into the private festivities. The man owing the palatial estate, its high halls and blooming gardens, now, was a magister, of course, for magisters ruled this place, quite literally indeed.
He, Hawke, had been allowed to stroll between the striking guests quite enjoying themselves, larking laughter filling the golden-lit room as crimson wine was being poured over and over into jade chalices. Like extravagant silk people were languishing on dining couches in fanciful dresses. While winding his way through the illustrious crowd Hawke had spotted exotic-looking vegetables and mellifluous dishes on overladen tables, juicy fruits in singing colors, their tantalizing aroma causing his nostrils to tingle appreciatively. And there they were, naturally. Serving the formidable Tevinter mages, fulfilling wishes before they were ever pronounced. Slaves.
Slender and beautiful faces, swift and adept movements, bare-footed steps on a light-footed tread, elven, of course. Slaves. Disgusted as Hawke ought to feel, however, in the light of their ever-smiling handsome features and silvery voices he could not forbear to note how well cared for they appeared. Well-trained, an intimate, deep-sounding, rather rasping voice in the back of Hawke’s head rectified guiltily. Nevertheless, they did convey an impression of well-groomed treatment. Healthy, vital even.
Despite his own repulsion at such customs, Hawke could not help wondering. Certainly, there was nowhere to be seen even a faint echo of the fierce pride he had witnessed in the ever wandering eyes of the Dalish clan elves. Yet, standing amidst the gleeful party guests Hawke also had to muse about those wasted faces, eaten away by dust and dawn within the confines of the alienage in Kirkwall. As bad as he might have felt about it, this place, stranger in many ways than he had anticipated, was not what had been described to him.
Violet rays of soft evening sunlight spilled through the glassless windows and illuminated the pine and myrtle trees outside. This was a warm place, cozy even at nightfall with a tingling touch to the slightly humid air. The singsong voices of the party had shrunken to mere whispers here. Nobody had intervened, forbidden him to enter this place for, apparently, nobody wanted to come here anymore. While Hawke was striding through the empty atrium another shot of guilt pierced his left shoulder causing him to halt, not to stoop, however. He had to do this, he told himself grimly, eyes trailing the moth-eaten fabrics on walls and beds, he had to see with his own eyes. Hawke tarried, not exactly downright hesitant but as though his thoughts had got the better of him. But then Hawke proceeded because, for all it was worth, he was not a man faltering easily in his will.
He was not entirely sure what he intended to find. A familiar face? He had scanned the pointed faces in the dining room scrutinizingly, all pleasant, all strange. A long-forgotten token from the past beyond memory? A name etched into an innocent piece of smooth wood? Why, there would have been no letters to force their bold existence upon it. Maker, for what reason would there be a shred of evidence of perished souls, anything that silently witnessed the voices, touches, deeds to fade and to come?
Deep down in the cavernous kitchens underground he tripped up on something in the undulating dust. Hawke reached down to retrieve the worn looks of a rag doll. He smiled at it remembering one similar toy his younger sister Bethany and brother Carver would haggle over. He carefully tucked it under his robes before he resumed his wandering.
The further he moved into the multifaceted building the less confident Hawke felt about what he had been expecting. No cell-like slave bedrooms, no twisted torture chambers. All there was beneath the second-class looking decorations (for the expensive ones surely had been removed as soon as word of the man’s gory death had travelled back to his origin) was silence and dust and tenebrous shadows that firmly kept their untold stories.
Back in the atrium Hawke paused glancing back and forth. The dusky light had faded from the garden leaving behind only the faint taste of lemon and lavender. No, Hawke recognized suppressing a heavy-loaded sigh that vibrated with remorse, there was nothing for him to be found here. In a strangely befitting way this outcome served him just right, did it not?
When Hawke returned to the new owner’s bristling feast – who, for reasons only known to himself, refrained from using the most private premises of their former master – the revelries were still in full swing. He refused any glinting beverage or sugary dish with those charming remarks that came over his lips so easily, even in these days, offered to him by delighted servants, oblivious to the fact that he was a complete stranger; the reason being that he was a mage, Hawke assumed.
On his vehement way to the exit his eyes frantically searched the crowd for any sings of intemperance and decadence for he wanted, needed to see it. And, of course, there it was, the depleted air tangy with licentiousness. The very last face he encountered before he reached the door was a friendly, middle-aged elve’s features. For a second Hawke was poised on the verge of mentioning the name. In the same breath the moment passed and Hawke thought better of it. He had crossed the line too far, already.
Leaving through the elongated front yard embraced by lean pillars, the peristyle, Hawke could feel the pungent, humid evening air leave its trace on his skin. Night had come down silently and silkily as a veil wrapped in midnight blue. Weighted down by unfulfilled questions, his palms covered with a flimsy layer of sweat, Hawke bent down to taste the refreshing coolness of the starry pool of water lying still in an oblong basin stretching from end to end of the yard, leading through the open air colonnade, aglitter with ever alternating patterns of luminous sparks. Lit merely by graceful aureate lamps floating midair between the endless rows of alabaster pillars, their flames eyed their own mirrored faces on the dark water.
No sooner did he immerse his fingers in the water than Hawke felt the sparking blaze, the silent call of the lyrium lurking unseen. Hawke startled. On his face, tension puzzled his features. All his senses alert in an instant, Hawke observed the smooth water surface, dark with the night and alight with golden reflections. It gave no word, gazing innocently at him and the star-strewn sky. Deeper Hawke’s hand went until his wrist, forearm and upper arm were submerged in cool and silken water.
The flaming lamps did not quiver nor did the tall, slender pillars call out to the banquet guests. Then, as silent as the soundless darkness beyond the infallible portico, an inhaling stir sent ripples throughout the speechless water. Suddenly, the surface and the very water itself were aglow with elaborate bluish markings that shone horribly on Hawke’s astonished face.
Now he could see the lyrium which was actually carved into the very basin floor where it was sending surges of musical might to the water surface. His own skin alight conversantly just above the water, Hawke could feel its power and the magical force beneath it causing his every cell to tingle.
Without further contemplation Hawke dived down. Half his upper body he plunged into the water so he could reach out for the marble basin floor. The water was first cold, then icy. As soon as his right hand met the carved stone a puissance unmet before pulsed along Hawke’s veins. He could feel the incredible magical force pressing martially against his own magic. Below, however, he could sense hollow chambers and prodigious spaces, well concealed by architecture and spells. In fact, Hawke was actually able to feel the magic residing inside the very stone brimming with deadal mosaics which he imagined to be distinctively similar to the way dwarves responded to lyrium sleeping in stone and rock.
Water splashing, Hawke emerged and gasped for air. He shook his head and sent droplets of flying water, aglitter with silver light as strewn diamonds, in all directions from his dripping wet hair and ebony beard. The unwavering force guarding the hidden entrance at the bottom of the pool was forbidding, and yet, Hawke believed that he could coerce it into opening. With his own magic. With his own will.
It was a powerful spell albeit, weakened by its caster’s death, vulnerable. Hawke, though unfamiliar with lyrium-based experiments such as he had encountered here and in the past, was a mage himself, a more powerful one than he allowed himself to admit most of the time.
The warm night air pressed against the cool surface of the water that promised a task none too easy. Hawke nonetheless felt confident he would prevail. Intently, he plunged forward once more to submerge his head and broad shoulders, and then, nose inches apart from the reflecting surface, Hawke hesitated abruptly.
Motionlessly he studied the bluish lyrium carvings. Etched into the stone beneath the water with dexterous, unyielding hands, these were dying down indolently.
Slowly, Hawke stood.
He gazed upon the water; its surface was calming down into oscitancy with every minute until the bluish strings of light sank back into oblivion.
Smoky clouds had shrouded the light of the moon and the stars in fumy silks, extinguishing their twins, leaving the water of the pool chilly, dark and unblinking.
It was a long time before Hawke left the premises, at last. On the doorstep his supple leather boots trod when he heard a clatter of breaking glass, followed soon after by a soft cry of pain.
“Disrespectful dog!«, a ringing voice shrieked.
A burst of stentorian laughter. Another whimper of pain.
Hawke looked back between the marble pillars leading to the extravagant dining hall. He felt his fingers clench into fists. It required all his strength of will not to return on the spot. Laughter chimed from the far feast, evaporating insouciantly among the mute stone columns.
Finally, Hawke stepped out of the side gate, plated with embellished silver leaf, and left Danarius’ estate for good, this time.
Behind him, the water surface was smooth again, lit only by flaming lamps, innumerable blazes on a silent, nightly mirror.
In spite of everything they imply Hawke loves running his fingers along the iridescent white rivulets on Fenris skin, still dewy from sweat, and trailing each and every delicate path, still incandescent, with soft fingertips. White, pearl white as his hair.
“It is alright, is it?”
A deep voice, resonate as gravel under swiftly flowing water.
“I have told you before.”, Fenris answers in unconcealed exasperation for he is none to offer redundant information – never saying more than needs to be said – a character trait that cannot be erased by even the most winsome smile on Hawke’s face.
“What is this?”, Hawke asks, brushing a tender spot just below Fenris bare shoulder blade. Weeks had passed since their leaving Kirkwall till Fenris finally allowed the charcoal black armor to rest on the ground instead of buckling it on as soon as their strained breaths and Hawke’s lips left his body.
“An old wound. I defended Danarius from a rival blood mage who conjured up a beastly demon, ironclad and armored with poisonous thorns.” Fenris voice is slow and low with slumberousness. Hawke likes his voice this way, bereft of any harshness, less thunderous and quite deep.
“And he did not heal you?” Hawke’s brows meet in thought.
“No. It was his opinion that I might become a fast learner that way, obviously.”
After those words, Fenris extends one elbow in order to push Hawke’s heavy torso away from his backside since, despite the drunken droplets of rain outside the frigid glass windows, Hawke’s broad-shouldered body is radiating heat. Hawke lets himself be pressed away only to move closer the moment Fenris ceases to move. It has become a kind of game between the pair of them by now that Hawke is only too happy to indulge in.
“And this?”
At a lighter touch now Hawke’s fingers travel to another patch of roughly mended almond skin on the small of Fenris’ back. He leans in closer to catch Fenris’ drowsily mumbled words.
“Danarius had me flayed. Hadriana stole my food so one night I stole hers instead.”
“I remember her. She looked like one voracious woman to me.”
Fingers tracing the intricate, icy white markings up Fenris’ neck Hawke’s face remains placid, revealing never how grave Fenris’ words may or may not distress him.
“What about this one?”
This time, Hawke cannot grasp Fenris’ next words, so easily do they evaporate into slumber, except for “dragonling”, and he makes a mental note to let his healing power wash over Fenris every time they encounter so much as a half-starved stray dog, even if it will drive Fenris mad with irritation.
Though he can feel his breathing fluid and even beneath his own arms, Hawke allows his inky beard to scratch Fenris’ jawline when he asks once more: “It’s alright this way, is it?”
A huffing snort.
Across Hawke’s face a deliberate smirk scurries and his mind floats back many, many weeks to a similar night.
Still, he keeps asking the question. Not every time, perhaps, but from precious time to time as if to catch Fenris off his guard; just to make doubly sure; even if he knows the answer because his hands tell him so.
Some months ago it came as a severe shock with the force of an ear-splitting explosion when Hawke first discovered another shred of truth about those elaborate lyrium marks.
Misreading Fenris flinching at Hawke’s most gentle touch for a reaction of unfamiliarity, he had not been paying his occasional recoiling much heed anymore as even their kisses seemed to be sheltering something wild and heedless.
And then, one day, when their skins were cooling off slowly, adding it as an afterthought, really, Fenris casually mentioned the pain.
Shock. Anxiety. Guilt. Horror. Fury.
Fenris, how could you not tell me?
I did not think it something worth mentioning.
How can this not be worth mentioning to you? To me?
Anger rose up in Hawke’s chest so rapidly it caused his lungs to hurt just as much as each white-hot, luminescent curve blazing before his eyes in the close-lipped dark of night. It built its way into his veins, infusing his skin with the very agony Fenris had been enduring for months and decided not worth mentioning.
Fenris noticed it, this non-characteristic display of ungoverned emotions on Hawke’s face. Between them the air was suddenly bare and raw with stillness.
Fenris’ eyes narrowed as they did slightly before immediate battle.
Each wince or cringe, each small hiss under Fenris’ breath on Hawke’s lips now colored in a different shade of hue.
The mere thought was sickening.
Holding his gaze, Hawke felt his voice rising in his chest when he observed the emerald in Fenris eyes sparkle as it does whenever one of his adamantly unwavering beliefs is to be casted with the shadow of doubt. Instead of shouting, however, Hawke shied away from Fenris outstretched hand, appalled at himself, when it reached for him.
However, even this thronging sensation resided under Hawke’s skin, tangible, yet not to lash out.
Instead of shouting, Hawke sat up. Quietly, he leant over him, scrutinizing Fenris jowls, eyes, brows for any clandestine signs of lingering pain, his voice as calm as the wind rustling under forest green leaves, his emotions spreading none the stormier throughout his bitter body but channeled to where he could master and contemplate them.
“Fenris. Why did you not tell me right from the start? ”
“I do not fear pain.” Fenris states with an unpleasant smile lurking at the edge of his eyes still squinting in warning.
Hawke chose his next words carefully.
“You should have told me.” And then, without waiting for the answer: “I can help you, Fenris. If only you permit me to.”
Fenris anger, on the other hand, flared up immediately and disastrously as a torch of flame might blaze fierce white-hot light into utter darkness.
It took Hawke days upon days of coaxing, reasoning, pleading, reassuring, arguing, even fighting, with Hawke refusing to touch him at all and Fenris becoming broodier and more irritated by the hour, and eventually more coaxing for Fenris to reluctantly admit Hawke’s magic to response to the lyrium’s violent power.
For the first time ever Hawke could remember, while he was merely touching his hand, cupping it in his own and fingertips simply resting on Fenris’ tense palm, he felt Fenris rigid fingers slacken. Gritted teeth, set jaws relaxing.
Suspicious eyes smoothing as a firmly shut door might quiver when confronted with the softest of pushes.
And then, if only in the briefest blink of an eye, Hawke witnessed the violent smoldering waver.
That very night Hawke exhausted himself working his magic on every inch of Fenris trembling skin until he felt drained with anemic debilitation.
And still he asks the question. That, too, is a kind of childish game between them, one that Fenris cannot refuse to join in for his own slight dishonesty, and one that Hawke cannot forsake for his own stubborn, lovesick, unvoiced needs. The third time he poses the teasing question, Fenris remains silent with sleep. Hawke smiles, seeking out the tell-tale spots of scarred almond skin and planting a scratchy kiss on each before he gives in to fatigue himself, Fenris’ cold fingers reaching out and interlacing with Hawke’s just beyond the brink of slumber.
Over time Hawke has adapted, learned to bestow just the right amount of magical power to soothe the vigilant lyrium into peaceful hibernation. Soon, this newly discovered ability comes without asking, without concentrating, of its own accord, without thinking.
Under his touch his skin, Fenris confessed, some days later, prickled nigh on without pain, so close to innoxiousness he could even imagine analgesia.
He will never touch Fenris without this gift of his again, and, among so numerous a thing, Hawke discovers that there is an unflinching, appeased quality, void of hissing and restrain, under that menacing white-hot colored blaze.