Hi ^^ If you are still taking prompts, I totally loved the one with the children playing Hawke. How about one when one of them plays Fenris? and how Hawke and Fenris would react? ^^ kisses !
In Lowtown, he stumbled, alone, across the merry band – the children who fancied themselves the Champion’s greatest admirers. They put together their costumes from what they could find – pots and pans, scraps of wood, colorful cloths.
Kirkwall was not a city kind to her children, and so they presented an unusual spectacle in the dreary recesses of Lowtown – screaming, leaping, running, waving makeshift swords and staves and crossbows, bright in their costumes and their innocent admiration.
Fenris could remember a little of being a child, if he didn’t try too hard. Flash of sunlit warmth, soft grass beneath his feet as he ran. Brief, confusing impressions. He could remember bits of sensation, but he wondered, still, what it might have been like. Surely even he had been innocent, once.
He was not especially fond of children – not like Hawke, who drew them to him despite his great size and grizzly looks – but they fascinated him anyway, with their openness and their enthusiasm and their hours of play.
He sat to watch them for a time, secreted in the shadows of a burned out building, his wrists resting, still and quiet, against his knees.
The ringleader always played the part of Hawke, but the others were more susceptible to the whim of the day. Aveline seemed a popular figure, and Carver, Anders and Isabela less so. Varric was a rare costume, though not entirely unheard of. He had seen a small Sebastian, once or twice.
It took him a moment, today, to recognize his own specter among their number. The sight was a surprise. Human children did not spend their days playing at being elves. Who would wish to be one? Even the Dalish were reviled, hunted.
Yet there were the carefully fashioned paper ears, the scrap of red at the wrist. The child had put sawdust in his hair in an attempt to lighten it, and drew on an approximation of his markings with mud.
Fenris was not sure how to feel, once his surprise subsided. There was jealousy that stirred his chest. This child’s life would no doubt be far from easy – and yet he could wash the marks off at the end of the day. Fenris had to live with himself all the time.
“Yet you find it flattering, it seems,” Fenris said, later, when he tried to explain his mixed feelings to Hawke. By then it had been gnawing at him for hours, until finally he could contain it no longer, and his frustration made itself evident in his voice. It was distracting enough that he barely noticed the moment that came, then passed, where Hawke might have once reached to comfort him, where the mage’s hands opened, then closed, and stayed quietly where they say.
Hawke, serious, thoughtful, considered his response carefully before he answered.
He said, “These children don’t see my failures. They don’t see the way my brother looks at me. They don’t hear Bethany’s spine crack, or feel mother’s cold skin in their dreams.” Hawke spoke bluntly. His words sounded impatient, callous. Fenris knew such was the only way he could speak about those things, even to him. Hawke said, “They see something I have trouble remembering. They see the times I didn’t fail.”
Fenris wasn’t sure he could answer that. Hawke, for a moment, had sounded so hard and so bitter. He wasn’t looking at Fenris, but the elf found he had to look away from him, anyway. He wondered if he, too, numbered among the man’s failures.
He said, “That only explains why they might seek to imitate you. There is nothing to be seen in me.”
Hawke was quiet for a long time before he answered. His voice was low, cold, and harsh with fury when he did.
He said, “Please – don’t ever let me hear you say anything like that again.”