It wasn’t that Fenris had never seen liquid lyrium in use.
Obviously, that wasn’t the case. The mages of the Imperium had always made sure it was in reach, of course, and Hawke and the other two kept it on hand whenever they expected a brawl. He’d seen empty vials of it tossed aside mid-fight, seen it sipped from the finest gold goblets, passed from mouth to mouth in intimate moments—yes, Fenris had seen plenty of lyrium in use.
He wished it weren’t the case, though. Because if he was unfamiliar with it, that might explain the way he couldn’t seem to help watching Hawke when she drank it down.
Unfortunately, it was not novelty but something else entirely that kept his eyes on her lips, pressed to the glass, on the long line of her throat when she tipped her head back to finish the draught.
On…on her tongue, when she traced it over her full lower lip to gather up any loose drops.
“Ready?” Isabela asked, twirling a dagger in one hand absently, “I’ve an itch I need to scratch.”
“Oh?” Hawke said, laughing, her head still half-back. She was all but a silhouette to him, standing near the top of a hill while he leaned against a boulder at the bottom.
“Again?” Merrill asked, peering at the Rivaini, “Is it the one under your shoulder blade that you can never reach? D’you want me to try—”
“No, no,” Isabela laughed, slinging an arm over the elf’s shoulders, “Not that kind of itch, Kitten.”
“Oh,” Merrill said, as the two began to wander back toward the road, “I thought…”
Fenris had already stopped paying attention to them. Hawke was looking at him, one arm stretched across her bountiful chest, her head angled to the side. Fenris pushed off of the boulder and made his way very deliberately up the last rise. He stopped a decent distance away—he knew because he was measuring the space between them very carefully in his mind—and went on looking at her.
He’d intended to say something. He knew he’d intended to stay something.
It was mid-afternoon, and Fenris was certain he was an unwitting part of some elaborate practical joke.
He’d gone between the market and Hawke’s manor three times now, all three at her behest, and all three times she’d thanked him brightly, taken the package from his hand, and asked him for something else she’d forgotten.
Fenris was no fool; he knew something was going on. He’d told her as much after the second errand, his grip on the brown paper packet too tight for her to take.
“Why, I’ve no idea what you mean,” Hawke had told him, her eyes wide and wounded in that way she had, tears beginning to gather along the lower lid, “I’m—I’m hurt, Fenris, that you would accuse your dearest friend of such a—”
“Stop,” he said, letting go of the package at last and rolling his eyes, “No theatrics. If you don’t want to explain yourself, then don’t.”
“There is,” she said, “One more thing.”
Fenris stared at her. Hawke stared back, her expression back to her base expression of neutral geniality. Something shattered in the room behind her and she squeezed the door even more tightly closed along her side, smiling broadly.
“What—”
“It’s nothing,” she said quickly, “But if you wouldn’t mind doing me one teeny tiny favor…”
Fenris’s armored hand tapped a rhythm along his thigh while he thought, but at last he rolled his eyes again.
“I’ll save us both the trouble of the story you’ll concoct to convince me. What is it?”
“Oh, Fenris, thank you!” she cried, bouncing onto the balls of her feet just enough that all of her jiggled faintly. He averted his eyes, clearing his throat.
“Don’t. If you’re going to send me on some other fool’s errand, there’d better be something good at the end of it.”
“I promise there is,” Hawke said, taking a half-step forward and lifting her arm.
She caught herself just in time—and he hated that even after all these years he could still watch her decide not to try to embrace him anymore. She changed the motion at the last minute, awkwardly fumbling a note from her pocket.
“Last one, I swear it,” she said, pressing a hand over her chest. Fenris didn’t answer. He just took the page from her hand, rolling his eyes again, and walked away.
But he was back now, nearly an hour later, and he swore if she asked him to fetch her one more thing he was going home to work on his reading. Anything would be better than climbing all the steps to Lowtown one more time.
He lifted his armored hand, knocking on the door and noting the slight scratches in the paint precisely at the height he always knocked. Lovely. He supposed he’d have to account for that at some point. Or—perhaps he could start knocking with the other hand instead. Would she even notice if—
The door swung open, revealing the highly decorated room beyond and Hawke, wrapped in a red dress that was downright cruel to look at so close. Why would she—
My last painting of 2022, and I wanted it to be a painting carrying me into the new year, a tribute to an amazing and inspirational woman.
Star Trek has been a show I have watched since I was a wee one. I started with TNG as a child, but when I finally watched TOS in college, its impact was undeniable, both today and especially during the time it aired.
Although the famous speech says “final frontier”, Nichelle Nichols was a woman leading the way onto new frontiers, a beacon of hope, resilience and possibility. So that is what I wish to carry with me into the new year.
Categories 
Licensing 
