Chapter Text
The first time Marian Hawke meets the Arishok of the Qunari people, she is floored.
She has heard rumors, of course – it is hard not to, after all, the Qunari are the talk of the town and their leader is in the center of that not-so-amiable attention. She has heard him described as intimidating, damn difficult and potentially a demon king incarnate. Hawke, being the self-absorbed cynic that she is, hasn't been paying the gossipers much mind; she knows from experience that people tend to exaggerate, especially when it comes to someone as alien (and uninvited) as the Qunari.
Therefore, as she is standing in the middle of the compound and waiting for the Arishok to appear, she is expecting to see just another horn head, maybe slightly bigger and nastier than the rest of the stoic giants, but nothing she couldn't handle. Yet the moment the Arishok walks on the dais, imposing and impossible, she forgets to breathe, and realizes that she sure as hell isn't prepared for... this.
The first thing to hit her is his size. There's no way around it, he is huge: almost eight feet tall, with rippling muscles and massive horns to boot, moving with unlikely fluid grace and utter confidence.
Hawke has met men who are big and gentle. The Arishok is not one of those men. He doesn't look cruel, exactly, but his face is like a mask: stern, distant, and almost impossible to read. His golden eyes don't reveal anything about his thoughts, apart from perhaps a small amount of irritation. He is impenetrable and, yes, bloody terrifying.
Hawke, who has the habit of automatically assessing her opponents, quickly puts the Arishok on top of her list of Folks Not To Mess With – all reckless as she may be at times, stupid she is not. But since she doesn't know much about the Qunari and her social skills are somewhat lacking (she is definitely better at messing with people than not messing with people), she is not sure how to go about that, and she spends a moment considering whether she should lower her eyes or return the Warlord's stare. She assumes submission would likely be polite and ease the situation, whereas boldness might appear more sincere and gain some respect.
Predictably, she goes for the latter: she aims to impress, and she knows that she wants – needs – this man's respect. They exchange a look. The Arishok's eyes don't linger on her, or anyone else for that matter, neither does his expression change.
He sits on his throne, calm and alien, his long white hair glistening in the sun, and waits.
And then, to Hawke's utter surprise, Fenris opens his mouth and speaks: she doesn't understand the words, but the language sounds rough and slow and beautiful, and the Arishok answers, and there is the voice. The deep, thunderous, melodic boom that makes Hawke's bones vibrate, and honestly, there are moments she is unable to understand what he is saying because she is listening to the voice rather than the words, like listening to a song's melody instead of lyrics.
Too much, she thinks. He is just too much to take in, he fills the space in a way that is almost crushing, he has a presence Viscount Dumar or any dignitary she has ever met could only dream of.
The meeting doesn't take long. It is intense and uncomfortable with chances of becoming disastrous – thanks to Javaris – but since Hawke had the good sense to bring Fenris along, things don't go completely sideways. They talk shortly, nothing comes out of the deal (which apparently didn't exist in the first place), irate Javaris pays up and leaves, and the unimpressed Arishok kicks the rest of them out.
As they walk through the gate and leave the compound, Hawke lets out a deep sigh and wipes her forehead.
“Fucking… wow,” she says. Varric nods. He looks slightly pale.
“Haven't been this scared since mother found out I'd been hiding her booze.”
“Did you see his horns! Maker.”
“Condescending asshole,” Anders mutters. He is openly sulking: it is no secret that he dislikes the Qunari, and Hawke hasn't quite figured out why he insisted on coming in the first place. Perhaps he was hoping to see a glimpse of some mistreated mage to get his fires going. Fenris hums affirmatively.
“Oh, he certainly is.” He pauses for a moment and gives Hawke a thoughtful look. “Still, I think he quite liked you.”
Hawke bursts into bright laughter.
“Liked me? He said I keep good company – meaning you.” She grimaces. “And I don't think I have a growing lack of disgust for you counts as a compliment in these parts of Thedas.”
“Could be a great praise in the Qunari country, though,” Varric points out. The elf shrugs.
“Nevertheless.”
“Sure, Fenris.”
So she laughs it off. They head to The Hanged Man, spend the night drinking and playing cards (they have money, after all) and only after she gets back home and finally collapses on her bed, she wonders.
Was there something? Some kind of… connection? Hawke thinks about it for a while, but since she can't come to any clear conclusion, she lets the thought go and falls asleep.
***
The Arishok leans back with his tea cup and closes his eyes for a moment. He is tired; he is always tired nowadays, and this is not the kind of tiredness that goes away with sleeping. In fact, the thought of going to bed almost repulses him, because that means he has to wake up eventually, and every morning he wakes up and finds himself here, of all places, fills him with despair and impatience, which is very unlike him.
He sighs. The tea smells like home: spicy, sweet, soothing, and just a little bit bitter. He tries to concentrate on the familiar aroma, but he feels restless, and his mind wanders.
Those visitors he had today. The greedy dwarf and his… whatever they were. Associates? Another dwarf, way more clever than the one who calls himself Javaris, a withered-looking mage (brought along out of defiance or stupidity), a serious, tattooed elf who spoke Qunlat of all things, and a woman.
The woman. The Arishok taps his claws on the rim of his tea cup.
Hawke.
Before this morning he was not aware of her existence; by the early afternoon he knew where she lives, why she's in Kirkwall and who her friends are – and that her favorite color is red. The Qunari spy network is legendary for a reason. He also knows that Hawke has been working for a mercenary company in her past, and that nowadays she is an independent weapon for hire. She has a reputation for being efficient and honest, if not always respectable, and she picks her targets carefully.
The Arishok frowns. Something about her piques his curiosity.
He remembers the way she kept looking at him, terrified yet maintaining eye contact; he hasn't met many humans capable of doing that. And for whatever reason, he remembers the color of those bold eyes. Bright blue. Deep in the jungles of Seheron he has seen butterflies of that color: shiny, vivid and unexpected, and he has always considered them quite pleasing.
The Arishok comes to think that one might consider Hawke quite pleasing too – as far as humans go. She may be puny and her coloring strange, but all in all, he finds her oddly attractive. Still, since beauty doesn't carry much value to the ever-practical Qunari, and the Arishok is not an exception, he easily pushes all the thoughts of smooth skin, sapphire eyes, and silky black hair out of his mind.
He empties his cup, sets it on the side table, and grabs the report he was given been given a few hours back. He reads it over, again.
Marian Hawke.
Such a... strange little bas.
The Arishok is intrigued. And it's been a long time since he's been intrigued about anything.