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Chapter Text

The broken pavement of the main square crunched beneath Varric’s boots as he shifted uneasily.

‘Doubt there’s much left, Hawke,’ he said, glancing towards the ruins. ‘You’d best stay in the Hanged Man tonight.’

‘I need to see it myself.’

‘Right. Do you want company?’

‘She has it,’ said Fenris. His voice was deep, echoing softly off the stone.

Varric held up both hands, palms out. ‘I get it, I get it. See you tomorrow, then?’

Hawke nodded. ‘Before noon.’

‘Sure.’ Varric gave her a once-over, as if checking for injuries, and only then left.

The human and the elf lingered, watching the dwarf’s small figure disappear into the night.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Fenris, still gazing into the distance.

‘Almost.’ Hawke turned to him. ‘You?’

He shrugged.

‘You’re alive, the big danger is over. Can I really ask for more?’ Fenris finally tore his gaze from the dark and looked at her. ‘Or maybe I can, actually.’

He stepped forward and carefully, as if afraid to hurt her, gathered her into his arms. Hawke hugged him back, their shared silhouette enveloped by the moonlight.

‘Now I’m much better,’ she murmured, burying her face in his neck as he pulled her closer.

***

They stood in front of what had once been Hawke’s home. Less than a day ago, the building had greeted her with warmth and life, and now it stared into the night with a half-deformed façade, bearing the look of someone who had suffered a terrible wound to the face. Several collapsed stones blocked the entrance, the corner of Hawke’s family crest peeking from beneath one of them.

Fenris watched as Hawke set her jaw, her sharp eyes fixed on the ruins. He made a slight movement, almost ready to place a hand on her shoulder, but ultimately remained standing where he was.

‘I’m sorry, Hawke.’

‘Let’s see if we can salvage anything.’

She moved forward, climbing over the fallen stones. Upon reaching the crooked entrance door, she paused to peek inside. Then, with a swift movement, she squeezed through an opening and leapt down. Fenris followed, jumping from rock to rock with his usual agility.

The first floor lay in ruins; the grand chandelier had found its final resting place in the centre, crushed beneath a large chunk of debris. Hawke looked up—half of the roof was gone.

‘If I did something right today, it’s that I sent Orana to the Alienage,’ she muttered.

‘You did?’

‘Yes,’ she said as she carefully made her way towards the centre of the room. ‘Before we headed out to the Gallows—Bodahn and Sandal left, and I didn’t want to leave her alone. She’s at Merrill’s.’

Hawke stopped near the chandelier and tilted her head back, examining what was left of the ceiling. The missing part opened a window to the night sky, the stars and moon flooding her estate with dull, pale light.

‘Well,’ she nodded to herself, ‘could always be worse. Maybe the second floor survived better.’

‘I admire your optimism.’

They crawled up what remained of the stairs and looked around.

The left side of the building had been completely reduced to rubble. Some walls remained standing, but the ceiling had lost so many stones that it was no longer safe to approach that part at all. They proceeded deeper into the opposite side of the building and came face to face with an intact door.

‘Huh.’ Hawke folded her arms. ‘Interesting choice, explosion.’

Her bedroom was almost intact, apart from a massive gap in the ceiling—the debris of which now lay in a neat pile where her bed used to be.

‘At least the fireplace is still there,’ said Fenris.

‘You’re right. Let’s add some light to this place.’

The fireplace flared to life, casting bright yellow light that illuminated the rest of the room.

‘Wait a minute...’

Hawke moved to the farthest surviving corner of the room and opened a chest tucked in the shadows.

‘Nice.’ She nodded contentedly, slipping her hand inside.

She pulled out a piece of paper and turned it towards the fire, trying to make out what was written on it.

‘Anything interesting?’

‘Ah, nothing much.’ Hawke folded the paper and tucked it into her pocket. ‘Come help me.’

‘What is this?’ Fenris peered into the chest and saw only darkness.

‘A present I got back in the day.’

‘A present?’

‘Yes, a present, Fenris.’

He rolled his eyes, and together they pulled the heavy mass out. The present in question turned out to be the pelt of a great black bear.

‘Have you ever slept on one?’ Hawke asked, spreading the pelt on the floor and dragging it closer to the fire.

The elf shook his head. ‘It’ll be my first.’

‘So, you wouldn’t mind staying here till morning?’

‘If it’s with you,’ he said without hesitation.

‘Thank you.’ Hawke looked up at the sky through the opening in the roof. ‘It would be nice to say goodbye to this place. Even in such a state.’

She went back to the chest and returned with some covers she had fished out from its depths. She threw them onto the pelt and cocked her head, assessing the result.

‘Well. The bed’s ready. Reminds me of a dragon’s nest.’

‘Does it bother you?’

‘Not really. You?’

‘Anything’s better than the Hanged Man’s rooms. Plus, we’ll sleep on a defeated beast.’

Hawke returned to the chest and almost dove into it, her body half-hidden as she rummaged through the rest of its contents.

‘So, what does the note say?’ asked Fenris, casting a sidelong glance at the pelt.

‘Why?’ she asked, her voice muffled.

‘Just curious.’

She straightened up and approached Fenris.

‘Let’s see.’ She unfolded the paper in front of him. ‘It says… ahem, yes, it says that a certain elf is very cute when he’s jealous.’

‘I’m not jealous!’ Fenris pursed his lips, blushing. Luckily for him, the shadows hid it from Hawke.

She laughed and kissed him on the cheek.

‘It’s from a merchant from the Guild I helped ages ago. Just saying thanks and expressing a hope that this beast would be the most dangerous on my road.’ Her smile faded, and she sighed. ‘Anyway, let me check the side room, and we’re done.’

Hawke disappeared into the shadows, and a few moments later, Fenris heard her victorious chuckle.

‘Come here!’ she called.

The elf obeyed and cautiously moved to the adjacent room.

Hawke stood near the door, the staff in her hand illuminating a round object that dominated the centre.

‘A bathtub?’ Fenris raised his eyebrows in surprise.

‘Yes. And I’m going to use it. Or... we are?’ She gave him an inviting look, her eyes narrowing just a touch.

‘Are you saying what I’m thinking?’ he asked hesitantly.

‘Depends on what you’re thinking,’ she said with a wink. ‘I suggest giving this place a proper farewell—one to remember.’

‘I… won’t say “no” to that,’ said Fenris, blushing again.

Miraculously, the fat, round tub had survived the wreckage, now teasing with its clean water—no doubt prepared since morning by Orana. Hawke made a short walk around the room, lighting two torches on opposite walls before returning to the centre. Then she directed her staff at the water.

‘A little indulgence for our bodies.’

The water rippled, as if disturbed by the wind, and steam began to rise. Hawke approached and dipped her hand into it.

‘Perfect temperature,’ she said, giving him a cheeky smile. ‘I’ll let you start.’

Before Fenris could respond, she left the room, leaving him alone with the bathtub.

He stepped towards the door, but then hesitated, changing his mind. For several moments, the elf simply eyed the water, as if considering what possible dangers it might hold. He glanced at the doorway again.

Feeling trapped, he had no choice but to begin removing his intricate armour. Down went the pair of gauntlets, the red ribbon falling atop them, then the chestplate, and lastly, the leather trousers joined the heap on the floor. He felt vulnerable, and he didn’t like it. Of course, he knew he could defend himself with his bare hands if the need arose, but the sensation of being unarmoured was unsettling. Or maybe it was the sight of the white markings marring his skin that brought the feeling of unease. How gladly he would strip himself of them, too.

Overwhelmed by his thoughts, he finally stepped into the tub. The hot water greeted him with a burning embrace. The sensation lingered for a moment, and then, a relaxing weakness spilled through his body. Now, this felt good. Fenris closed his eyes and allowed the hot water to replace his armour.

When Hawke entered the steamy room, Fenris was half-lying in the tub, facing the door, eyes closed, his head resting against the rim. His lips—just slightly—seemed to form what could be a smile.

The elf heard the door open and immediately raised his head—a sharp movement, like a warrior poised for battle. But it was only for a moment. Upon seeing Hawke, his stiffened chin and shoulders relaxed. He didn’t say anything—just studied her. Finally, no armour, no staff slung across her back. Oh, how he hated staves. Well, maybe hers wasn’t that bad, but still… Fenris shook his head slightly, attempting to put his thoughts in order.

Hawke stood before him, clad in a light robe, her eyes meeting his, her brow raised in that familiar, teasing way. That was what mattered. The only thing.

‘Mind if I join?’ she asked coyly.

‘Not at all.’

‘Close your eyes. I’m shy.’

‘Shy?’ He chuckled in surprise. ‘Fine.’

Fenris closed his eyes and let his hearing grasp the reality around him. Two light steps, the soft murmur of fabric falling to the floor, Hawke’s hand resting briefly on the rim of the tub, and then the gentle sigh of water accepting her body. He heard her exhale—a sound of relief as the heat of the water wrapped around her—and then he felt her leg brush against his.

‘You can open them now,’ she said, her voice carrying a smile.

Fenris took a moment more to enjoy guessing the movements around him before looking at her. Chest deep in the water, Hawke was mirroring his position, her arms spread on either side of the tub and her back resting against its wooden wall.

‘A sight I longed to see,’ Fenris said, nodding with approval.

Hawke smiled playfully, but caught herself, biting her lip.

Is it an appropriate feeling? she suddenly thought. After everything that happened this night?

But it could wait, it could finally wait. Now, in this little universe of a crumbling building, she allowed herself to be calm.

‘Lost for words?’ he asked, cocking his head to one side.

‘Just enjoying the view.’

Fenris grinned, satisfied.

Hawke looked at him, studying his face, then lowered her gaze, following the intricate weave of lines that covered his body. His strong and stubborn body. A living body.

They made it. They got out of this hopeless mess alive, against all the odds.

She closed her eyes, savouring the moment.

‘This feels so good,’ she exhaled, sinking deeper into the water. ‘I never want to leave it.’

‘Eventually, we’ll have to. The water will cool, and I believe you left your staff in the dragon’s nest room.’

Hawke laughed.

‘You’re ruining the moment! But yes… it will be very cold when we leave.’

‘I’ll do my best to keep you warm.’

He didn’t lie. Fenris’s body burned hotter than fire, and Hawke melted beneath him.

Offering her neck to his hungry kisses, she lost herself in his embrace. His strong hands held her so tightly she wanted to dissolve into him. It was intoxicating—to feel so alive, to feel so much.

With a swift motion, he turned her onto her back, pinning her wrists to the floor. His eyes trailed over her like a gentle caress, making her longing for his actual touch almost painful. Then, slowly, he lowered his face, tracing the curve of her neck with the tip of his tongue.

‘You’re driving me mad, Hawke,’ he exhaled against her lips.

‘That was the plan,’ she panted.

‘Good plan,’ he smirked. And, before Hawke could respond, his mouth was on hers again, urgent, consuming.

He slid one hand beneath her back, pulling her impossibly closer, and she arched, taking him in even deeper. Their lips blurred together, the heat between them, a feverish wildfire. She felt dizzy, dissolving in this mad rhythm, oblivious to everything else. Unsated, she wrapped her arms around him, rolling her hips up to meet his. Her nails dug into his back, and the sharp sting only seemed to drive Fenris wilder. He pulled her against him as if he could press her into himself entirely, as if any space between them equalled unbearable torture.

The world outside ceased to exist. There was only this—their bodies, their ragged breaths, the delirious rush of it all. She didn’t want it to end. Not until she needed it.

She arched against him as he growled into her neck. A gasp tore from her lips as if, for a moment, she forgot how to breathe. Her fingers, still gripping his back, slowly loosened.

Fenris let his body move a little more before finally collapsing onto her, resting his head against her chest as he caught his breath.

‘To think we could’ve died a few hours ago,’ he muttered.

‘Don’t think that,’ she purred, her fingers threading through his hair. ‘Better start thinking about how we’ll explain to Varric that we look even more tired than we did after the battle.’

Fenris let himself fall back onto the pelt, turning onto his side and propping up his head with one hand, while the other rested gently on her belly.

‘We can let him drift in uncertainty,’ he suggested with a slight shrug.

‘And give his mind free rein to spin its next story? Dangerous.’

‘As always,’ Fenris agreed, pulling her closer and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

***

Hawke woke up freezing.

She had uncovered herself while sleeping, and now, with the fire gone out, the night breeze creeping through the collapsed ceiling felt sharp against her skin. The stars were beginning to fade, making way for the coming dawn. She shifted, hoping to bump into Fenris and warm herself against his body—but instead, she was met by cold emptiness.

‘Fenris?’ She jolted upright, her eyes frantically scanning the room for any sign of movement, any sound—but there was nothing. No one.

She forced the air down her stiffened throat and into her tightened chest. Better. Breathe in, breathe out. She hadn’t cried in ages, and it was not going to happen now.

The chill became more insistent, and she moved her hand, coaxing the fire back to life. The wood crackled playfully, tiny sparks rising and dancing with the flames.

Not even a goodbye then, she thought bitterly, staring into the bright mix of orange and yellow until her eyes began to ache.

Gone. Again. It felt ridiculous.

Hawke lay back on the pelt and looked up at the sky: a puddle of dull blue. She pulled the cover over her head and, underneath it, buried her face in her hands, hiding from everything, especially the incessant hum in her mind. Slowly, the weariness in her body began to overpower the restlessness in her mind, and Hawke didn’t notice when she fell back to sleep.

***

The soft sound of quiet steps. A gentle touch on her naked shoulder.

‘Fenris?’ she asked, still half-dreaming.

Then she turned and opened her eyes. Fully dressed, Fenris was sitting beside her.

‘Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you up,’ he whispered, his voice tender.

‘But… you were gone! Or did I dream it? I don’t understand.’ Hawke rubbed her temple, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. ‘Probably just a bad dream.’

Fenris’s brows rose in surprise. ‘You noticed?’

Hawke opened her mouth but remained silent, staring at him.

‘Let me explain,’ he said, interrupting the whirlwind of thought spiralling in her head. He leaned to the side and pulled something from behind. ‘I needed to check if it was still there. Before we leave.’

The Book of Shartan appeared in front of Hawke—the present she'd given him in what felt like a past life. She looked at Fenris, then at the book, then back at Fenris, and then threw herself onto the pelt, bursting into laughter.

‘Hawke?’ Confused, he started to smile himself, submitting to her contagious laugh. ‘Are you all right?’

She nodded, feeling as though the tidal wave that had crashed over her had gone back into the abyss, sparing her on the shore, and kept laughing until tears welled up in her eyes.

Chapter Text

The first few days in Denerim were chaotic.

Finding a place to stay proved to be a challenge, even with money in hand. They spent an entire day knocking on the doors of guesthouses, taverns, and inns, only to leave every single one empty-handed—all were either full or filthy beyond any reasonable limit. However, the elf, the dwarf, and the human were not a group prone to surrender. They kept asking around, combing the city for any possible option.

Eventually, their party found itself in a darker, shabbier neighbourhood—its dim and unwelcoming streets creating a strange blend of Lowtown and Darktown.

As they turned into one of the many shadowed alleys, Hawke jerked and glanced over her shoulder.

‘Something wrong?’ asked Varric, catching her sudden movement.

‘No…’ Hawke muttered, then added with more confidence, ‘No. Just thought I saw some... thing. Let’s keep going.’

Varric shrugged, and they pressed on, the alley taking them deeper into the heart of the neighbourhood. The buildings here bore a variety of signs and plaques. Many were cryptic to outsiders, showing only a symbol or a few letters, others more straightforward.

‘The Pearl,’ Hawke read aloud from one. ‘Sounds romantic.’

At that moment, the door swung open, revealing a tall woman clad only in her lingerie. She hauled a man out by the collar and shoved him into the street. He stumbled but managed to stay on his feet.

‘Rude,’ he mumbled, staggering away.

‘You three!’ the woman called. ‘In or out?’

‘Give us a moment, my lady.’ Varric gave her a small bow.

The woman’s stern gaze softened. ‘Fine. When you come, ask for Rose.’ She winked at the dwarf and slammed the door shut.

‘Well, the lady’s sweet. And they surely have rooms, don’t they?’ Hawke wondered.

‘You don’t want to sleep on those beds, even fully dressed,’ Varric said, shaking his head.

Fenris narrowed his eyes. ‘Should I ask how you know that?’

‘The duty of a responsible writer.’

‘Of course,’ the elf snorted, walking on ahead, giving a clear message to the other two that he preferred another option for lodging.

‘Picky, as usual,’ Varric shrugged.

***

The streets had long fallen into darkness by the time they finally found a solution in one of Denerim’s inns—the Bailiff’s Will.

‘We’ve got our own tavern and clean rooms… relatively speaking,’ the owner said proudly as the three of them stepped inside.

‘Relatively?’ Hawke arched an eyebrow.

‘I don’t want you expecting miracles, m’lady. But trust my word—this property is far from the worst in Denerim.’

Reluctantly, they agreed to take three rooms, and soon enough, Hawke began to wonder just how much worse the worst options could be. There were no bedbugs, that was true, but it was probably the only positive thing about the place.

What gave her hope was Varric’s promise to find a better alternative later on. Hawke didn’t doubt him—the dwarf had a knack for good deals, even the impossible ones. For the moment, however, they had to be content with creaky floors and beds that groaned so loudly they could wake the dead, and with windows overlooking an inner yard full of poultry and goats.

The next morning, Hawke woke to a raucous choir of roosters and silently hoped she’d be tasting them in the local tavern before the day was over.

***

By the time the three of them met again, the sun had passed its highest peak, and its smooth light filtered through the grimy windows of the inn. The air carried a faint mustiness, hinting that a thorough cleaning was long overdue.

‘A decent replacement for the Hanged Man,’ Fenris said, probing the table. ‘Stickiness—check. Even the sour smell is here.’

‘A temporary measure. Fewer people, too,’ Varric shrugged, unimpressed.

Hawke was the last to join, plopping down on the wooden bench and propping her head on her hand. She paid no attention to the smell or the state of the table—her expression clearly showed that sleep had been hard to come by that night.

‘So, since all of us are here… what’s the plan?’ Varric asked.

‘Except there’s no plan?’ Hawke raised her surprised gaze to him. ‘We need to lay low until Kirkwall calms down a little… if we ever want to return there.’

‘Oh, I have a plan,’ Fenris said. ‘I’ve noticed a couple of slaves here, which means there are buyers and sellers. It’s not Tevinter, of course—far from it—but still, I can put my time here to use.’

‘A noble goal, my dear elf,’ Varric nodded, raising his mug in approval. Fenris answered in kind.

The gloomy innkeeper approached them and set the third mug down with a loud thud, spilling some ale. Hawke waited until he returned to his place, then looked at the liquid dripping onto the floor. It formed a small puddle, which slowly trickled into the gap between the floorboards.

Hawke followed it with her gaze before picking up the mug and cautiously sniffing the drink.

‘We’re not addressing this huge dragon in the room,’ she said, wrinkling her nose and putting the mug back on the table without touching the drink.

‘Meaning?’ Varric asked, wiping the ale foam from his mouth with the back of his hand.

Hawke looked around and lowered her voice to a whisper.

‘We were the reason the red lyrium leaked into Kirkwall. For the most part, you and me, Varric.’

‘You nicely omitted Bartrand—and especially Bartrand.’

‘Yes, because he’s dead, and we were the only other partners. If he hadn’t sold the idol, we probably would have done it ourselves. That’s why we went there, after all. For money.’

Varric squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.

‘I can see you’re no writer. No self-respecting author would bring up such uncomfortable details of their own past. Still, I think that the responsibility is spread across a broader crowd.’

Varric paused, then looked at Hawke. Meeting her gaze, he surrendered.

‘I know, I know—the red lyrium is out, and we’re the ones who know about it and actually seem to care.’

‘The king needs to be informed,’ Fenris remarked. ‘I imagine he would want the ports accepting ships from Kirkwall to be under better supervision.’

‘The elf’s right. Who’s going to bring the happy news to His Majesty?’ Varric gave Hawke a meaningful look.

‘Too subtle. You could do better,’ she scoffed.

‘There’s always room for improvement,’ the dwarf shrugged. ‘I’ll do my best to arrange an audience for you.’

‘Could you also find us another place to stay? It’s going to be difficult meeting the king when I can’t even sleep properly. And I am not very demanding,’ Hawke complained.

‘Say no more, Hawke. For you, I will make the impossible possible,’ Varric promised. ‘For you too, elf. You two come as a package.’

***

‘The bustle never ends,’ Hawke said as they walked out of the inn, leaving Varric to his business.

‘I can handle the hustle much better when I can breathe properly.’ Fenris stretched, drawing in a deep breath.

‘Indeed. A walk is in order—to clear our lungs.’

‘With pleasure.’

Following a sign on the corner of the building, they took a narrow street leading to the market square.

‘This city is so different from Kirkwall… and so much bigger,’ Hawke said, taking in the sight of the buildings around them.

‘Pray you never see Minrathous, then. It could swallow a dozen Denerims for breakfast—and a Kirkwall or two as a snack,’ Fenris said with a wry smile.

‘Let me digest this one first.’

The elf’s expression softened as his gaze lingered on Hawke.

‘Have you been here before?’ he asked.

‘Only when I was little. I remember blossoming trees and music on the market square.’

‘It’s a good memory.’

‘It is. And I hope to make more.’ Hawke glanced at him with a playful gleam in her eye.

Fenris smiled back at her. ‘The day’s still young.’

Proceeding deeper into the city, they walked down its winding cobbled streets until they reached the bustling market square. The colours and smells were overwhelming. The merchants called to passersby, loudly singing the praises of their wares.

Fenris and Hawke slowly navigated the market, gazing at the goods and breathing in a completely different atmosphere from what they were used to in Kirkwall. In the middle of the square, two musicians, dressed in colourful tattered rags, entertained the crowds with simple songs. One played a flute, while the other performed on a shawm. A small flock of children ran in circles around them, chasing one another.

‘What a completely different life,’ Hawke murmured, shaking her head. ‘As if nothing had happened in Kirkwall.’

‘Hawke,’ Fenris said, placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘Try to take a respite. You can return to the world-saving business tomorrow.’

She smiled and patted his hand.

‘Fine. I suppose the world can wait a little.’

‘It will…’ Fenris didn’t finish his sentence. One of the children, a boy no older than four, bumped straight into the elf and fell onto his bum.

‘Sorry!’ The boy quickly jumped to his feet, looking up at the elf. ‘Whoa—’

His eyes went wide in awe as he froze, openly studying Fenris, his gaze lingering on the elf’s markings and the sword behind his back.

‘Are you a warrior?’ he asked, poking his finger at the sword, his shyness vanishing in the blink of an eye.

‘Ahem… yes,’ Fenris grunted in response.

The boy grinned, clearly pleased with his guess.

‘I knew it right away!’ he said proudly, then shifted his finger from the sword to Fenris’s neck. ‘It’s because of the drawings. Michiel always paints his face when we play, and Tassa does too!’

Hawke squinted slightly, expecting Fenris’s reaction to the mention of his markings. But, to her surprise, he crouched down in front of the boy.

‘It’s a big responsibility,’ he said seriously, his voice softened. ‘The painted warriors always help the good people… and fight the bad.’

The boy nodded enthusiastically.

‘Yes! We all fight the darkspawn!’ He swung his arms through the air, demonstrating how they do it. ‘And the Qunari, and the bad Orlesian soldiers too! Like this!’

He swung at the air twice more. Then, after a moment of thought, he delivered another blow to the invisible opponent.

‘That’s a lot of fighting you do,’ Fenris said with an approving nod and rose to his feet.

‘Nicholas!’ A woman emerged from the crowd, her eyes darting as she scanned the faces around her. ‘Nicholas!’ she called again, voice rising.

The boy shifted from foot to foot but remained where he stood, too absorbed in studying ‘the painted warrior’.

‘Nicholas!’ The woman’s voice rang out once more.

‘It’s my mom…’ the boy sighed.

‘I think she’s looking for you,’ the elf said, folding his arms across his chest.

‘I kno-ow! She always does.’ The boy rolled his eyes dramatically. ‘I need to go, but you can come play with us next time! Just put your shoes on—we run a lot!’

Then he dashed off, weaving through the crowd towards his mother.

‘Little show-off,’ Fenris chuckled, waving his hand.

‘He knows his fighting, that’s for sure.’

‘I wonder what child I was,’ Fenris mused, watching the boy skip happily alongside his mother, who held his hand. With the other, the boy gestured excitedly—probably recounting his encounter with a real warrior.

Hawke frowned playfully. ‘A troublemaker, I believe.’

‘A troublemaker?’ Fenris raised his eyebrows. ‘Why?’

‘You have this rebellious air about you.’ Hawke tapped his nose and grinned. ‘I like it. I’d love to be on your team when you go out to play.’

The music kept playing, and she felt a strange, childish certainty that everything was going to be fine. Denerim, memories, Fenris and her. And Varric. And Aveline. And the mabari that stayed with her. And the lyrium business… that would sort itself out somehow too.

Chapter Text

In less than two days, Varric had arranged everything: a meeting with the king was set, and Hawke had no choice but to go—no backup.

She left the Bailiff’s Will and took the longest route to the castle, mulling over the tangled events in Kirkwall and trying to shape them into a coherent story. Absorbed in thought, she didn’t realise she had reached the massive gates until they were right in front of her.

‘State your name and business,’ a guard demanded as she approached.

‘Marian Hawke. I have an audience with the king.’

The guard looked her over, as if considering whether he could trust her words, then stepped aside.

‘Please proceed.’

Hawke did as she was told and passed through the main gate into a spacious inner court.

There, a tall, well-groomed man was already waiting for her.

‘Teagan Guerrin,’ he said, bowing slightly. ‘We met briefly in Kirkwall.’

‘Of course I remember you, Arl Guerrin.’

‘Please, call me Teagan.’ He smiled and gestured for her to follow. ‘King Alistair is ready to see you.’

Hawke fell in step beside him, grateful she wouldn’t have to navigate the castle alone. As they walked in silence for a while, she noticed how Teagan threw cautious glances at the staff slung behind her back.

‘Is my weapon going to be a problem while we’re speaking with the king?’ she asked.

The man shook his head slightly. ‘I would advise you not to carry your staff so openly at all. It is not quiet in Denerim now.’

‘Was it ever quiet for mages?’ Hawke shrugged.

Teagan cleared his throat. ‘We have had several cases… disappearances. The mages who escaped during the unrest in the Circle, they, ahem, were never seen again.’

Hawke sighed. ‘Perhaps they just followed the example they saw in Kirkwall.’

‘I understand the situation took a rather unfortunate turn in the end,’ Teagan remarked. ‘How did you manage to get out of it?’

‘You mean the battle? I didn’t. The city was in chaos afterwards, so we took our chances and left the next day.’

‘I see. Then perhaps it’s best if I ask no further questions before we meet the king.’

Hawke had no objection to that. She followed the arl through the halls until they reached a massive double door. Teagan pushed it open and motioned for her to enter first.

‘The Champion of Kirkwall!’ Alistair stepped forward, grasping Hawke’s hand with enthusiasm.

‘I knew you’d come back to Ferelden one day—though perhaps under different circumstances.’

‘Your Majesty,’ she nodded politely.

‘Between you, me, and Teagan, I can do without the titles now. Thank the Maker there’s no one here to be impressed.’

‘Tired of the official part of it all?’ Hawke smiled.

‘Very much so. But I was warned that being a king wasn’t an easy job,’ Alistair said with a casual shrug. 'Anyway, I’m glad to see you here. I’ve also been told that you wanted to discuss something…' He glanced at Teagan. '... important.’

Hawke opened her mouth to respond, but Alistair interrupted.

‘Before you begin—I heard it was your friend who blew up the Chantry?’

She sighed, exhaling slowly. ‘I knew that man. And I assure you, I had no idea of his intentions.’

‘One rarely does,’ Teagan said pensively.

Alistair ran his fingers through his hair. ‘So, not all the rumours are just rumours, then.’

Hawke hesitated, choosing her next words carefully.

‘It will sound strange, but the Chantry wasn’t the worst thing that happened there. That is why I came. I believe you should know more about the battle in Kirkwall than what has probably reached you.’

‘I am all ears,’ Alistair said, taking a seat at a round table and gesturing to the chair across from him.

Hawke lowered herself into it and began her story.

When she finished, both Alistair and Teagan exchanged glances. She could see they weren’t entirely convinced that everything she’d said was true, and she couldn’t blame them for that.

‘A different type of lyrium? An idol made of it?’ Alistair frowned. ‘I’ve never heard anything about it.’

‘Neither had I, until a certain point,’ Hawke said, keeping her voice as calm and measured as she could. ‘My companions saw it too—they saw what it did to the Knight-Commander. The longer she was around it, the worse she became.’

‘And she kept it in her sword, you say?’

‘Correct.’

‘Couldn't you recover it?’

‘Unfortunately not. It shattered, and it wasn’t possible to find any pieces in the rubble after the battle. However, I will write to the guard-captain of Kirkwall to ask if they found anything after I left. They were supposed to take control of the city—at least for a while.’ Hawke tapped her fingers on the table, considering her next words. ‘All I can say is that there’s a risk the red lyrium will be used again—at some point, in some place. Things like this rarely stay tamed.’

Alistair grew silent, digesting her words.

‘I don’t have any reason to doubt your words,’ he said at last, ‘even though the whole thing sounds quite… unbelievable.’

‘Please, trust me,’ Hawke said, her eyes locked on his.

‘Not many have the luxury of not trusting the Champion of Kirkwall,’ Alistair said with a faint smile. ‘So, what is it you’re after?’

‘Honestly? I’m still figuring that out. That’s part of why I’m here. We know red lyrium is real—and dangerous. Beyond that, we’re still in the dark.’

‘And what exactly do you expect from me?’ Alistair asked, his tone genuinely curious.

‘Inspect the ports more closely. Keep a sharper eye on the templars, mages—anyone who’s dealing with lyrium, really. Dwarves, too.’

‘It’s not a small task, but it’s manageable. Anything else?’

‘Yes. Help.’ A wry smile touched her lips. ‘I would appreciate access to your royal library. And if things go sideways—really sideways—a few swords wouldn’t hurt either.’

‘This, I believe, can be done,’ Alistair said, glancing at Teagan.

‘Absolutely. If there’s anything you require, Hawke, let me know, and I’ll see it arranged,’ the arl said, meeting her gaze.

She held it. She liked this man—he seemed like someone who acted rather than simply talked. Working with him should be easy.

‘I appreciate your help.’ Hawke paused briefly, weighing her next words. ‘For now, I’d suggest handling it with discretion. I believe the knowledge of the red lyrium is still contained within Kirkwall, but it will inevitably spread. Our goal is to slow its reach as much as possible.’

‘Understandable,’ Teagan said firmly.

‘And I appreciate the information you’ve shared, Hawke,’ Alistair added. ‘Keep me informed, should you learn anything new.’

‘May I ask where I should send correspondence, should the need arise?’ Teagan asked, looking up from his notes.

‘I’m staying at the Bailiff’s Will—an inn.’

‘An inn?’

Hawke nodded.

‘I…’ Teagan glanced at Alistair. ‘I suppose we can arrange something more suitable for the Champion of Kirkwall?’

‘Please, don’t trouble yourself!’ Hawke protested.

‘It’s no trouble at all,’ Alistair said, waving his hand dismissively. ‘Teagan will sort something out in no time.’

Flustered, Hawke thanked them, and after a brief exchange of farewell pleasantries, she left with Teagan accompanying her to the gates. As she made her way out, she couldn’t help but think that the road back seemed much more pleasant now, with the news off her chest.

‘I thought about what you’ve said, Hawke,’ Teagan remarked as they walked down the corridors.

‘I believe His Majesty can also speak to a friend of his—see if anyone from the Grey Wardens has heard anything about this red lyrium.’

‘Tempting,’ Hawke replied, ‘but only if he trusts them. I believe this information should stay as far away from the majority as possible.’

‘I understand,’ Teagan said, and they walked in silence for a moment. ‘If what you’re saying is true,’ he finally added, ‘then you’re on a very dangerous path.’

‘The paths I travel are rarely strewn with roses, I’m afraid,’ Hawke answered with a smile, though her eyes remained serious.

***

The next day came with a welcome sense of calm. Hawke was having her meal with Varric and Fenris at the Bailiff’s Will tavern when a royal guard appeared at the door, looking for her.

‘A message for you,’ he said as she approached, handing her a paper sealed with red wax bearing the King’s crest.

Hawke looked at the guard, expecting some explanation, but the man remained solemnly silent. Seeing that no further information was forthcoming, she broke the seal and read the note.

Hawke,
You must forgive my lack of proper hospitality. Teagan has recommended a more comfortable arrangement for your lodging. I trust you will find it to your liking.
King Theirin.

‘I must accompany you to the place,’ said the guard, once she had finished reading.

‘Now?’ Hawke looked at him in surprise.

‘Yes, my lady,’ he nodded, throwing a glance at a maid carrying a tray with steaming plates. ‘I can wait if you need to prepare.’

Hawke didn’t want to test her luck. If there was a better place to stay, she’d take it while she could.

‘Just a moment, please,’ she said to the guard.

Weaving between the tables, Hawke made her way back to her companions.

‘What’s going on?’ Fenris asked, not even trying to hide his concern.

‘I have to leave you for a bit,’ she said, her voice trembling with excitement.

‘A bit?’ The elf raised an eyebrow.

‘I don’t know, a few hours? It seems some royal mercy has been bestowed upon me. I’ll tell you when I’m back.’

‘And that’s how you create suspense,’ Varric chuckled with approval.

***

The guard led her through the maze of Denerim's streets, and Hawke was grateful for it. Finding a specific house in a city this large would likely have taken far longer on her own. They walked for quite some time before the guard finally halted, marking the end of their journey.

‘My lady.’ He handed her a key and gestured towards a narrow, two-level house squeezed between two larger ones. ‘Would you require any assistance?’

‘I… think not,’ Hawke said, eyeing the building in disbelief. ‘I should be fine. Thank you.’

‘My lady.’ He saluted her briefly, then turned on his heel and walked away.

Hawke watched him leave, then looked at the building again. Arl Guerrin truly was a man of action.

She slid the key into the lock and turned it; the door gave a soft click. Hawke hesitated before pushing it open and stepping inside the place that would be hers while in Denerim. The moment she crossed the threshold, a warm ache settled in her chest. The high-ceilinged hall reminded her of her home in Kirkwall; even the benches by the entrance felt familiar. She took a deep breath and moved further in, stepping into a spacious room. A dining table with four chairs stood at its centre. At the far wall, a small kitchen area held shelves stocked with earthenware jars. Beside it, a modest pantry was tucked into the corner. To the left, a door opened into a small chamber dedicated to her morning routines.

Satisfied with her inspection, Hawke ascended the stairs.

The rooms on the upper floor faced away from the street, overlooking the river and a narrow line of blossoming trees along its bank. She stepped first into a bedroom, then moved on to a smaller room that could serve as a guest chamber.

‘For my vast and growing circle of Denerim friends,’ she smirked to herself.

The last room was more of a small office, but Hawke immediately fell in love with it. It was a compact, cosy space with a single window. A writing desk stood against the opposite wall, and she could already picture herself here—composing a letter to Aveline while listening to the river flow… only to get completely distracted by it.

She slid the latch and pushed the window open. Crisp air, scented with the sweet fragrance of the trees, flooded in to greet her. She offered her face to the gentle breeze and smiled. She should thank Arl Guerrin when she got the chance. But for now, it was time to share the news over a glass of wine with Varric and Fenris. They were sure to like this place.

***

‘This is an unlucky place for cards. I refuse to lose any more money,’ Varric muttered after Hawke won yet another round of Wicked Grace. ‘To think—I taught you how to play!’

‘She had enough practice butchering me. I’m just glad there’s another victim tonight.’ Fenris tried to suppress the satisfaction in his voice as he noticed the pitiful remains of Varric’s pile of coppers and allowed himself a rare, wider smile. ‘Feels good.’

Varric shot him a pointed look. ‘One more round, then. I’m all in.’

‘That’s not very menacing,’ Hawke said with a shrug, dealing the cards for another round.

‘Did you even shuffle them, or are you just stacking the deck against me?’ Varric looked at his cards in genuine despair. ‘I’ve never seen a hand so hopeless.’

‘Oh, yes, she did shuffle them,’ Fenris said with a note of contentment, drawing a card from the deck and placing another one on the table. ‘I would raise, but you’re out of coin.’

‘It won’t work, elf. I didn’t bring any silver with me.’ Varric gave Fenris a knowing look.

‘Deliberately.’

Hawke smirked and took another card. Varric followed suit, and his expression became even more desperate.

‘You jinxed it.’

‘I call.’ Fenris laid his cards on the table.

Varric compared them to his own and tossed his hand down. With a contented smile, Fenris slid the coppers closer to himself.

‘Cheating and robbing,’ Varric grumbled, gesturing to the empty space in front of him where his coins had been.

‘It was a fair play!’ Hawke chuckled.

‘It was luck. Next time I’ll take my revenge.’ Varric picked up his mug, checked if there was any ale left, and drained it. Then he shook his head and stood. ‘It was a good battle, but I should go—before I end up without my chain or earring. See you soon, Hawke. Elf.’ He gave a slight bow and headed straight for the door.

‘As if the ale hadn’t already reached his chest,’ Hawke said, shaking her head dramatically.

‘Years of thorough training, I suppose,’ Fenris said, sipping his wine.

Hawke watched him for a while.

‘And what are your plans?’ she asked at last, a playful glint in her eyes.

‘I’m in no rush,’ he replied with a smile.

‘Then perhaps,’ she said, standing and leaning in to take the glass from his hand, ‘I can show you around a little more.’

Fenris rose and followed Hawke upstairs, drawn by her invitation.

As they reached the bedroom door, she turned and stepped inside backwards, her eyes on his, hand outstretched—beckoning.

Inside, the full moon’s light spilled through the window, casting a soft glow that kept the centre of the room bathed in silver. Hawke crossed the moonlit patch on the floor, glanced out at the night sky, then turned her attention to the bed.

‘Hm,’ she murmured, touching her chin thoughtfully as she studied it.

‘What?’ Fenris asked, following her gaze.

‘I heard,’ she said, her tone mock-serious, ‘there's an old custom. When you move into a new place, you're supposed to ride one specific elf until he sees stars. You know... for good luck.’

Fenris raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. ‘Funny—I’ve heard of that custom too.’ He took a step closer. ‘Seems to me, it's one that deserves our full respect.’

Without another word, Hawke pulled him towards the bed, and they tumbled onto it together, their soft laughter echoing gently through the stillness of the night.

***

The morning brought a fresh breeze. It slipped in through an open window, playing with the curtains and settling in the corner of the room. Hawke had already woken and was basking in the comfort of the new bed. Fenris lay beside her, the sun casting its rays across his body, weaving them through the markings on his skin. Almost as if he felt her gaze, he stirred—stretching, waking—and turned to her, his hair tousled.

‘Good morning,’ she said with a smile.

‘How is it morning already?’ he asked, his voice rough from sleep.

She sank deeper into the warmth of the bed, pulling the blanket over their heads and bringing her face level with his.

‘We can pretend it’s still night and stay here a little longer,’ she said.

‘I can easily pretend that,’ he murmured with a soft chuckle.

Hawke bit her lip, smiling at how cute he looked in the rosy light filtering through the blanket.

‘Or you can stay here. No need to go,’ she whispered.

‘If you want me to stay, I’ll stay,’ he replied, his voice turning serious.

‘What do you want, Fenris? It’s not something that depends only on me.’

He pushed the blanket aside and rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. His chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate breaths.

Hawke stayed silent, bracing herself for his answer. Even the air seemed to hold its breath, and for a long moment, the only sound she could hear was her own heartbeat. It felt like an eternity before he spoke.

‘I think,’ he finally said, turning back and leaning in to her, ‘that I would like to try that. I rather enjoyed waking up with you.’

Chapter Text

For the next two weeks, Hawke lived in a strange, exalted state, as though everything happening around her were surreal. After all these years, she finally had her time. Surely, the red lyrium still loomed above her like a storm cloud — but were her skies ever truly clear?

To think that only recently she’d been fighting templars and abominations, and here she was now, crouched by the hearth with a poker in her hand, inspecting the embers. They glowed only faintly, and she prodded them, coaxing brief flashes of light. Then she added a few logs, and soon the flames began their dance. Satisfied, Hawke stood, whistling a melody she’d heard at the market the other day. She hung the poker by the hearth, wiped her hands, and was about to leave when a firm knock came at the door.

Through the window she saw a messenger boy in the Denerim Courier uniform, shifting impatiently, a bag slung over his shoulder.

‘Are you Marian Hawke?’ he asked.

‘That’s me.’

‘Finally,’ he exhaled, rummaging through his bag. ‘Took a while to find you — even had to ask the guards,’ he added pointedly, handing her a letter.

Hawke caught the hint and pressed a coin into the boy’s palm. ‘Thank you.’

She closed the door and looked at the envelope. It had been two weeks — two good, trouble-free weeks. Was this letter about to end that? Hawke broke the seal and took out the paper folded in two. When she opened it and read the first line, her lips stretched into a wide smile.

‘Aveline’s coming!’ Hawke announced, bursting into the room where Fenris had been hiding since morning.

He glanced up at her briefly, then returned to his work. At that moment, he was rewrapping the leather grip on his weapon. Tending to his sword was a process—a ritual—he truly enjoyed.

‘Do I have a couple more days? The waxing has to set in,’ he said pensively, testing the leather with his fingers.

‘Are you planning to fight her?’

‘No. But since she’s always ready to, I might as well be,’ he replied, holding the sword out and sighting down the blade for flaws.

‘I’m sure she missed you too,’ Hawke said, sitting beside him, a faint smile playing on her lips.

Fenris froze for an instant, but it didn’t escape her notice.

‘Right. I’ll leave you to your task, then,’ she said. Fenris clearly wasn’t in the mood for conversation, and she knew better than to push him out of his broody state—it rarely did any good anyway.

‘See you later,’ he muttered before she closed the door behind her.

***

The courtesy—as Hawke regarded it—of visiting King Alistair came with responsibilities as well. Somewhere between her scepticism that everything was going relatively well and her anticipation of Aveline’s arrival, she was summoned to the castle and asked one simple question: ‘Will you know the red lyrium when you see it?’ By answering affirmatively, she had signed up for regular inspections of various goods coming to or from the port of Denerim.

'They always make you pay for the favours, don’t they?' Varric sighed when they met in a small square near the docks. ‘Is Spikes coming?'

'Spikes?' Hawke let out a short laugh. 'Does he know about it?'

'Not yet. I need to find the right moment.'

'Tell me how it goes. I beg you.'

'If I am alive to tell the tale,' Varric said with a dramatic half-bow. 'So, we're on our own?'

'We are. Fenris said he’s on the trail of someone dealing with slavers.'

'He knows how to have fun.'

Hawke rolled her eyes theatrically. ‘Northerners.’

They turned a corner near the docks, their conversation trailing off as Varric pointed to a man standing by the warehouse entrance.

‘Seems so,’ Hawke agreed.

The Arl of Redcliffe stood with his hands clasped behind his back, quietly observing the passers-by. She waved as they approached, and he smiled in recognition.

'Thank you for coming,' Teagan said, bowing his head slightly in greeting. 'Please, follow me.'

Together, they entered the dusty warehouse, which smelled of every possible scent in the world: the mustiness of old wood, the sourness of rotting vegetables, the sharp tang of rust, and the odour of old fish.

‘It’s not every day the Arl of Redcliffe oversees something as minor as cargo inspection,’ said Varric.

'We don’t want to involve more people in the matter—at least for now.'

'Isn’t it suspicious that someone of your rank is doing this?' asked Hawke.

'Not at all. It can be regarded as a random but routine inspection,' he replied in his usual composed manner.

The arl’s calmness spread to Hawke, and she felt her shoulders relax a little. Teagan unlocked one of the doors inside, and they entered a room with several tables covered with various objects: crates of lyrium bottles, statuettes of reddish material, strange stones.

Teagan opened a small cabinet hidden in the corner, took out a heavy-looking ledger, and looked at his visitors.

'I’m not sure if any of the items you see are connected to the red lyrium, but it’s better to be cautious in this matter. We plan to conduct this type of inspection once a month, if you don’t mind.'

'Of course not,' said Hawke. Varric nodded in agreement.

Teagan turned to him. 'Serah Tethras, it is my understanding that you also saw the lyrium idol?'

'Yes. I think I had a special connection to it. If it's here but we can't see it, I'll still sense it. Most likely.'

Teagan gave him an inquisitive look.

Varric shrugged. ‘It’s a… dwarven thing.’

'Most curious,' Teagan noted.

Hawke and Varric looked through the offered items and judged none of them suspicious.

'What about those boxes?’ she asked, gesturing towards several crates beside one of the tables.

Varric stepped closer and peered inside. ‘Looks like dwarven tools.’

'We have good contacts with Orzammar thanks to the Hero of Ferelden,' Teagan explained. 'This is one of the standard shipments our merchants send beyond the river—Starkhaven, Kirkwall, Tantervale. Most go through Highever, but they come through our port when ships need to take on more cargo.'

Hawke and Varric exchanged glances.

'Perhaps we’re just a little paranoid,' Varric said. 'But I would keep an eye on these shipments. Maybe reroute anything suspicious from Highever through here. Just in case.'

'Thank you for the advice, Serah Tethras.' Teagan nodded and made a note in his ledger.

***

Only a few days had passed when Hawke found herself pacing back and forth across a small cobblestone square not far from the barracks, glancing at the people passing by. She was beginning to grow bored of waiting, but when her eyes landed on a red-haired woman in the crowd, she nearly jumped with excitement.

‘Hawke!’ The guard-captain of Kirkwall caught the mage in a brief but firm embrace.

The two women studied each other for a moment. They seemed almost unchanged since they had parted ways—the same steel in Aveline’s eyes, the same determination in Hawke’s.

‘I didn’t realise how much I’d miss you,’ Aveline said, cocking her head to one side.

‘Me or the trouble that always follows?’ Hawke responded with a soft laugh.

‘Wait—do you mean Fenris? Or maybe Varric?’ Aveline feigned a confused expression.

‘Depends on who you can tolerate more. Or less.’

Aveline rolled her eyes. ‘Impossible question!’

Hawke’s gaze lingered on her for a moment.

‘Your letter didn’t say much about your plans here,’ she said, her tone softening.

‘King Alistair has kindly offered his help in restoring order to Kirkwall. I’m here to speak with Denerim’s captain—see whom he can spare, and how many.’

Hawke sighed. ‘Knowing how efficient you are, it’s going to be a short visit.’

‘I wouldn’t hope that much. Bureaucracy is the same everywhere,’ Aveline said, glancing back towards the barracks. ‘Come, let’s talk somewhere we can sit.’

On the way to her temporary office, Aveline paused twice to exchange a few words with the local officers. When they finally entered the small room, she lowered herself into a chair at the table and gestured for Hawke to take the one opposite. She pushed the pile of papers on the table to one side and exhaled.

‘Finally, I can put the soldier away for a while.’

Hawke smiled. ‘A miraculous transformation—from captain to regular person? I’m all for seeing that.’

Aveline leaned back in her chair.

‘This regular person wants to pay proper attention to her friend, whose absence has been rather noticeable. Are you considering coming back?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Hawke shrugged. ‘I don’t want to bring more trouble to the city. It’s had enough—at least for now.’

‘I think I understand,’ Aveline said with a nod. ‘So, what are you doing in Denerim?’

‘Trying to blend in.’ Hawke smiled wryly. ‘Also, I had a chance to talk to the king and caution him about the possibility of red lyrium leaking into Ferelden.’

‘Have you learned anything else about this lyrium type?’

Hawke gave a slight shake of her head. ‘Varric was supposed to speak with someone from the Merchants’ Guild—see if anything new has hit the market. He should hear back in a day or two.’

‘Not much.’

‘I know. Sometimes I think I dreamt it—and red lyrium doesn’t exist at all.’

For a moment, Aveline regarded her in silence. Then she startled slightly, as if shaken from a daze.

‘All business, sorry. I didn’t even ask how Fenris is.’

‘A complicated question. But I can assure you—if any slavers ever wanted to come to Denerim, they’ve changed their minds.’

‘His influence, I suppose.’

‘Yes. We went on a couple of dates that somehow ended up as hunts for anyone connected to illegal… trades.’

‘Ugh. Romantic.’

‘I’m sure both the local guards and the local thugs are quite impressed.’

‘But you don’t sound very impressed by it, Hawke,’ Aveline said, watching her closely. ‘Is everything all right between you two?’

‘Shouldn’t it be?’ Hawke gave her an uncertain smile. ‘Everything’s fine. What about Donnic?’

Aveline’s face softened into the tender expression she always wore whenever anyone mentioned her husband’s name.

‘He’s fine. I left him in charge while I’m away,’ she said, then stretched and stood. ‘Now. I’m ready for some civilian time.’

‘So, a reunion is in line, I believe.’

‘I would love that. What’s on the menu?’

‘Let me think.’ Hawke began to count on her fingers. ‘Wine. Varric, his stories, probably a couple of jokes about Bianca. One broody elf, most likely. Ale. Did I miss anything?’ She rubbed her chin. ‘Ah—right. Probably a few random strangers, since Varric insists on meeting in a tavern.’ She raised her palms in defence before Aveline could object. ‘It’s a step up from the Hanged Man.’

‘Anything is a step up from the Hanged Man,’ Aveline snorted. ‘Can you even trust Varric with the evaluation of taverns?’

‘Just give him a chance.’

‘Only one,’ said Aveline sternly.

‘That’s all I’m asking for, guard-captain,’ Hawke said with a smile.

‘Gnawed Noble, then. I think there should be a competition for strange tavern names somewhere.’ Aveline took a mug and peered into it.

‘It’s safe,’ Varric assured her, taking a generous gulp of his ale. ‘At least in moderation.’

Aveline eyed the dwarf and tasted her drink.

‘Strangely sweet,’ she said, frowning slightly.

‘You meant to say "tasty".’

‘Maybe.’

Hawke chuckled, shaking her head at them, and lifted her mug.

‘Will Fenris come?’ Aveline asked, taking a bolder sip.

‘Erm… maybe. He’s been busy lately.’

‘Busy? With what?’

‘Fenris stuff, I guess?’ Hawke said, flinching as the tavern’s cat jumped onto her lap. It was a timely distraction, allowing her to leave it at that. She was nearly certain the elf intended to ignore their gathering—but just as she thought that, the door swung open, and in he walked.

‘Well, if it isn’t the one who never misses a party!’ Varric exclaimed, raising his mug.

Fenris approached the table, a faint smile on his lips. ‘You know me—I can’t stay away from a celebration.’ He touched Hawke’s shoulder lightly in greeting and took a seat beside her.

The cat jumped onto his lap and immediately leaned into his hand, purring as though it had been waiting for him all evening.

Hawke huffed a quiet laugh. ‘Of course.’

‘I love such spirit from my guests!’ the tall chubby barkeep said, replacing the empty mugs with full ones and adding a wine pitcher to their table. ‘If you want more, just tell me.’ He winked at Aveline, who promptly looked the other way.

‘Without lifting a finger, you’ve raised the quality of the place to a new level. Having a guard-captain in your company always helps.’ Varric took a mug of ale and sniffed it. ‘Frighteningly fresh.’

Hawke looked over her shoulder at the barkeep. He was all smiles, pouring ale for other patrons and sneaking glances at Aveline.

‘I think he’s just hitting on her. Is Donnic treating you well? Otherwise, the competition here…’ A mischievous smile tugged at Hawke’s lips.

‘Oh, please, Hawke!’ Aveline exclaimed.

‘You’re blushing,’ said Fenris and Varric at the same time.

‘It was so quiet in Kirkwall,’ she muttered, trying to look anywhere but in the barkeep’s direction.

‘I must say, Aveline, you did charm this place. This one is… good?’ Fenris raised an eyebrow, twirling the cup of wine in his hand.

Aveline leaned forward. ‘Maybe that’s because you’re finally smiling and not trying to have the milk around you go off?’

‘There’s no milk in this place. Why would I put in the effort?’ Fenris countered peacefully, reaching for the bottle to refill his cup.

After talk and laughter, more ale and more wine, Varric fished a pack of cards from his pocket and slammed it on the table. ‘How about a few rounds of Wicked Grace? I still owe Hawke payback.’

‘You’ve been waiting for it, haven’t you?’ Hawke said, flexing her fingers.

‘Can’t bear the thought of my coppers weighing down your pocket,’ Varric said with a nod, then turned to Aveline. ‘Guard-captain, get your coin ready.’

‘With you, it’s always ready.’

‘I will take my leave,’ Fenris said as he rose from his chair.

‘Afraid to lose?’ Hawke looked up at him.

‘You never miss our games, elf! Maybe just one round?’ Varric pressed.

Fenris shook his head. ‘Later. I’ll try to return before Hawke leaves all her money on the table.’ He gave Hawke a faint smile, then slipped away before anyone could raise another objection.

Aveline cast a questioning look at her friend, but Hawke only shrugged in response.

‘So, it’s just the three of us?’ Varric asked, shuffling the deck.

The barkeep appeared at their table. ‘I can join you for a round or two. Not many guests in tonight,’ he said with a hint of hesitation.

Varric glanced at Aveline, who simply waved a hand in surrender.

‘That’s what I always say—more’s merrier,’ the barkeep declared, lowering himself into the seat beside Varric, across from Aveline. ‘Oi! Stefan! Bring me some silver and refresh the drinks for our guests!’ he shouted towards the kitchen, then turned back to the table, rubbing his hands together. ‘So, who’s the dealer?’

Chapter Text

But as the time she’d allowed herself passed without any visible change, she admitted that it was time for a second opinion.

Getting that opinion wasn’t easy. Hawke had to use all her skills to catch Aveline, who was running back and forth between the barracks, the captain’s office, and Arl Teagan, who was meant to manage the process on paper.

When the door creaked open, Aveline glanced up briefly at her visitor before returning to the parchment in front of her.

‘Hawke. Weren’t we supposed to meet at the inn?’

‘I just wanted to talk,' Hawke said quietly, watching as Aveline signed some papers and discarded others, ‘on our way there.’

‘Sure,’ Aveline replied, sealing one of the documents with wax before setting it aside. ‘I’m almost done.’

The guard-captain made a final revision of the papers, carefully set her quill on its rest, and nodded, showing that she was ready.

The two women crossed the square filled with the second breath of life that a city gets after the midday meal. Hawke didn’t speak until the square was left behind and they entered a quieter street. She wasn’t sure how to start, killing bandits and abominations was easy and known; confiding in someone was not.

‘It’s… personal,’ she said after the silence stretched too long.

Aveline shot her a puzzled look. ‘Go on.’

'It's been complicated lately. Between Fenris and me, I mean. Not that complicated but... you know.'

'Right,' Aveline cocked her head to the side, an eyebrow raised in expectation.

Hawke nodded and explained the confusing situation she found herself in.

‘Maybe it’s nothing, but… Maker, I can hear how ridiculous I sound,’ she sighed.

‘Oh, Hawke, I could tell you the elf came with trouble as part of the package, but I believe you made that choice consciously.’

‘And apparently, I’m facing the consequences now,’ Hawke said with a nervous chuckle.

Aveline slowed her pace and looked at her friend. ‘I know you as a reasonable woman, Hawke. If you have suspicions, there must be something wrong.’

Hawke exhaled—hearing that Aveline didn’t dismiss her concerns was a relief, of sorts.

‘I don’t know if hearing you say that is a good or a bad thing,’ she said, as they rounded a corner, and the signboard of the Gnawed Noble came into view.

‘We’ll see,’ Aveline responded, her tone confident and firm. ‘We’ll talk to Varric and then return to this. Don’t think I’ll let the elf upset you for longer.’

The sounds of the tavern swallowed those in the street. Hawke and Aveline nodded to the barkeep and headed to the table reserved just for them. The bustling noise of the common room softened in their quiet corner, giving them enough privacy to talk. Hawke wasn’t sure whom to thank for the arrangement—Varric’s charm or Aveline’s influence with the barkeep—but she wasn’t about to complain.

Varric appeared a few minutes later.

‘The news isn’t great,’ he announced, plopping into the chair and waving at the serving boy, Stefan, for a drink.

‘Shoot,’ Aveline said tersely.

Varric waited for the boy to bring him a mug of ale, and only then did he continue.

‘Looks like there are people in Kirkwall who are... eager to repeat our little expedition to the Deep Roads. Whether they know what they’re after—or understand what they’re getting into—is still up in the air. I’m trying to find out more, but for now it’s not looking good.’

‘Great. Just what we needed,’ Hawke muttered, burying her face in her hands, thumbs pressing into her temples.

‘That was my first reaction,’ Varric said with a nod. ‘See, we’re in a situation where warning them about the dangers might just provoke even more unwanted attention.’

‘Many would definitely see it as a challenge,’ Aveline agreed.

‘I’ll keep working this lead though. We’ll see if they bring anything back to the surface. Aveline, can you keep an eye on it too?’

‘You don’t need to ask. That city is my responsibility, and I’ll make sure no one drags that poison into it,’ Aveline said, her voice all steel.

‘How did you find out about this?’ Hawke asked, raising her head.

‘Merchants,’ Varric said, taking a long gulp of ale. ‘I’m afraid this news could spread fast.’

‘My fear is that it might be found in other parts of the Deep Roads.’ Hawke glanced at her friends. ‘Can we secure it somehow?’

‘Are you planning to secure all of them in Thedas?’ Varric gave her a half-smile.

‘I wish I could, but no.’ Hawke said flatly. ‘I think we should do something about the dwarves…’

‘About me?’

‘Varric…’

‘Fine, fine. Which ones, exactly?’

‘Any we can reach and trust.’

Aveline tapped her fingers on the table. ‘Maybe Orzammar?’ she offered. ‘Could we reach out? Share our concerns?’

‘To be honest, I’m not sure,’ Varric said, shaking his head. ‘Perhaps we could try asking the king to talk to them—weight of power and all that. I hear he’s got good connections with them.’

‘I suppose it could work.’ Hawke nodded slowly, considering it. ‘Might be as risky as cautioning the adventurers in Kirkwall, but worth giving it a shot.’

‘I say we try. Start the talk, see how it goes. You’re good at talking. Not as good as I am, of course, but sufficiently good.’

‘Apparently, I am terrible at talking lately,’ Hawke smirked wryly.

‘Oh, I can tell when a woman is annoyed just from her voice.’ Varric reached for his ale. ‘I think I’ll need this. So—what’s the story?’

‘Never mind. I…’

‘The elf is giving her trouble,’ Aveline said quickly.

‘The angsty one? From Tevinter?’ Varric raised his eyebrows in a very believable show of surprise. ‘Who would’ve thought. What did he do this time?’

Hawke just shook her head. Aveline glanced at her and, seeing no resistance, continued.

‘He’s not talking to her.’

‘And what’s he supposed to talk about?’

‘Anything, really,’ Hawke tried to smile.

‘He’s out somewhere at night,’ Aveline said. ‘Out at night and not talking to her,’ she added pointedly.

Varric glanced at her, then turned to Hawke.

‘Please, don’t tell me I smell jealousy here.’

‘Who wouldn’t?’ snorted Aveline.

‘Who cares what he says out loud?’ Varric looked at Hawke. ‘The guy took himself off the market ages ago. For you.'

Aveline rolled her eyes, choosing not to comment.

'Nice attempt. Really felt the support. Thank you,’ Hawke said, folding her arms across her chest.

Varric shook his head and took a generous gulp of ale.

'Sometimes you can be a little clueless, can’t you?’ He set the mug down and looked at her.

'What do you mean?' Hawke asked, a hint of annoyance in her voice.

'That red band he’s been wearing for ages—and still does. Doesn't that say anything?'

'And what should it say?'

'Hawke, no offense, but are you blind? Red band matching your crest colours. He’s showing he's taken.'

Aveline didn’t hold back a scoff. 'Well, now you’re just making things up.'

Varric shook his head almost in disappointment.

'I probably shouldn't be saying this, but I have a feeling you're about to do something stupid if I don't,' he muttered, then sighed deeply. 'There’s an old tradition about wearing such bands. I mentioned it to the elf myself when we played Diamondback at the Hanged Man. Don’t remember why; I was probably drunk. What I do know is that the next day he was walking around with that band like a banner.'

Hawke tried to recall when she noticed the band on Fenris’s wrist for the first time.

'No.’ She shook her head. ‘It can't be that. He’d already dumped me by then.'

‘I’ll let you draw your own conclusion.’ Varric downed his mug and got up from his chair, but then hesitated. ‘Listen. I hate to say I told you, but I told you—the elf’s got issues. Give him time. It usually works,’ he said after a pause and left.

Hawke watched the door close behind him, then turned to Aveline.

'Do you think what he said is true?'

‘Seems so,' Aveline said, nodding thoughtfully. ‘I didn’t pay much attention to it, but it kind of makes sense.’

Hawke tapped her fingers on the table.

'Still. He’s changed. He’s hiding something, and this something is standing between us. Band or no band.'

'Time to find out what?'

Hawke rubbed her temple.

'Yes. Let's find out.’

***

Hawke and Aveline moved like shadows, gliding from one dark alley to another. They kept only the silhouette of the elf in sight—letting him pull ahead on the streets and catching up around corners.

‘Feels strange being this light without my armour,’ Aveline whispered.

‘Good.’

Hawke wasn’t in the mood to talk; her focus was on finding out where Fenris was heading—and what it might reveal.

After half an hour of pursuit, the streets began to narrow and twist, leading into the unofficial part of the docks—where the locals hauled fish, produce, and ferried passengers across the river.

Here, the lanes were a tangled mess, and the houses looked as though a giant had dropped them from the sky, leaving them scattered where they fell.

Ahead, Fenris took a sharp turn to the right. Hawke motioned towards an adjacent alley.

‘Let’s cut here.’

The women ran down the narrow backstreet—only to be met with a dead end. Warehouses loomed on one side, workers’ houses huddled on the other. The alley should have led them through, but, instead, it ended abruptly at a high wooden fence.

‘I think we’ve lost him,’ Aveline murmured, glancing around.

Frustrated, Hawke nearly kicked a shallow crate beside her—but her foot froze mid-air. She put a finger to her lips and cautiously approached the fence.

Somewhere beyond, muffled screams mixed with the clash of steel.

Hawke searched the fence for any gap or crack that might let her see what was happening on the other side, but the planks were fitted too tightly. She scanned the space around her, her eyes landing on something that might help.

‘Up,’ she mouthed, pointing to the crates stacked near the wall. 

She stepped onto one, praying it wouldn’t creak beneath her weight, and peeked over the fence. Aveline appeared beside her a moment later. From this position, they could see the wharf with a solitary boat moored; their eyes, however, fixed on a moonlit stretch of cobblestone between the boat and the fence.

‘He’s… fighting?’ Aveline gave Hawke a questioning glance.

‘That’s what it looks like,’ Hawke said, no less surprised.

Swirling like a storm, Fenris was fighting three rough-looking men, his markings glowing bright. Four lifeless bodies already lay on the ground, and it didn’t look as though the elf planned to stop until the rest of his opponents joined them.

‘Very... altruistic,’ Aveline muttered, sizing up the number of bodies.

‘And strange,’ Hawke added with a frown.

‘Maybe he’s after a bounty?’

‘Maybe. But why keep it secret from me?’

‘A surprise?’

‘Now you’re the funny one, Aveline? Let’s keep watching.’

The taller brute charged at Fenris with a furious roar. The elf pivoted, and the axe aimed at his head sliced through the air to his right. The brute attacked a second time, only to miss his target once again. He shouted something to the other men, and they hesitantly approached, trying to flank the elf. Fenris spun, his sword cutting through the air with terrifying speed and precision. The blade arced, and another body joined the ones already on the ground. He dodged a hesitant strike from the man to his left, then lunged forward at the brute, catching him mid-swing and sending his weapon to the ground. With the next strike, the brute himself went down—his torso nearly cleaved in two.

The last man raised his sword in a futile defence and looked around. He gave up on attacking, instead searching for a way to escape. With a swift motion, the elf ended his doubt, and the man fell, his sword clattering to the ground.

Breathing heavily, Fenris stood in the middle of his battlefield, looking somewhat lost. His markings, still glowing in the dark, allowed Hawke and Aveline to see him scan the area, then slowly make a circle to ensure none of his opponents were breathing. Satisfied—or perhaps just weary—he shook his head and sheathed his sword, standing still until the lyrium lines on his body faded, and his silhouette became one with the night.

‘What was it?’ Aveline asked in a whisper. ‘Who were those people?’

‘This port must be closed at night. Whoever these men were, they were up to something illegal,’ Hawke said, her brow furrowed. Her gaze lingered for a heartbeat on the dead before she spoke again. ‘We should go back.’

‘I don’t think we can get ahead of him. Wouldn’t he be suspicious?’

‘I’ll say I was with you—late-night talk,’ she said, jumping down from the crate. ‘But he won’t ask.’

The other woman followed. ‘Are you planning to talk to him about it?’

‘I don’t know.’ Hawke threw her head back, looking at the night sky. ‘If he doesn’t kill, he’ll avoid the things that bother him—myself included, it seems.’ She smirked, but it didn’t hide her irritation. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t have moved in together—so I’d know less. Maybe I should have given him more time.’

Aveline stepped closer and gently placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder.

‘Whatever happened to him happened ages ago. Years have passed. Don’t blame yourself for not giving him time.’

She jerked her shoulder away. ‘Since when are you an expert?’

‘I don’t need to be an expert to see that you’re eating yourself up inside,’ Aveline said, her voice low.

Hawke drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘It’s hard not to blame myself, given my history of losing the people I cared about.’

‘This is different. Something’s clearly going on. You just need to talk to him—somehow.’

‘Easier said.’

‘You know, I do represent the law,’ Aveline said firmly. ‘If need be, I’ll officially ask him to talk.’

‘I hope it won’t come to that,’ Hawke replied with a weary smile.

***

Hawke didn’t manage to find out more before Aveline left. The Denerim captain concluded their talks over the next two days, and Aveline had to head back to Kirkwall with a haul of three dozen soldiers, not entirely satisfied with the outcome. She promised to return soon, but Hawke had learned to be cautious about such promises. ‘Soon’ was usually as good as ‘in a year’ or ‘never’.

Trying to distract herself from the growing restlessness, Hawke wandered to the port—but her help wasn’t needed. The only other option was to track down Varric at the tavern, but between drunken chatter and the silent, empty walls of her temporary residence, she chose the latter.

The house greeted her with its familiar quiet. She reached for a clay jug of water—but nearly spilled it when a noise from upstairs made her flinch. Her hand automatically went to the staff she always kept nearby, her senses instantly sharp. She had grown so used to being alone in the evenings that even the slightest noise set her on edge.

Fenris appeared at the top of the stairs, not raising his gaze to meet hers. If he could have escaped through the window, he probably would have, Hawke thought dryly.

‘Hello?’ she half-asked, setting her staff aside.

‘Yes… sorry, I must go.’

Hawke stepped in front of him, blocking his path. ‘All I ask is a few minutes.’

He sighed and looked at her with a reluctant expectation of whatever she had to say.

‘Lately…’ she started uncertainly. ‘It’s been strange, Fenris. I have a feeling something’s going on.’

He shrugged. ‘Not sure what you mean.’

Hawke swallowed, trying to restrain her frustration.

‘Where do I start?’ She looked around, searching for words. ‘You’re always away. Days… nights go by and I have no idea where you are, whether you’re alive or not.’

‘Everything’s fine. I’m just… busy.’ He moved past her.

‘Can we… Fenris, wait.’ She reached for his hand, but when her fingertips brushed his skin, he jerked away as if she’d burned him.

‘Later!’ he snarled, his markings flaring for a moment. She recoiled, and he immediately took a step back, looking almost confused. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, then rushed out, slamming the door behind him.

‘Yes, leave! You do that so well!’ Hawke shouted after him, flinging out her arm in helpless frustration.

She stood there for a while, staring blankly into space, trying to gather whatever was left of her patience.

Chapter Text

Later that evening, Hawke poured herself a glass of wine and went upstairs to her study. The little room had a calming effect on her, and that was exactly what she needed.

Desperate for some sense of order—at least in her mind—she sat at the table, took a fresh sheet of paper, and prepared the ink. Perhaps writing a letter would help her take her mind off Fenris’s behaviour—and everything else that came with it.

But despite all her effort, the words refused to come, and her letter remained stuck on the first line. The flickering flames of the candles drew her gaze but offered little inspiration. She sighed, took another sip of wine, and dipped her quill in the inkpot once more.

A sound came from the stairs. Hawke raised her head, listening. She could make out Fenris’s distinctive barefoot steps approaching.

The door opened, then closed.

‘I was wrong.’

Hawke ignored him, continuing to write as though she were still alone in the room.

Fenris cleared his throat. ‘And I apologise.’

Trying to steady her racing heart, she wrote a few more meaningless words before turning to face the elf.

‘So, you’re ready to talk now.’

‘No. But I want to try.’

Hawke exhaled sharply through her nose. ‘Just tell me what’s going on.’

Fenris sat in the armchair in the corner. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he studied the lines on his palms.

‘That’s the problem. I don’t know.’

‘I’ll need a little more than that,’ Hawke said, folding her arms across her chest.

‘It’s the markings…’ he replied, his voice oddly uncertain. ‘Sometimes they start to pulse. To hurt.’

‘But... they used to hurt sometimes before,’ Hawke said, turning her gaze to the white lines—they looked the same as any other day.

Fenris slowly clenched his fist, then released it.

‘They did,’ he agreed, rubbing a thumb over his palm. When he spoke again, it seemed as though he weighed every word. ‘But in a different way. Like a hum. This is different. The pain is sharp, unpredictable, and when it comes, I can’t really control myself…’ He looked up at her. ‘Which you’ve probably noticed.’

She met his eyes—full of concern and helpless anger.

‘When did it start?’ she asked, moving her chair closer.

‘A few weeks ago. I tried to understand what it is, what triggers it, but without much luck. I only know that it gets better when I use my… abilities.’ He exhaled sharply. ‘The pain strains my control over them, but they always work when I’m in a fight. So, that’s what’s been going on lately.’ He shifted uncomfortably and looked away. ‘Now you know.’

Hawke leaned back slowly, watching him for a long moment.

‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

‘I know it was foolish of me, but… I didn’t want to burden you.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I suppose I only made things worse by keeping it to myself.’

‘You suppose right.’ Hawke leaned forward and cupped his cheek. ‘Nothing you say could ever burden me. Maybe you’ve noticed that I care about you?’ 

Fenris covered her hand with his, pressing it firmly against his cheek as he closed his eyes.

‘I have,’ he murmured, letting the moment linger before looking at her again. ‘Thank you.’

‘Good. Now we have to understand what’s causing this and how to fix it.’ Hawke drew a slow breath, her shoulders finally easing. ‘It’d be better than dwelling on the nonsense I’ve been telling myself lately.’

‘What sort of nonsense?’

She shrugged, hesitating. ‘For example… at some point, I was pretty sure you were going to leave.’
What she meant as a joke brought a lump to her throat instead. She looked away.

‘Hawke.’ He took her face gently in his hands. ‘Look at me.’

She lifted her gaze, meeting his piercing green eyes.

‘I am yours. Never doubt that.’

A small nod was all she managed before Fenris pressed his lips to hers, sealing his words.

The strange condition persisted—the pain coming and going as it pleased. Fenris grew even more surly and brooding. He slept at odd hours and wandered the house at night, leaving when the lyrium pull became unbearable.

Now that Hawke knew, she could at least understand where the changes in his behaviour came from, but how to help him—that, she had no idea. Going to the Ferelden Circle wasn’t an option; she was an apostate, and the Circle itself was in turmoil after the events in Kirkwall. She could ask local healers to help him with his sleep, but, considering the nature of the pain, she didn’t have much hope in their skills.

It was the day she spotted a neighbour leaving out a plate of milk at her door that the idea came to her. A long shot, yes—but what if it really was him?

The narrow streets in this part of the city were dark even during the day, but as unsettling as they were for some, for others they were a blessing. Hawke walked briskly down one of them, scanning the facades in search of a particular sign.

Finally, the dull pink signboard appeared on the right side of the street. Hawke pushed open the door and stepped into The Pearl.

A tired-looking woman greeted her.

'How can I help you?' she asked flatly.

'I’m looking for Rose.' 

'She's busy,' the woman snorted. 

'I can wait.'

'Fine. Payment up front.'

Hawke gave her a cool once-over and dropped the coins into her palm. The woman counted the silver and waved towards a worn-out armchair. Hawke sat down reluctantly, trying not to dwell on how this armchair might have been used. Half an hour passed before she finally heard a voice.

'Were you looking for me?'

Hawke lifted her head from the careful examination of the floor tiles. Rose stood in front of her, staring languidly, her lips curved into a polished but tired smile.

‘Yes,’ Hawke said with a nod, and the prostitute gestured for her to follow.

Once they entered the room, Rose let her robes fall to the floor, remaining only in her lace underwear. She stepped closer and looked Hawke in the eyes.

'What would you prefer, my dear?'

'As much as I’d like to relax, I’m actually looking for information.'

Rose gave her a puzzled look.

‘That’s not what I'm trading, darling.'

'I know,' Hawke sighed. 'But I need to find someone. You mentioned your name to me and my friends when you were… shoving a man from the door. I can say you’re the only local I know here.’

Rose arched an eyebrow.

‘I’ve no idea who you are, but if the pay is right and the man was my customer—assuming they’re no one important—I may help you.’

'He's new. Tall, blonde.' Hawke omitted ‘mage’. 

'Hm. This narrows the search down,' Rose nodded thoughtfully. 'Except it doesn't.'

Hawke sighed. 'His clothing might be adorned with feathers.'

'You had to start with that.' Rose let out a chuckle. 'So, you're after the healer.'

 I suppose I am, thought Hawke, nodding. She was surprised that Anders kept risking it all even now. Was helping the people from the lower classes of Denerim some sort of atonement?

'Prepare your silver, darling.'

'How about the money I’ve already paid?'

'That was for the sex. Whether you decide to use my services or not is not my trouble. And this is for the information.'

Hawke rolled her eyes and prepared the coins.

'Address first,' she demanded.

Rose went to her wardrobe and produced a small piece of paper. Graciously bending at the waist, she placed it against the window glass, allowing Hawke to observe her round buttocks as she scribbled the address.

'Sure you don't want to stay for a while?' She winked, returning to Hawke. 

'Next time.' Hawke quickly exchanged money for the paper and hurried away.

The address that Rose gave her led not far from The Pearl. Hawke wandered through the slums for a while before reaching the building. It was something like a guesthouse, but in a very poor condition. The creaking beds at the Bailiff’s Will would have been considered regal in comparison.

Hawke stepped into a dim, cramped hall and spotted a counter tucked into the corner. She approached it and found there a short man, almost hidden by a clutter of papers, books, and empty cups piled high around him. The man didn’t bother looking up. He had two thick ledgers lying open in front of him and seemed to be struggling to consult both at once.

Hawke gave a polite cough.

The man shot her a brief, impatient glance.

'I need to see the healer,' she said quickly, seizing the sliver of attention.

'Back door, then to the left,’ the man muttered, returning to his ledgers and grumbling under his breath.

Hawke turned and, at first, thought the man wasn't serious. The wall didn't seem to have any doors. She glanced back at him, but he had already buried his nose in the ledgers, so she moved to the left as instructed. Only when she nearly touched the wall did she notice the outline of a doorway. Beneath layers of soot and grime, it was almost indistinguishable from the dark wall. Hawke guessed none of it had been cleaned since the First Blight.

Following the man’s directions, she slipped through and found herself in a small, tidy yard used for storage: hay bales and numerous sacks were neatly piled under an awning. There, in the corner, she spotted another door. She knocked. After a long pause, it opened, revealing Anders’s gaunt face.

A sigh of relief escaped her lips, and Anders raised an eyebrow in surprise.

For a few moments, they simply studied each other, trying to see how much had changed in them since Kirkwall.

‘How did you find me?’ he asked at last.

‘I think I saw you once. Then I just had to look for a newcomer,’ she said plainly.

‘So,’ he said, watching her expectantly, ‘what now? Are you here to deliver me to the righteous judgement of the king?’

‘I am not,’ she replied with a sigh.

Anders lingered in the doorway for a moment, then stepped aside to let her in.

She was always impressed that, even in the harshest conditions, Anders managed to keep his place clean and tidy. There was a pleasant smell of elfroot and salve— likely to soothe anxious patients. A long, low table stood against the far wall, covered with numerous vials, boxes, liquids; various herbs hung in bundles from the low ceiling. Opposite it stood a bed. Hawke wasn't sure whether it was for the patients or for Anders himself. Her gaze moved further, landing on a packed bag resting against the wall.

'Are you leaving?' she asked, nodding at it.

'At the first convenience,' he said, folding his arms across his chest. 'Have you come for anything specific?'

'Actually, I have. I’m after a healer.'

Anders studied her with his ever-sceptical eyes. ‘The local ones aren’t good enough for you?’

‘I need an enchanted potion. And the local Circle isn’t in the best state to be of any help.’

‘Looks like an apostate came in handy after all,’ he snorted, levelling her with a flat stare. ‘Fine. What do you need?’

'I need a strong sleeping potion. It would be nice if it alleviated pain, too,’ Hawke said, expecting questions she probably wouldn’t be able to answer.

'How strong?' he asked simply.

'Strong enough to sleep through an earthquake. Weak enough to use it often.'

'I think I’ve got something that may work. It’ll just need a slight adjustment.' Anders moved to the table and began mixing ingredients with quiet precision.

She stood there awkwardly, a couple of steps behind, waiting for him to finish. Watching his figure, bent over the vials and jars, his fingers working through the herbs and extracts she’d never even heard of, his lips muttering his self-invented spells, she found herself thinking about Kirkwall. How different might everything have been if this talented man hadn’t played revolution?

'Sleeping badly?' asked Anders suddenly, pulling her out of her thoughts.

'It's not for me,' she said quietly, her mind already back with Fenris and his condition.

‘For whom, then?’ he asked, scribbling something on a piece of paper and tying it to the bottle’s neck.

Hawke lifted her gaze to him without answering.

A long pause followed. Anders finished mixing the herbs and poured everything into the clay bottle. He didn’t hand it to her—just left it on the table. Then he turned and looked her over from head to toe.

‘My guess is you’re still not over the elf, then.’

‘I fail to see how this is relevant now.’

Anders shrugged. ‘Just curious. I wonder if he is still wooing you with his illiteracy and anger issues.’

A slap cracked through the stillness of the room.  Hawke held her breath, wary of his reaction—her eyes flicking to the bottle on the table.

Taken aback, Anders brought a hand to his face, covering the red mark blooming on his cheek. He looked at her, frustration and bewilderment clouding his eyes.

‘You owe me. With your life,’ Hawke said, ‘and since you agreed to do me a favour, I’d like to receive it without any comments about my personal life.’ She reached out her hand, open palm up. ‘Please.’

‘I can see the influence,’ spat Anders as he spun back to the table, grabbing the bottle.

‘Thank you,’ said Hawke, yanking it from his hand.

She stormed out of Anders’s quarters, through the guesthouse and finally out to the street. After everything they’d been through—after his betrayal, after her forgiveness—Anders was still petty about her relationship. She could take his scorn or insults; she truly was ready to. But not this. Not when it was about Fenris.

She looked at the bottle in her hand and felt a strong urge to smash it on the ground, to erase any connection she had with Anders. Instead, she squeezed it tighter and quickened her pace.

Chapter Text

The potion worked miracles. Just a few drops were enough to carry Fenris through the mild pain. The worse cases still drew him out, though, but at least he could sleep more often, giving Hawke a little respite as well.

All the extra time she got and all the lonely hours when Fenris was away, she spent in her cosy office, which had lately turned into a place of research.

The table lay buried beneath loose pages from a manuscript on lyrium usage. Hawke set a hefty tome atop the mess and sank into her chair. Her fingers skimmed the pages, searching for the bent corner that marked where she had left off, then she flipped the book open and delved into reading.

It was nearing midnight when she realised she’d been reading the same line again and again. The book—an authorised volume on the history of Orzammar—had been lent to her by the royal library. Now she studied it, hoping to unearth anything that might, however distantly, shed light on their lyrium situation.

The silence in the house was pressing, and Hawke shook her head, trying to dispel the sleepiness creeping over her. Fenris was out on one of his hunts, and judging by the way he had rushed out earlier, she didn’t expect him back any time soon. His lyrium had been particularly unforgiving of late, keeping him awake most nights, and she had reluctantly learned to worry less about his outings. His powers, fairly predictable before, had become capricious. Only anger or danger seemed to summon them reliably, and thus, in search of relief from his pain, Fenris was driven to hunt outlaws and cut-throats, merchants with ties to slavers, or simply anyone who deserved a fight. These constant skirmishes worried Hawke, but in a different way than before. At least now, she understood what was happening, and she had grown used to the long, lonely nights, and to him returning at dawn covered in someone’s blood.

She rubbed her temples. There had to be a solution. She had written to Merrill, hoping the Dalish might have some insight into this rare and delicate condition. Perhaps they knew something—anything—that could help. She had even gone back to Anders the next day, once she had cooled off, hoping to talk things through and see if he could offer any insight. But the clinic was empty—its vials, its jars, and the mage himself, gone.

So, for now, all she could do was wait, sift through the endless tomes from the library, and keep searching.

When the front door opened with a familiar creak, she closed the book and stepped out of her study. Leaning on the railing, Hawke looked down.

The elf had returned—exhausted, but unharmed. At least, as unharmed as one could be after a fight. She watched as he drew his sword from his back and straightened his shoulders.

‘Well, hello,’ she said. Fenris raised his gaze to her, and now she could see a smeared red spot on his cheek. Blood. Of course. Despite that, he smiled at her as he placed his sword by the wall.

‘How do you feel?’ Hawke asked, descending the stairs.

Fenris rubbed his shoulder.

‘I think... good. I feel fine,’ he said, then touched his cheek and looked at the blood on his fingers. ‘Although, not ideal.’

‘May I look at it more closely?’

‘As much as you wish.’

Fenris drew a chair from the dining table and sat down, obediently allowing Hawke to inspect the source of the bleeding. It seemed the elf’s left ear had met someone’s blade. Hawke examined the deep cut and clicked her tongue.

‘It was my favourite ear.’

Fenris chuckled. ‘Maybe the other one can interest you instead.’

‘Maybe. But first, we should mend this one.’

Hawke crossed to the shelf packed with boxes, vials, and jars, and reached for a flat stone jar. Inside lay a thick, dark green salve—her steadfast ally in treating cuts and wounds, and the only one she had mastered preparing herself. She returned to the elf and took off the lid, releasing a sharp pine scent that immediately filled the air. Hawke dipped the tip of her finger in, took a bit of the paste, and carefully applied it to the cut.

‘Hm...’ Fenris instinctively raised his hand to his head when she finished.

‘Zero magic, just as you like,’ she said, closing the jar.

‘I can accept magic from you, Hawke.’

‘Oh, can you?’ she asked, a smile in her voice.

‘Sometimes, yes.’

‘That’s satisfying to hear. However, we can avoid taking magical measures if you keep your beautiful ears safe next time.’

Fenris snorted, but Hawke noticed the faintest blush touching his cheeks.

‘Do I hear a snort of doubt?’ She frowned playfully. ‘I like your ears pointy.’ She sat on his lap and gently lifted his face by the chin. ‘So, please don’t hurt them in your battles anymore. Deal?’

The elf grinned and nodded. ‘Your desire, my command.’

She held his gaze for a moment before placing a light kiss on his lips. Fenris winced.

‘What?’ she asked, pulling away.

‘Nothing.’

Hawke eyed him with suspicion, and then she noticed it—the lyrium lines tracing his chin glowed faintly.

‘Is it back?’ she asked, rising to her feet.

‘It’s nothing,’ he repeated with a dismissive wave. Yet the tension in his face betrayed him.

‘It is back.’ This time Hawke wasn’t asking. ‘How can it be back so soon?’

‘Perhaps just an echo after the fight. Don’t worry,’ he said, pushing himself up.

Hawke gave him a doubtful glance, but indeed, the glow faded from his markings as quickly as it appeared.

‘I feel like you need proof that I’m fine,’ he said, cocking his head to the side. ‘How about we visit the dwarf tomorrow—for a battle of cards? I’ll try to win.’

‘Win? You?’ Hawke smiled, wrapping her arms around his neck. ‘I must see that.’

The inn was bustling. People chatted and laughed loudly over drinks, and the air was filled with the mouth-watering smell of roasting meat, turnip stew, and the clinking of forks and knives. The elf, the dwarf, and the human sat in the corner, immersed in the tavern’s idle atmosphere.

‘So, you’re saying that Denerim can sleep in peace now?’ Varric asked, his voice as innocent as ever. ‘When you moved from the docks to my neighbourhood last week, I was tempted to drop by and say hi.’

Fenris snorted. ‘If you were more attentive, you’d know they were staying at your inn.’

‘I didn’t want to take the candy away from you,’ Varric returned with a wave of his hand.

‘Gentlemen, this isn’t the way,’ Hawke interjected, her tone conciliatory. ‘You can settle who’s right in a proper battle.’

With a flourish, she pulled a pack of cards from behind her back and began to deal. Varric watched her for a moment.

‘Diamond back!’ he laughed. ‘I didn’t know you were so risky, Hawke.’

‘Oh, not me,’ she said, narrowing her eyes. ‘It’s your duel.’ She winked at Varric.

Fenris raised an eyebrow.

‘It won’t work this time, Hawke. I took enough coin. My armour stays on me,’ he said firmly.

‘For now,’ she muttered through a fake cough.

‘Wait, wait! Does it mean you had it off at some point? With the spikes and all?’ Varric gasped in a very believable way. ‘Scandalous!’

Fenris rolled his eyes, and the dwarf chuckled, slamming his card on top of Fenris’s. A wide grin appeared on his face, marking his win. ‘You should get a spare set of gear. Maybe one with a bit more colour.’

‘I would argue that,’ Fenris began, taking more coppers from his pocket. Suddenly, he squinted, and the coins slipped from his fist with a chiming sound.

‘Fenris?’ Hawke leapt to her feet, her heart quickening with unease. She saw how he paled, his fingers gripping the edge of the table, knuckles whitening under the strain.

‘It’s alright,’ he muttered, straightening.

‘Are you sure?’ Varric asked, watching him closely.

‘Yes,’ Fenris said firmly, picking up his cards. ‘It happens.’ He exhaled slowly, placing the five of dragons on the table. The rest of his hand fell on top as he gasped.

His markings flared up—and this time, the glow stayed.

‘Shit,’ Varric said, glancing around.

‘Can we go to your room?’ Hawke asked him, stepping closer to Fenris, positioning herself between the elf and the rest of the inn.

‘Do you need to ask?’

Fenris rose shakily, and Hawke guided him quickly away as whispers began to stir and more eyes turned their way.

‘Hey, hey,’ Varric said, shoving away one particularly nosy lad. ‘Haven’t you ever seen drunk elves before?’

Hawke waited for Fenris to enter and slammed the door behind him, her chest tightening as she saw the elf stumble, leaning against the wall.

Bent in two, he was breathing through gritted teeth, the air going in and out with a slow whistle. A faint blue glow flickered unevenly along his markings as his body twisted in violent spasms. Overcharging inside him, the lyrium was searching for a way out.

Fenris drove his fist into the wall. Then again. And again. Each blow accompanied by an agonising growl. Then a fresh surge of pain hit, and he slid to the floor with a groan.

Hawke stood in the middle of the room, watching helplessly.

She had never seen his ‘bad’ episodes; they always happened away from her. Now, she was taken aback by what she saw. A body seized by convulsions, trembling uncontrollably, was an unsettling, terrifying sight—something she had never imagined even in her worst dreams.

Her mind raced, desperately searching for a solution she’d already been seeking for many days, hoping she’d somehow missed something. But nothing came. Lyrium… blasted lyrium… pounded in her head louder than anything else

‘Hawke, leave,’ Fenris grunted, his voice hoarse beyond recognition.

She didn’t move. How could she leave? She just needed to think faster, clearer… If only she could enhance her mind the way she amplified her magic with a single gulp of a lyrium potion.

Hawke looked at the pale blue light coming from his markings, and a flicker of hope passed through her eyes—an uncertain, fragile thing.

‘I’ll try something,’ she said, sounding more confident than she felt.

Hawke carefully placed her palms on his forearms, causing Fenris to wince at the touch on his aching skin, and concentrated. She had to find the right combination of movement and thought—essentially to create a spell in minutes, something that usually took months or years of research.

She focused on the sensation she remembered from taking a lyrium potion, then directed her magical energy towards the elf. And once it touched him, she began searching for something alien to his body—but deeply familiar to hers.

She let her powers probe it, taste it, understand it, and then pulled back with everything they could grasp. A faint white line, like a curl of fog, channelled back into her palms—warm and strong. It felt like she was savouring an intense lyrium potion, gradually restoring her strength.

Slowly, she began to lift her hands. The line followed, growing thinner and thinner, until at last it vanished. She exhaled sharply, her heart beating feverishly. Did it work? Was it enough?

The elf was panting, leaning against the wall—exhausted, but seemingly free of pain.

‘Thank you,’ he managed between breaths.

‘Are you better?’ Hawke asked, glancing him over. ‘Did it help?’

‘Yes… What did you do?’

‘Let’s just say I took the excess out,’ she said, helping him to his feet.

Fenris looked down at his arms. The markings had returned to looking like harmless tattoos.

He frowned. ‘Can you explain?’

‘I’ll try. Come.’

Fenris moved after her, then stopped.

‘Are you sure you were not harmed by this... ritual?’

‘I wouldn’t call it a ritual. And no, I’m not harmed.’

Fenris didn’t move, looking at Hawke expectantly.

‘It’s true. I’m fine,’ she said, offering a small, reassuring smile.

He didn’t look convinced but followed her anyway.

She sat on the bench beside the window and motioned for Fenris to join her. Still alert, he did as she asked.

‘Well,’ Hawke glanced out the window, gathering her thoughts. ‘I didn’t fully understand it, to be honest. I simply tried to find something that didn’t belong in your body, and then I realised I could feel something… familiar.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t take lyrium often, but I do take it. I know how it feels—the boost, the rush. This time, I felt something similar. I think…’ She looked at him, eyes brimming with cautious hope. ‘I think we can use it. We can take your pain away.’

Fenris met her gaze, wary.

‘Did it affect you in any way?’ was all he asked.

‘I don’t think so. It felt like I’d taken a bit of lyrium, that’s all,’ she said with a shrug. ‘It wore off quickly. I don’t feel much now.’

‘Hm.’ Fenris stood and paced from one side of the room to the other, his movements sharp and tense. ‘I hope we don’t have to use it again,’ he said, not looking at her.

‘What? Why?’ Hawke asked, confused.

‘I can tolerate this pain long enough to reach someone who deserves meeting me in this state,’ he replied, his voice firm. ‘Today it was off.’

‘And yesterday it was off too?’ she asked flatly.

He didn’t respond.

And she didn’t want to argue. Not now. She was content with the sliver of hope they’d found—that she could finally do something to ease his pain. As for his attempt to protect her from unfamiliar magic, well, it was certainly admirable. But if he thought she would just watch him suffer stoically, he was wrong.

‘Let’s go home,’ she said.

Fenris nodded and followed her out of Varric’s room, and then out of the inn. They walked back in silence. Hawke watched him from the corner of her eye: the elf was looking at the ground, frowning. This sudden, strong episode alarmed him—Hawke could tell. It scared her, too, but at least now they had a solution.

The house greeted them with quiet darkness. Upstairs, Hawke lit the candles on the walls and pushed the bedroom door open. Fenris lingered at the threshold.

‘Come,’ she said softly, reaching out a hand to him. 

He shifted slightly.

‘I’d better stay on my own tonight.’

‘I won’t be able to sleep knowing you’re alone in there,’ Hawke said, tilting her head. ‘We also got this out of you; it should be better now.’

Fenris straightened his shoulders and pressed his lips into a line. Hawke knew that combination: no discussion to follow. The list of reasons could be endless.

‘Try to get some proper rest,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll tell you if it gets worse.’

In vain, she waited for him to come.

He stayed in another room—a stubborn statement, one she neither could nor dared to challenge. There was that invisible line he always drew in moments like this, one she was never allowed to cross. She had learned to accept the rules of this game long ago, but tonight they gnawed at her, fuelling her frustration with his preference for tolerating pain rather than accepting her help.

In the suffocating stillness of the night, Hawke could hear him pacing restlessly, like a trapped animal. She thought about the times they would fall asleep together—his arm resting around her waist, her hand against his chest.

She let out a shaky breath and tried to block out the ache in her chest, coaxing herself into a dreamless sleep where the weight of tonight could not follow.

Dawn had barely broken when a noise disturbed Hawke’s rest. She hurriedly draped her robe around herself and rushed out of the room.

Fenris was at the door, as if about to leave.

As she ran up to him, he turned to face her and let out a strangled sound—part groan, part gasp—as if each breath were being torn from him. His chest heaved, his voice breaking as he tried to speak.

There was no time to ask for his approval or try to reason with him. Hawke looked away for a split second, then grabbed his wrists.

Her focus sharpened as she pushed everything into the spell, trying to absorb all she could. He jerked, trying to pull away, his markings flaring—but Hawke clung to him, forcing the spell through, letting it pull the twisted lyrium power out.  She pressed harder, letting it surge through her, siphoning the pain from his body.

The blue glow dulled, then faded completely.

She loosened her fingers, and his hands fell limply from her grip.

‘I could bear it,’ he rasped.

‘Could you?’

He shook his head, turning away. ‘You didn’t have to do it. It’s useless.’ His voice cracked as he looked down at his markings. ‘How much will I get from it? A couple of hours? Minutes?’

‘Fenris,’ she whispered, reaching for him. ‘We’re going to fix it.’

He lifted his gaze, searching her face for an answer before he dared to ask, ‘At what cost?’

At any cost, she thought.

Chapter Text

A week later Hawke found herself sitting before the fireplace, watching the flames dance. An open envelope lay beside her—the long-awaited letter from Merrill had finally arrived. The elven mage was curious about the nature of Fenris’s problem, but had never encountered anything like it.

‘Of course, she hadn’t,’ Hawke murmured to herself. ‘Why would she?’

If she had friends in Tevinter, perhaps they would know. But she didn’t. She was just stumbling blindly forward on her own—and not very successfully.

Merrill had offered to come to Denerim, but Hawke found little comfort in the thought; the road was long, and time was not a luxury she could afford. Fenris’s condition was changing: releasing lyrium after a fight now gave him only a day or two of respite, compared to a week in the beginning or several days so very recently. Sometimes it was just half a day. At least there was the potion Anders had made, which helped the elf endure those nights when the pain lingered at the doorstep, hesitant to step inside. Oh, how many times had Hawke thought about taking it herself, wishing to find solace in the darkness of dreamless sleep! But Anders had left, and the bottle was now half empty. She couldn’t bring herself to take any of it; a night of simple sleep for her meant one more night of suffering for Fenris.

Hawke felt drained. She did everything within her power—studying every book she could find and taking the lyrium out whenever he allowed it—but it still wasn’t enough. None of the books offered even the slightest hint of magic similar to what Danarius had used on Fenris, and none of her attempts to remove the lyrium provided a permanent solution. It just kept returning, faster and faster, and she knew there would be a point when there’d be nowhere to run.

Hawke tipped her head back and stared at the ceiling.

‘Maker, help me.’

A sudden knock on the window made her flinch. She turned just to see Stefan, the barkeep’s son. Varric had struck up a friendship with him, and the lad often ran minor errands on his behalf. He waved in greeting. Hawke forced a less desperate expression and opened the door.

‘Hello, Stefan.’

‘M’lady,’ the boy said with a pompous bow, his cheeks burning. ‘Ser Tethras has asked me to ask you… ahem…’ he stammered, his blush deepening, then blurted out in one breath, ‘He-asked-if-you-wouldn’t-mind-coming-to-the-tavern!’

Varric had mentioned that the lad had developed a crush on her, and Hawke honestly admired the boy's bravery in coming here. But why hadn’t Varric come himself? Was it because of the risk of witnessing one of Fenris's episodes? Well, it would be understandable. She glanced over her shoulder at the empty room and smiled at Stefan.

‘Of course. Let’s go,’ she said and stepped into the soft twilight.

She found Varric at their usual table in the corner of the tavern, two mugs in front of him—one clearly prepared for Hawke.

‘Why did you do that to the boy?’ she asked, sitting across from the dwarf. ‘I thought he was going to faint.’

‘It was a fair exchange,’ he said with a shrug. ‘My coin for his long legs—and it worked.’

‘It did,’ Hawke agreed with a sigh.

‘Are you alright, Hawke?’ asked Varric.

‘I am,’ she said, her voice hollow.

‘The bags under your eyes say otherwise,’ Varric said, moving one of the mugs closer to her. ‘Is it the elf?’

She nodded, gratefully accepting the drink.

‘You’ll exhaust yourself to death if you keep going like this, Hawke.’

‘And what do you want me to do?’ she snapped. ‘Carry on as if nothing’s happening? Pretend I don’t see what he’s going through? Sure, why wouldn’t I just stay for another pint with you and chat about the weather?’

Hawke flung her arm, knocking the mug aside. It tipped over, spilling ale across the table.

‘I... I’m sorry,’ she muttered, looking around for something to clean the mess. ‘I don’t know what’s happening to me lately.’

‘Constant worry, lack of sleep, crawling anxiety?’ The dwarf placed her mug back on the table and poured a bit of ale from his own. ‘You’ve got every reason to act... unusual.’

‘It’s just getting worse,’ she said, her voice stiff. ‘Yesterday, his markings... I’ve never seen them so swollen. He said it felt like someone was pouring liquid steel under his skin. I could barely look at it. And barely help.’ Hawke shook her head in frustration. ‘I don’t know what else can be done, Varric. I’m out of ideas.’

She covered her face with both hands and leaned back in her chair.

‘I’m still not sure if I’m supposed to tell you, but seeing you like this...’ Varric fished a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘I’d put it on the table, but you interfered with that plan.’

‘What’s that?’ Hawke peeked at him through her fingers.

‘That’s an idea for you, since you’re fresh out of them. Oh, I’m going to regret this...’ Varric took a gulp of his ale and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘So. A little birdie told me there’s this retired templar north of Denerim. Lives quietly on his family estate, the last of his line.’

‘Keep going,’ Hawke said, sitting up straight in her chair, looking at Varric with a mixture of suspicion and interest.

‘The man’s a great lover of rarities related to magic. It so happens that his collection includes materials from the Imperium on various approaches to treating conditions involving... lyrium.’

Hawke’s eyes widened in excitement, and she tried to snatch the paper from Varric’s hand, but he was quicker.

‘I assume that’s not all?’ She folded her arms across her chest.

‘Ha, you know there’s always a catch. The same birdie mentioned he’s a crazy one—a sick bastard, to quote. Discharged for abuse of authority during the recent unrests. Getting into his hands wouldn’t be pleasant at all.’ Varric paused, letting the information sink in, before finally handing the paper to Hawke.

She scanned it frantically: a name, a location, and a crude map of the house.

‘How do you know all that?’ she asked, looking up at him.

‘I know merchants. And I know how to drink.’

Hawke stood and began pacing back and forth in front of the table.

‘This is almost too good to be true, but having it as our only option...’ She glanced at the paper again. ‘I must try it.’

‘Hawke, first of all, not "I", but "we" need to plan this properly. It’s not like you can just stroll in like it’s a shop and ask him to sell it to you. Not that that approach hasn’t been tried.’

‘Yes, yes... Hmm, the trip should take up to half a day,’ she murmured, nodding to herself, only half-listening as she studied the map. Then she lifted her head. ‘What did you say?’

‘We need to plan it first,’ Varric repeated.

‘Right. We plan it now. I want to head there tomorrow. There’s no time to waste.’

‘Now? Oh, I’m regretting this,’ Varric said with a sigh.

Hawke returned to the table and smoothed the paper out on a dry patch.

‘If I enter here... I may try to...’ she muttered to herself, examining the map. ‘Is this the library?’

‘More like a room of rarities, but...’

‘Great, then if I get through the window over there...’ She moved her finger along the plan of the house.

‘Hawke!’

She twitched at the dwarf’s voice.

‘Calm down a little, alright? We need to plan this properly before going.’

‘Maybe... maybe you’re right,’ Hawke exhaled loudly as she nodded to herself. ‘Varric, I’ll need you to cover for me while I’m gone.’

‘What? You don’t want to tell him?’

‘No. He's too unstable now,’ said Hawke, folding the paper and slipping it into her pocket. ‘Also, he won't approve of a single thing about this idea.’

She truly was ready to think it through, to give herself enough time to prepare, but when Fenris rushed out in the middle of the night just hours after she helped him with the lyrium, she made a decision.

At dawn, Varric was jolted awake by a loud thud on the door. At first, he thought it was a bad dream, but the sound came again, and he hurried to open it before the rest of the inn was roused by the noise.

Hawke just shook her head instead of offering a greeting.

‘It’s getting worse. I don’t want to wait.’

‘A little extreme for a holiday house, but it shouldn’t be too difficult,’ she thought as she observed her target.

The templar’s residence stood a short distance from the city, protected by a stone fence and hidden behind trees and untrimmed bushes, accessible only by a single road. The estate was surrounded by a barren strip of land, broken only by patches of withered grass. Reaching it before nightfall was impossible; there was nowhere to hide, and none of the invisibility spells Hawke knew would last long enough for her to reach the fence unnoticed.

Another hour passed as she waited, watching the shadows stretch and fade into nothing as the soft evening light settled over the Fereldan countryside. Dry thunder rumbled in the distance, bringing a humid heaviness instead of liberating rain.

She took a deep breath, but the sticky air never quite filled her lungs. Anxiety and anticipation tightened her chest—she was so close to the cure she could almost touch it.

Hope for a cure, she corrected herself, gazing up at the dark, clouded sky.

She moved swiftly down the cobbled road, the trees sheltering her figure. Draped in dark, thin leather, her staff strapped to her back, she glided like a shadow.

There were two guards at the main entrance, whom Hawke avoided by approaching the wall from the side. It was no challenge for her to climb over it. Once inside, she crouched and waited. There was no alarm; no one seemed to patrol the inner yard.

Either the templar was fearless, foolish, or simply not worth the fear she’d wasted on him. And there was no time to wonder which.

After a few tense moments, she started to move along the wall, counting the windows. The fourth one was her objective. She freed her staff from her back and whispered a few words, turning the glass to fog. Next, she placed her palms on the high windowsill and pulled herself up. 

She found herself in a small room filled with things. Lots of them. A dragon’s fang, a life-sized crystal figure of a qunari, a collection of magical staves, plenty of strange artefacts that she had never seen before. It felt like being in a treasure vault.

Hawke approached a shelf stacked with books and scrolls. Finding the Tevinter papers was easy—just as Varric had described: darker paper, rounded corners—they were rolled into a scroll. She glanced over her shoulder before unfolding and carefully hiding them under her leather jacket.

The curious room was worth investigating further, but she suddenly heard commotion behind the door and darted towards the window.

Without looking back at the artefacts, she climbed onto the windowsill and jumped down. But the moment she was in the air, something yanked her up before slamming her back to the ground with brutal force. Her fingers lost their grip on the staff, and it skidded away, vanishing into the shadows beyond her reach.

So, the room was protected after all—magically. Then came the sound of armoured guards: two pairs of feet pounding in her direction.

‘Who do we have here?’ one of the guards said, leaning over her.

What he didn’t know was that her control over her body was already returning after the fall. Hawke jolted, slamming her fist into the guard’s face, and dove for her staff. But before she could touch it, something heavy collided with her stomach.

She staggered back, gasping for air, as the guard struck her once more. The blow was so powerful it sent her sprawling a foot away. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, the pain locking her body in place. She struggled to breathe, her chest rising and falling in desperate, fish-out-of-water gasps. Helpless, she could only watch as one of the men picked up her staff and showed it to the other.

'Bitch,' the first guard brought his hand to his bleeding lip and hit her again. 'We need to bring her to the master. This is his kind.’

They took Hawke under the arms and hauled her towards the entrance, her feet dragging on the cobblestones.

So much for being discreet, she thought between the flashes of pain.

A faint smell of incense brought back her awareness, and Hawke forced her eyes open. She focused, and the haze slowly cleared, revealing a man standing before her. By the way he held himself, she could easily guess he was a soldier—or a templar. Hawke summoned the strength to steady her head, forcing her blurred sight into clarity. Not overly tall, nor notably young, he could have passed for a scholar, his hair whitened by age and knowledge. He didn’t exude menace—more a quiet confidence, even a certain charm. But as she lifted her eyes to his, a chill ran through her. The templar was smiling, but in his gaze, she saw not warmth—only hatred, mixed with... satisfaction?

‘Just wanted to look at you.’ His voice sounded far away, muffled by the ringing in her head.

Hawke tried to focus on her surroundings. Her gaze following the intricate patterns on the colourful tiles, eventually landing on a small pile of wooden scraps. Her eyes widened—it was all that remained of her staff.

The templar noticed that and smiled with a hint of sadness.

‘That was a fine staff. I’m sorry for it, too.’ He looked back at her. ‘What did you try to steal from me, dear?’

Hawke looked at him in confusion, the haze returning.

‘No matter,’ she heard his voice say, ‘soon you’ll be singing me everything.’

The templar approached, and Hawke felt his fingers under her chin, forcing her head back.

‘Lock her up. And send for Heller.’

She wanted to speak but the world slipped away, darkness swallowing everything.

On the outskirts of Denerim, Fenris stumbled forward, his feet dragging after yet another fight he had sought out. When he reached the riverbank, he let his sword fall to the ground and lowered himself beside it. He sat on the cold earth, his knees drawn to his chest, elbows resting heavily on them as he stared at the water. The sky above was clear after a light rain, the stars mirrored in the river flowing through all of Ferelden. But lost in thought, Fenris couldn’t see the beauty of the night.

The constant fights were draining him. Day after day after day, he pushed on, his body and mind battered. He was caught in a relentless loop, each struggle keeping him just alive enough to face the next.

And then there was Hawke. Fenris glanced at the scarlet ribbon wrapped around his wrist and gently smoothed it out. Ever resilient, ever understanding Hawke. What had she been getting from him lately but worry and sleepless nights? He’d tried to stay away, spending more time fighting or enduring his pain, holed up in a room in some tavern, lost in half-dreams, half-memories that never stayed for more than a moment. All of it in the hope she might get a few moments of rest without seeing his sorry state so often. But each time he returned, he found the shadows under her eyes darker than the day before. Her study—the one she had loved to spend evenings in—had transformed into a chaotic mess of books and scattered papers. Fenris still couldn’t read well, yet he managed to make out the words ‘history’, ‘medicine’, and ‘lyrium’ on the covers. There was no need for special insight to understand what she’d been looking into.

He picked up a pebble and tossed it into the river. The calm surface rippled, the stars vanishing from the water like startled butterflies.

Perhaps he should accept her help more often, spend more time with her while he still could. The thought stirred an unexpected ache, a mixture of longing and guilt. Fenris shook his head and rose to his feet. The night was still young, and he wanted to spend the rest of it with the only person who offered him calm.

Chapter Text

The fog came first. Then came the pain, like a tidal wave swallowing her whole. Still unable to open her eyes, Hawke tried to move her hand. Unwillingly it obeyed. One victory at a time. Hawke pushed and rolled onto her back, feeling as if she were tumbling down a slope, dizziness swirling in her head. She waited for it to pass, then slowly opened her eyes.

She was in a dark, cold place: some kind of dungeon, judging by the smell of dampness and stale air. Faint light seeped in, probably from a torch. She turned her head, trying to confirm her assumption, and found herself facing metal bars.

Of course, she thought, her memory finally returning. The bastard wanted to lock me up and he did.

She tried to assess the damage done to her body. A rhythmic pounding in her ribs, a piercing ache in her chest—both familiar. It wasn’t the first time she’d been hurt like this. Her body was battered, but nothing felt broken, and that was something.

The papers! Hawke jolted upright and, ignoring the pain, ran her hands over her torso. With weak, trembling fingers, she checked her jacket and to her horror, found it unbuttoned. She let out a desperate sigh. The Tevinter papers were gone. And with them, her hope—and Fenris’s hope—too.

Several deep breaths calmed the whirlwind of thoughts racing in her head. She couldn't give up; she’d just have to get out of here and start over. The faster, the better.

She scanned the small cell: three stone walls with patches of moss here and there. The fourth wall held a metal-barred door secured with a solid padlock. Hawke tried it, though she knew it wouldn’t budge, not without her staff or a key, both of which felt like impossible dreams.

Pressing her face to the bars, she strained to see outside. There was nothing and no one. Two torches cast a faint, flickering light along a short corridor that ended at a thick wooden door. She listened carefully, but no sound came from the adjacent cells, and the two in front of her were empty.

Hawke retreated a few steps and moved slowly along the wall, faintly hoping to find a weakness, a crack: anything that could help her escape. But all her fingers found was the cold, damp stone, slick with moss.

She turned to the door, a question lingering: would she manage to break out on her own, or would Varric realise something was wrong and try to get her out?

She placed her hand on the lock and concentrated on the flow of magic. Her palm flickered with a faint yellowish glow, then flared into flames. The fire engulfed the lock, and Hawke kept her hand there until she was sure the metal had heated enough. Then, she stepped back and kicked the door, aiming for the lock. Her sore body flared with pain, but she gathered her strength and hit it again. And again. The steel didn’t yield.

Hawke took several breaths, letting the pounding in her body subside, then returned to the lock. She tried heating the steel again, then cooling it with her magic, hoping the fire and ice would wear it down. Then she experimented with different parts of the door, but nothing worked. Perhaps she wasn’t the first mage held in this basement, and the templar knew exactly how to keep his prisoners trapped.

She sank to the ground and leaned her back against the wall. Casting magic without a staff required more focus, and her brief struggle with the lock had left her exhausted. Her aching body offered little to replenish her energy. Maybe a short rest wouldn’t be so bad after all. Besides, the only thing she could do was wait for someone to come—whether it was that Heller or someone else.

Time seemed to stretch in the dark cell. Hawke had no idea how many hours had passed since she woke, nor how long she had been unconscious before that. So when she heard footsteps, a flicker of hope surged within her. She rose to her feet, her heart racing. She almost convinced herself that it was Fenris’s steps, but...

Hands clasped behind his back, the templar approached her cell, two of his guards following him. He examined the door, ran a finger over the blackened padlock, and only then did he look at Hawke.

‘At least you tried, my little thief,’ he said, his lips curving into a vile smirk.

‘I need those papers,’ she said quietly.

‘And why would you need them?’

She winced, as if from pain, then met the templar’s gaze. ‘They might help my… friend.’

‘Helping a friend…’ The templar’s expression twisted with feigned sympathy. ‘Don’t bother. It won’t be a problem for you soon.’

One of the guards approached the bars.

‘Hands!’ he demanded.

Hawke stood where she was, eyeing them, considering her chances. She threw a quick glance at the templar and noticed something that made her heart skip a beat. There was a scroll tucked behind his belt: darker paper with rounded corners. The templar caught her staring and smirked but didn’t comment on it.

‘Don’t you hear?’ he finally inquired, his voice soft. ‘Please, there’s no need to complicate this.’

Reluctantly, Hawke approached, and the first guard secured the shackles on her wrists through the bars. Only then did he open the door and lead her out.

‘Please proceed.’ The templar gestured towards the door.

‘Where are you taking me?’

‘Don’t spoil the surprise,’ he replied.

They led her down the corridor, out of the basement, and up to the next floor.

‘If you need money...’ she began, slowing her steps.

‘Shush.’

Hawke’s heart raced. This situation was already unfortunate, but something else felt wrong.

They stopped at a door. The templar unlocked it and beckoned her inside. It was a small room with a chair in the middle, facing the single window.

‘Prepare her,’ he commanded.

And then she noticed it: a metal rod placed on a stand in the corner. Atop the rod, like a crown, sat a sun-shaped head. She had never seen it before, but the cold shiver that ran through her told her exactly what it was—a Tranquil-branding iron.

Hawke lunged to the side, dodging the guard, but he managed to grab her by the shoulder and throw her to the ground. The second guard then advanced, and together they forced Hawke into the chair. A chain snapped tight around her chest.

‘You can’t just do that to any mage,’ she hissed, as a helpless flame flashed from her palms.

‘Oh, can I not? Were it my choice, I would make Tranquil half of all the mages,’ he said, leaning in, bringing his face close, ‘then I would kill the other half. Slowly. So that the last thing they see is the red sun shining on the faces of their loved ones and the indifference on them.’

‘You sick bastard!’ spat Hawke. ‘What good will it do you?’

‘You see, I don’t really like your kind. Especially apostates.’

‘You can’t even do this!’ she almost screamed. ‘You’re just a templar.’

‘Oh, I am.’ He smiled. ‘But not just a templar. I am the one who keeps his duty. As Heller does.’

He turned to the window; the sun was setting, casting its last golden rays into the room.

‘Maker, I love this view,’ he sighed with satisfaction.

‘Who is this Heller of yours?’ Hawke asked, trying to keep the templar talking.

‘He’s the one who lost everything because of your kind. His Circle fell, but his vocation… his sense of purpose, of order, remained unwavering.’ He turned back, a fatherly smile spreading across his face. ‘You’ll soon meet him.’

Hawke jerked again, but the chains kept her in place.

‘Watch her,’ the templar ordered the guards, and the heavy door shut behind him.

A lean shadow slipped over the wall and moved into the yard. Unnoticed by the guards, the figure crept along the wall until it reached a random window and threw a rock. The glass shattered with a crisp, ringing sound. The shadow waited, but nothing followed. Then, another rock was thrown, this time crashing inside the dark room, followed by the sound of something breaking. It took a few more minutes before footsteps started to approach. The shadow glanced around quickly before making a move towards the window, attempting to climb inside.

‘Stop right there!’ someone barked from behind him.

About time, Fenris thought, allowing himself to be grabbed, beaten, and dragged away.

The templar cast an impassive glance over the elf, held firmly by two guards. ‘Throw him out. I’m too busy.’ He smirked. ‘Consider it your lucky day, boy.’

‘Where is she?’ the elf demanded, a threat sharpening his voice.

The templar raised his eyebrows. ‘Ah. So you are here for the girl.’ He let out a short laugh. ‘But I’m afraid apostates are my responsibility.’

The smile vanished. 

‘I usually don’t harm the untainted. Even elves. Leave before I change my mind.’

Fenris jerked forward and drove his head into one of the guards’ faces.

‘Tell me where she is,’ he hissed.

‘Oh, please.’ The templar sighed, waving a dismissive hand. ‘Take the lad out.’

But before another guard could reach him, Fenris wrenched himself free and lunged at the templar. The older man abruptly stepped aside, revealing a short spear that had been hidden behind his back. Fenris hadn’t expected that.

Fine. Let it be your way, the thought flashed through him as he hit the floor. The guards eagerly swarmed him, their blows unrelenting. His body had endured worse, but that didn’t make it any less... unpleasant.

'Enough!' the templar barked, and the guards stepped back from their victim, leaving Fenris lying on the floor. 'I have no quarrel with you, elf. Yet. So, this is your last chance—walk away, and leave behind what is now mine.'

The chill of the stone seeped into Fenris’s cheek as heavy footsteps sent faint vibrations through the floor, reaching him before a pair of fine leather boots appeared in front of his face.

'I don’t hear you agreeing.'

Fenris let out a low growl and pushed himself up onto his hands, trying to get to all fours. Instead, pain exploded in his stomach, sending him back to the floor, gasping for breath.

'You’re stubborn, I’ll give you that.'

The templar stepped closer and, with a sharp nudge of his boot, rolled Fenris onto his back. He glanced down at the elf, a pleased smirk curling his lips.

'Look at you. You could run, save yourself. Yet here you are, loyal as a dog.' He shook his head and spat to the side. 'I thought your kind had suffered enough at the hands of mages.'

Fenris kept silent, catching his breath, thinking only about one thing: You surprised me, now it’s my turn.

He felt the lyrium awakening. The templar was still speaking, but his voice suddenly seemed distant, muffled, like a whisper from far away.

With a groan, Fenris turned and planted his hands beneath his chest, bracing for the surge of raw power to come. And then it did.

He let out a loud cry as his markings flared with blue light. In a single, fluid motion, he sprang to his feet and kicked the spear from the templar’s grip. His hand shot out, seizing the templar by the throat, while the other—aglow with searing blue—plunged into his chest. The templar gasped.

‘A step closer, and he dies,’ Fenris growled.

The guards, who had been rushing forward, faltered, exchanging uneasy glances.

‘I asked you before: where is she?’

‘What... are... you?’ the templar choked, his eyes wide with terror.

Fenris answered by twisting his wrist, his hand still buried in the man’s chest.

‘Argh... Down… Dungeon,’ came the strained rasp.

Fenris wrenched his hand free, letting his opponent’s lifeless body crumple to the ground. Blood dripped from his gauntlet, pooling at his feet.

The guards hesitated and it cost them. In a blur, Fenris darted towards his sword, lying near the wall, and within seconds, one man was down. The second barely had time to react before Fenris struck, knocking him to the ground.

‘Show me the way,’ Fenris growled, towering over the terrified man.

The guard nodded frantically, then slowly got to his feet and gestured to the door.

‘Move,’ he snapped.

They left the hall and made their way down the corridor until they reached a stairwell leading to the lower floor. The guard pointed to one of the doors.

Fenris pushed it open and rushed inside. The men within barely had time to react before they met the edge of his sword.

And then he saw her—alive.

A warmth spread through his chest, pushing back the maddening worry that had consumed him since he found the house in Denerim empty and sought out Varric.

‘Fenris!’ Hawke gasped. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Getting you out.’

He took a powerful swing of his sword, slicing clean through the lock holding the chain. It fell with a clang, and Hawke exhaled a long-awaited breath of relief.

‘That one has the key.’ She jerked her chin towards one of the dead men and lifted her wrists, still bound in chains. Moments later, the shackles clattered to the floor.

Fenris gave her a once-over. ‘Are you hurt? Can you walk?’ Worry edged into his voice, cutting through the lingering anger.

Hawke rubbed her sore wrists and nodded. ‘I’m fine. Just a little drained. Where’s the templar?’

‘With the Maker.’ His gaze followed her movements and stopped on her empty hands. ‘And your staff?’

‘Gone.’

Fenris pursed his lips in disapproval, swallowing any further questions.

‘Did you run into anyone else?’ Hawke asked as they rushed up the stairs and down the corridor.

‘Only guards,’ Fenris replied, then glanced at her. ‘Why?’

‘I think he was waiting for a mage to join him.’

Fenris didn’t answer. Mage or no mage, his sole focus was on getting them out of this place. They reached the end of the corridor, but before they could enter the hall that led outside, they heard voices. Suddenly, a blazing projectile shot past them, barely missing Hawke’s face. Fenris pulled her back, pressing her against the wall.

‘Is there a way out through the lower floors?’ he asked, scanning the corridor behind them.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Then we fight our way out.’ Fenris opened his palms to her. ‘Take it.’

Without hesitation, Hawke grabbed his hands, drawing on the familiar essence. She let the lyrium in, replenishing her drained powers. Now, even without her staff, she could protect herself.

As she released him, Fenris darted forward into the hall, his sword at the ready. He moved fast—too fast for the guards to react, but not fast enough to interrupt the spell the mage was conjuring. A searing fireball burst towards him, forcing him to twist mid-stride and throw himself aside. A wave of heat scorched the air above him, exploding against the stone wall behind.

Fenris hit the ground and rolled to his feet, lunging again, but the mage was already muttering another incantation, his staff sweeping through the air. A storm of razor-sharp ice shards shot towards the elf, and he barely had time to duck behind a fallen bench, several shards slicing into his arm, leaving thin red gashes.

When Hawke ran into the hall, she noticed several guards lingering near the main doors, hesitant to interfere in the duel. Without a second thought, she hurled a bolt of lightning at the mage. He turned sharply, abandoning his attack on Fenris to redirect a fresh fiery spell towards her. Hawke barely managed to dive aside, sliding across the stone floor as the heat seared past her cheek.

Then she saw it: the templar's body, little more than a heap of rags, the edge of the scroll peeking between the folds of his robes. She lunged for it, fingers stretching out—

‘Down!’

Fenris’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. Hawke obeyed without hesitation, flinging herself to the ground just as another fireball tore through the air above her.

Hawke lifted her head, eyes widening as the templar’s robes caught fire, the scroll still tucked behind his belt. She tensed, ready to lunge for it again, but then heard a pained grunt. Fenris barely managed to fend off another attack, his arm now slick with blood. Hawke pivoted, losing precious seconds as she hurled a wave of fire at their opponent.

The mage had no time to react as Fenris surged forward, his sword carving deep into his torso. His mouth opened soundlessly, then he crumpled to his knees and collapsed, a pool of red spreading beneath him.

The remaining guards, caught between terror and duty, finally raised their swords, but the blur of blue and steel was already upon them.

The acrid stench of burned flesh filled Hawke’s nose, snapping her focus back to the templar’s corpse. She leapt towards him, sending a wash of frost across his body to extinguish the flames. Then she crouched, reaching for the last scrap of parchment that remained. ‘The effect of such manipulations with ly…’ The words trailed off into nothing, devoured by fire.

Hawke clenched the useless paper in her fist. The answer—the reason for all of this—had gone up in flames. Her hands trembled. For a moment, she wanted to scream, to curse, to break something.

A voice pulled her from the haze. ‘Let’s go.’

Fenris stood over her, his voice softer than before. She nodded, unable to meet his eyes, and rose to her feet.

As they passed the mage’s lifeless body, she cast one last glance at his blank, frozen stare. A man like hundreds of others. Had he been summoned here to make her Tranquil? It didn’t matter anymore. None of it did.

They left the templar’s residence without further resistance. If any guards remained, they had no interest in challenging them.

By the time they reached their house in Denerim, exhaustion clung to both of them like a second skin. But it didn’t stop Fenris’s fury.

‘You let her go to that psychopath on her own!’ he growled, looming over Varric like a thundercloud.

‘Could you ever argue with Hawke and win?’

‘I found her chained,’ Fenris said sharply, pointing at Hawke as his eyes burned into Varric.

‘Well, I wasn’t chained for long,’ Hawke interjected, trying to ease the tension.

Fenris’s eyes flicked to her, then snapped back to Varric. ‘I think you should leave.’

‘Let’s talk it over, elf. Let off some steam.’ Varric tried again, but his tone was less confident now.

Fenris didn’t move, his stare fixed on Hawke now, who, still avoiding his gaze, studied the wall intently.

‘Leave,’ he repeated, his voice hard and low.

Varric glanced between them, and his shoulders slumped in resignation. ‘I’ll be around if you need me,’ he muttered, not really addressing either of them. His eyes lingered on Hawke for a moment before he left.

The door clicked shut, and Fenris exhaled, his fists clenched. He paced around the room and finally stopped in front of Hawke.

‘Are you all right?’ He moved a chair to sit in front of her.

She shrugged.

'You’re going to get yourself killed one day, if you keep this up, Hawke,' he said, locking eyes with her.

‘Not if you’re there to back me up.’

‘Which is impossible if I’m not aware of your plans. Next time you get bored and decide to steal something, please let me know.’ Fenris took a deep breath, exhaling sharply. ‘Do you even understand how close it was? They almost got you.’

‘Almost isn’t good enough.’ She let out a bitter chuckle.

He cocked his head, studying her closely. ‘What do you mean?’

‘This. This is “almost”.’ Hawke pulled the crumpled piece of paper from her pocket, her fingers trembling as she held the scrap smeared with blood and ash.

‘And what is this?’

‘I thought Varric had already told you.’ She tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace.

‘Hawke.’

She stood and walked to the window, facing away from him.

‘It was supposed to be something that could help us understand how to fix your lyrium situation.’

Fenris’s eyes widened. ‘You went there… for me?’

’Yes.’ That was all she said, her eyes fixed on the darkness outside.

‘Maker. Why, Hawke?’

‘Why?’ She turned to him, her expression lost, as if she couldn’t believe what she had just heard.

‘I mean…’

‘Whatever we’re doing is not enough, and you know it! It gives you less and less time for respite.’

With that Fenris couldn’t argue. He stood up and made a slow circle around the room, stopping beside her.

‘Thank you, Hawke. But please, next time don’t risk it alone. Promise me?’ he asked, searching her face.

She gave a short, silent nod.

‘I should return to the books then,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ve lost enough time on this futile endeavour.’

Fenris raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment. Instead, he approached the table and pulled out a chair for her.

‘Come,’ he said, waiting until Hawke approached and reluctantly took the offered seat. ‘We’ve been through a lot today. Especially you. Let’s have a break.’

She listened to him move about—drawers opening, items shifting—until he came back with two cups of wine and, after a moment’s hesitation, offered one to her.

Hawke eyed him with suspicion, checking for any sign of a glow in his markings, and only then took the glass. She sipped the wine and soon felt a pleasant warmth spreading through her body. By the time she had drunk a third of the cup, her eyelids grew heavy, and a deep tiredness settled over her.

‘I think I should go,’ she murmured, trying to stand.

The world suddenly tilted, and the last thing she remembered was Fenris’s strong arms catching her, then—nothing.

Chapter Text

When Hawke woke up, Fenris was already gone.

She left the house and headed for the port, still mildly annoyed that he had wasted the precious potion on her. But with each step, gratitude slowly replaced her irritation—after all, she’d had a proper night’s sleep, one she’d sorely needed. Her body no longer ached as much, and her mind felt sharper.

Still, a fresh problem loomed over her: she had no staff. She could still wield magic, of course, but without a focus it was wild and barely controllable rather than precise and directed. And she already had more than enough uncontrollable things around her.

Hawke considered the possibilities of finding a magical staff when the Circles were revolting one after another and chuckled ruefully. She might as well wish for a group of apostates to hand her a spare one.

But soon, her thoughts returned to the very real Fenris problem, leaving little room for anything else. Well, except for the warehouse inspection. This evening, she had to be at the port and forget, for a while, about the dark abyss at her feet, opening its maw wider with each passing day.

She turned the corner and felt a gust of wind carrying the smell of fish, signalling that she was close to her destination.

Teagan and Varric were already waiting for her, standing in a patch of golden sunlight, seemingly glad to have such a warm evening. She greeted them and together they entered the warehouse.

It was another routine check: Hawke and Varric strolled along the makeshift corridors between the crates, boxes, sacks, and tables. Teagan moved behind them, occasionally making some notes.

Hawke thought she had seen everything that day: horseshoes, spices, fabrics, axes, and hammers. So when she caught the fragrance of perfume coming from three stacked crates, she was pleasantly surprised.
She opened the first crate and inhaled the soap's rose fragrance—so vivid she could almost imagine the flowers if she closed her eyes. Curious, she moved the top crate aside and inspected the second. Jasmine! She felt her lips curl into a smile. Why can’t all cargo be like this?

She stacked the second crate on top of the first and crouched to open the third. It was darker in colour and seemed to belong to a different shipment, but Hawke didn’t pay much attention to that. She pulled the lid up, but instead of another exquisite fragrance, she found the crate filled with small dark sachets.

Definitely not soap.

‘Teagan?’

‘Yes?’ he replied, stepping closer with his papers at the ready.

‘Where is this going?’ she asked, gesturing to the crate in front of her.

‘If I remember correctly, this part of the warehouse is used to store the goods bound for Kirkwall.’

‘But what is this exactly?’

‘Let me check…’

Teagan confirmed the numbers on the lid with the information in his notes.

‘This is…’ he paused, ‘this is explosives from Orzammar.’

Hawke’s stomach twisted. Dwarven explosives? Now?

‘And they’re going to Kirkwall? Did I hear that correctly?’ Varric appeared from behind a stack of sacks and approached them.

Teagan frowned. ‘Yes. This one was rerouted from Highever.’

‘Any chance to find out who ordered it and why?’ Hawke asked.

Teagan shifted from foot to foot. ‘I’m afraid I have permission to stop only those goods that are directly related to the red lyrium.’

‘This may very well be related to it,’ Varric said, taking one of the sachets and lifting it closer for a look. 

‘I will ask the King about it, but we can’t halt all production going to Kirkwall—many merchants are already displeased. Unless there’s specific evidence or red lyrium involved, I can’t do anything about it right now.’

‘Our chances of sourcing proper information are not very high if we continue like this,’ Hawke sighed, closing the lid.

Once the inspection was over, they met again by the entrance.

'I will bring it to the King's attention,' Teagan said, almost apologetic for his inability to act faster.

Hawke slowly nodded, an idea blossoming in her mind.

‘May I ask you something?’ she asked suddenly and cast a glance at Varric.

‘I apologise, I have business to attend,’ Varric said, catching the hint and walking away.

Teagan watched the door close behind the dwarf and turned back to Hawke.

‘I suppose you may,’ he said, a little confused.

‘Teagan,’ she began hesitantly, ‘you mentioned before that I could come to you if I needed anything.’

‘Of course. How may I be of service?’

‘I’ll be honest with you—I broke my staff,’ Hawke said, omitting how exactly it had happened. ‘It was already in bad shape after Kirkwall, and now it’s beyond repair. I thought that maybe… with your status in Denerim…’

The arl cleared his throat, his eyebrows lifting in surprise at the request.

‘You know that items of this type are tracked by the templars and the Circles,’ he said with deliberate care.

‘I do. That’s why I’m asking for your help. In times like these, being able to protect myself would mean the world…’

The arl grew quiet, considering her request. The quill trembled between his fingers as he fiddled with it.

‘I suppose I can try,’ he finally said. ‘But I cannot promise a quick solution.’

‘I would be endlessly grateful. If there’s any urgent business connected to the red lyrium, I want to be ready to act.’

‘I understand. I will do what I can,’ Teagan said with a firm nod.

They parted ways at the warehouse, and Hawke hurried back home. She had done what she could to secure a new weapon and hopefully regain her familiar autonomy. For now, it was up to Teagan. As for Hawke, she had to focus on seeking a solution for Fenris. The cure hadn’t been found yet, and after the failure to retrieve the Tevinter scroll, she had no choice but to press on with her research.

Hawke entered the quiet house and quickly ascended the stairs, heading straight into her room—still an overwhelming mess of books and papers. She couldn’t tell how much time had passed as she combed through yet another tome, but when she finally lifted her head and stretched her stiff limbs, the sky had already turned dark. Hawke yawned and shook her head, trying to dispel the sleepiness, then smoothed the page with her hand, searching for the passage where she had left off. It was a collection of scholarly writings on medicinal herbs and their tinctures—the last book she could find that promised at least a glimmer of hope. She was almost halfway through it and dreaded reaching the end. After this one, she had nothing.

Hawke pushed aside the unwelcome thoughts and returned to the book.

‘Opposite works with opposite, like attracts like,’ she mumbled, reading the passage aloud to help her stay awake.

The letters blurred in front of her eyes, and she yawned.

She shoved the papers aside and dropped her head into her hands, only to straighten again a few heartbeats later. There’s always time to give up later. She arranged her notes into a neat pile and placed the scrap of the Tevinter scroll she had saved from the fire beside it, a reminder that she had to persevere.

She cast a final glance at the table, and suddenly, her eyes widened.

The faint smudge of dried blood on the burnt piece of paper caught her attention, sparking a thought—a wild idea—unbelievable, yet obvious at the same time.

Her heart thudded madly as she brought the scorched paper to her eyes. It may not work, but, Maker, what if it does? The Circle had never had a chance to set any limits in her mind, as it often did with even the most gifted mages. Her own magic was half-learned, half-instinctive, and it rarely failed her. So her guess might very well be right! Immersed in this state of delirious excitement, Hawke almost had to force herself to go to bed.

Lying in the dark room, she prayed for the morning to come faster and for Fenris to return with it.

As soon as the elf stepped through the door the next day, Hawke practically collided with him, eager to share what she had discovered.

‘I think I’ve found a way to fix this!’ she exclaimed, her voice betraying her barely contained fervour.

‘For some reason, I don’t like the sound of that. But, please, continue,’ he said warily.

‘I can try removing your lyrium!’

Fenris stared at her in silence, not even blinking.

‘What do you mean “removing”?’ he finally asked.

‘It’s just a theory, but…’ Hawke took a deep breath, bracing herself. ‘I can try to negate it.’

His eyes narrowed as he stepped half a pace closer. ‘And how exactly do you plan to do that?’

‘With… blood,’ she uttered after a brief pause.

The air seemed to thicken as uncomfortable stillness settled over the room.

‘So, blood magic,’ he finally said, folding his arms across his chest. ‘Are you insane, Hawke?’

‘Does it really matter?’ She shrugged, her excitement fading under his cold response. ‘It’s not as if we have any other options.’

‘I will not accept it.’

Hawke winced at his words as though he had just slapped her.

‘Why?’

‘Do you really need to ask?’ he said through gritted teeth.

‘I do, yes! Your condition is getting worse, you know that. This is a chance to fix it.’

‘Blood magic, Hawke!’ he snapped, his voice rising. ‘Did our past teach you nothing? Have you forgotten the risk? The corruption, the danger... you think you can just cut it out?’ His gaze hardened. ‘And tell me, what if, reversed, it works the same way? All this pain—the agony of lyrium being branded into my skin—returning. You can’t even imagine…’

Fenris clenched his jaw, staring at the markings lining his hands.

She could read it in his eyes—anger, even fury, at his own helplessness. And yet there was something else, tucked away, carefully hidden so no one would see. But Hawke noticed it too. Fear.

‘I didn’t think about that,’ she admitted reluctantly. ‘But we can still try… and stop the moment you say so.’

‘It would still put you at risk.’

‘Fenris, I—’

‘Don’t.’ He cut her off with a sharp gesture.

Hawke’s nostrils flared, but she held herself together.

‘If not this, then what am I supposed to do? Wait? Enjoy the show? Please, let me know your suggestions!’

‘Anything is better than blood magic.’

‘Would you rather die? Is that the better option for you?!’ she demanded, her chest heaving. ‘You risked your life for me before,’ she continued, a stubborn defiance in her voice. ‘Now it’s my chance to repay you.’

‘Repay?’ His eyebrows shot up in disbelief. ‘Repay?! Everything I’ve done—I’ve done because I love you!’

The heavy silence fell over the room. Startled by his own confession, Fenris looked at Hawke almost ashamed of what he’d said. She stared back, speechless, her hands suspended mid-motion, as if even they had forgotten what they were meant to do.

‘I need some air,’ he muttered, storming out of the room before she could say anything.

Hawke’s confusion softened into a cautious smile. She glanced at the door, then crossed her arms, hugging herself.

He came back later. Hawke wasn’t sure whether he had gone to let off steam because of the pain or their discussion, but when she heard the door open and close, she quietly went downstairs.

Fenris was sitting at the table, his elbows resting on it, his head bowed. Hawke approached and settled behind him, resting her forehead against his back, wrapping her arms around his waist, carefully avoiding any exposed skin. His frame—always taut like a bowstring and poised to strike—tensed even more.

'I love you too, Fenris,' she whispered.

'You do?' he asked after a moment’s pause, his voice trembling with relief.

'Of course I do.’

He exhaled deeply.

‘I wanted to say it differently... make it special.’

‘It was special,’ she squeezed him gently.

He pulled away from her embrace and turned to face her.

‘You're the best thing in my life, Hawke. I...’ A grimace twisted his face, and he didn’t finish the sentence.

A spark of worry flashed in her eyes. ‘Is it coming back?’

He nodded, breathing deeply, trying to let the pain pass. Even after using his abilities so recently, the lyrium had returned—faster than expected.

‘That’s exactly why I cannot accept it,’ he said with difficulty, his fingers brushing her cheek. ‘The sacrifice is too great.’

The days that followed brought no relief. Fenris kept to the familiar, uneasy rhythm of outrunning the pain—until the next surge hit. The worst yet. It struck early in the morning, only hours after his last fight.

His body arched in an unnatural way. Muscles tensed and twisted beneath his skin, the sharpness of agony flooding his senses. He clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white.

If only Hawke were here. If only he could call for her. But the effort to make a sound seared his throat with burning pain. Even breathing felt like a battle he was losing—each attempt sent shooting pain through his chest, threatening to tear it apart. All he could do was look up, powerless, waiting for whatever would come next.

As quickly as it came, the tension left, and he gasped for air—a fleeting relief before the next wave crashed over him. The markings on his skin flared again, the pain growing, relentless.

It was then that he heard the door slam open. And even though he couldn't see clearly through the haze of pain, he could feel it was Hawke.

Leaning over his twisted body—burning blue so bright it looked as though he were set ablaze—she reached for his forearms, her touch ripping through him, intensifying the impossible agony even more.

Fenris screamed, the pain dragging him to the edge of control. He wanted to throw her off, to escape this fire, this unbearable fire, but then… it all started to cool. He blinked and finally caught a glimpse of her eyes, locked onto his.

The grip on his forearms loosened, taking the lyrium’s torment with it. Exhausted, Fenris closed his eyes, and as he drifted into a daze, he felt every muscle in his body relax.

When he opened his eyes again, he found himself still lying on the floor. Hawke sat beside him, her gaze never leaving his face. She offered him water, and he drank it—each sip bringing him a small step away from the pain that had gripped him. The pain that, he knew, would come back very soon, smiling at him like an old friend.

He rolled onto his back and covered his face with his hands. Hawke’s eyes drifted to a painting on the wall. They didn’t speak for a long time, the silence heavy in the air.

Fenris peeked at her through his fingers. The point where he could turn away and simply leave had long passed. Now, he didn’t want to leave—least of all leave her. He gritted his teeth. So, this is how love feels.

Hawke spoke first. ‘Are you still refusing to try it?’ she asked quietly.

He didn’t answer, only turned his face away.

‘Do you just plan to give up? Like that?’ Her breath caught in her throat.

'What choice do I have?' he muttered.

‘Take the damn help?’ she asked, her words trembling with exhaustion and worry. ‘Please, Fenris. Let me try. I missed you… us. So much.’

Her words landed like a blow. He swallowed hard, torn between hurting her and harming her.

She shook her head and stood. One more glance at him—lying on the floor, beads of cold sweat still clinging to his temples—and she left, leaving the space between them feeling vaster than ever before.

The room grew cold, and Fenris felt loneliness start to settle in—thick, suffocating. With great effort, he pushed himself to his feet, every step a struggle, and stumbled across the room. When he opened the door, she was sitting on the stairs, her shoulders tense.

‘Hawke,’ he called softly, hesitating on the first step.

She didn’t answer, but when he took another step down and sat beside her, she turned to him, forgiving despite his stubbornness.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked, his voice raw.

She met his eyes and gave a short, confident nod.

Fenris took a deep breath, fear and desperate hope swirling inside him. The decision he had to make wasn’t easy.

But nothing ever was.